Toby just left, on Laura's lap, bound for Becca's apartment. Becca is my oldest grandchild, the first, born on the last day of September, almost thirty years ago. She doesn't appear often; she came well before my blogging days. When I had custody of her siblings, Becca was legally an adult
Finding Toby a new home is a lovely win-win-win. I am so allergic to cats (and to dogs) that having one for a pet is not fair to the pet. They are exactly that, pets, and entitled to, as my cat-whisperer brother used to say, being fussed. And I can't. Petting or grooming a cat means, first I cannot breathe, and last, my lips swell to half again as large.
Technically, Toby is my cat. I'm the person who picked up his little four week old self in a parking lot in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and transported him back to Ohio. He literally inhaled his first meal of wet kibble. When he went to the vet the next day he weighed just four pounds, which put him at four weeks old. I always told him his mother left him behind because his legs were so short.
And so we could have carried on for a good long time, except I'm moving again, this time to a house with a Coton de Tulear. (I borrowed the picture from the internet.)