It’s hard to believe that these marvelous Games are close to ending. I should have spent the last several days braving the lineups at the Olympic Houses and the zipline, wandering up and down Robson and Granville Streets and generally drinking in the atmosphere. But I didn’t. Because of Molly.
Molly is our soon-to-be-17-year-old cat. She’s a petite tuxedo, black with white chest, tummy and paws. She’s always been small, but age has her shrinking down to just over five pounds. She’s the love of my life. She’s my baby. And last Saturday we almost lost her.
Without warning, a nasty infection and high fever rendered my sweet girl from lively and inquisitive into an almost lifeless state in mere hours. If not for the Emergency Animal Hospital, I’m pretty certain Molly would have left us. She’s on heavy doses of antibiotics and subQ fluids, but she’s with us, thank God.
So this week I’ve curtailed some of my Olympic activities in favour of sitting at home in front of the TV holding my Molly close. And it’s been just heavenly.
Here’s to you, Mollykins, and to all the pets we love and have loved. I’ll treasure you forever.