My friends point out that I often blog about food; it's true, I know. It's just that I really like food. And it's so much easier to talk about food sometimes than other things. Like my continuing depression. My worries about what I'm doing with my life. Izzy showing her true age.
 
She woke us up early this morning, meowing to go outside. She didn't want her food -- she hasn't been eating hardly anything -- and she didn't want the water in her bowl. She wanted something else, and when I finally relented and got up so she could go outside, she wandered around the patio looking for water: the neighbor's outdoor faucet, rainwater collected on the plastic lid of the crabitat, the cistern. Despite the effort it took for her to reach the water in the cistern, she drank from that and also from the bowl of cistern water I placed on the ground for her. She's creaky, her balance is going, she's not eating or sleeping well. But she still purrs when we pet her dulling fur, and she still gazes at G with adoration whenever he walks into the room.
 
I still think of her as young but only because I compare her age against Fuzzy's incredible lifespan. But all of us -- me, G, and Iz -- know, I think, that she probably won't make it to 19.