Dear Rocky Friends,

It’s my birthday this month. Rocky seems to say – eh.

I know what you’re up to, and my birthday was more important.  

Rocky is looking at me as I approach him with appetite stimulant on a finger – medication provided by the generosity of Tabby’s Place donors and sponsors.

But.

He knows. He sees the finger cot. He is AWARE.

And he’ll do anything to not have that appetite stimulant applied to his ear when he needs it. He runs. He’ll take refuge under the table because he knows my arms aren’t long enough, like a Tyrannosaurs Rex trying to reach for him. Rocky is aware of this.

Rocky needs to maintain his weight; his long body makes for an odd task of checking where he is on that.

I get him, though. And I am the watcher. Rocky rolls his big owl eyes and allows me to weigh him and check the thickness of his sides over his ribs.

Not that he cares, though. He just stares when you’re next to the treat bin. He may yell a little. If you’re not close to the treat bin, he’ll lead you to it. And he knows how to be just cute enough and yell just enough to get you to go to the treat bin.

He’s learned to yell a lot recently. I’ve been properly trained; yelling + cute = “give me the treats, you goofus.” And I do it.

Working on keeping Rocky’s weight up has been an ongoing task. He will reject his food with panache; if it’s not up-to-his-standards-thankyouverymuch, he will not eat it. If he ate with a fork, he’d be throwing the undesired food at the wall. Then he’d give you a look, as if – now go clean it up.

After quite a lot of trial and error, we’ve narrowed it down.

Royalty does not tell you what they want to eat – you just have to figure it out.

Thing is – Rocky needs to eat it.

The food contains the imperative medication that keeps him alive. Rocky does not give a whiff about that; he wants what he wants. And that’s the kind with a lot of gravy.

Rocky is a fan of gravy.

I set down a bowl of gravy-laden wet mushy goodness, his medication mixed in, and he laps it up. He gets his medication. Every day – twice per day – it is a sigh of relief. Every time I watch him eat, it is a feeling of hope. The sort of hope that is boosted by the love and support through you – through the people who care enough about this little Royal gray diva.

Rocky has quietly judged every brand and type of food provided to him through Tabby’s Place and his Special Needs donors. He side-eyes the brands he dislikes. I would imagine he says – as the champion of I’m still alive – “This is not good enough.”

My daily job is to make sure it’s good enough. Kneeling to his princely needs, I dangle a crinkly-sounding fish toy because it is my duty.

He has seen it. He wants it.

The zest for living boldly screams out of him in silent rays of beaming glee as he grabs the crinkly-sounding fish toy.

We play – but do we play with that level of boldness? I wonder. Reddit has called him “Cleocatra”. Rocky continues to be Royalty. I’m just the servant.

Rocky sends his regards to his loyal subjects; he’s currently looking for that crinkly-sounding fish toy. Good luck, crinkle fish – Rocky sees you.

And he’s crouching down to do the bum wiggle.

Fondly – your correspondent,
Carrie