Cheetos

If I fits, i sitz.

We gave Cheetos the orange cat a saline drip and force-fed him—staving off the grim reaper for one more night. He was quite pissed about being forcefed (a good sign). But he was so dehydrated. Not a good sign. I gave him a cornstarch "bath" and used an old toothbrush to groom him—he liked it a lot, he lovingly stroked the brush. He purrped, attempted a purr, and seemed to feel a little better. Stuck his chin out to be scratched. Nothing like a good scratch under the chin.  

Whaddya mean I can't sleep here? It's a BOX lid.

Ginger cats are the best. Great personalities. Not always the brightest of cats, though. Goofballs. The like to sleep in odd places. Inside a laundry tub. On top of your head. Before we knew he was sick, he took to sleeping on my head, and peeing on my pillow. No cat piss odor, I should've guessed his kidneys were failing.

Got my Garfield & the heater vent. Fluff my water bowl and kibble.

As a starving kitten in the TGal parking lit in Petaluma, he devoured a bag of Cheetos, hence the moniker. My cousin rescued him. Like she needed another cat. We're glad she did, we've had 15 years' worth of kooky kitty antics. He never did catch the red spot.

A potted kitty

Not so good news: Cheetos is in the hospital. Perhaps it's a good sign? (and a big vet bill for my cousin.) We were bracing ourselves for euthanasia. But Zana's orange bruiser, Nails, was able to live to 21—with kidney issues. Ah, so sad to see a dear old friend failing, but hopeful too that he'll come around to greet his 16th birthday in April. Only the night will tell.

Nap, blankie, and my little pony. RIP Orange Man.