AU REVOIR, MON POPPY

(One more entry about Poppy, the foster cat, and then I’ll never mention her name again. Maybe.)

“Au revoir, mon Poppy!” I’m saying it in French because I don’t want Poppy, the foster cat, to understand what I'm saying and get upset (she only speaks Latin and Spanish).

It’s moving day for Poppy. She’s leaving our bucolic, West Central Minnesota home that she’s lived in for two years to start a new life in a pet-friendly community apartment complex in the big city.

She uses her extrasensory cat perception to realize something is going on and tries to make a break for it.

From small-town cat to big-city cat in one short drive down I-94.

I’m a little worried about her: Will those punk cats from inner city domestic short-hair gangs try to force her to join? Will they make fun of her pink collar and pressure her to get her tongue pierced?

Will she get lost (like I do) as she tries to maneuver her way around the confusing streets of Minnetonka?

Will she get mixed up with the wrong crowd?

Will she adjust to living with a working woman with a busy social life after living with two old retired farts with nothing better to do than open the doors for her?

Will she understand that she can’t shred the carpet because her new home is a rental? Will she be able to breathe in that smoggy city air? Will she remember to come home at night? Will she eat healthy food? Is the water in the city safe to drink?

Désolé, vous ne pouvez pas revenir, mon Poppy.

I believe I took more pictures of Poppy leaving than I did when our children left for college. Or kindgergarten. Pathetic.