Adam and Fitz (our 11 year old, bowlegged, overweight, suspected chain smoking, narcoleptic housecat) have an interesting relationship. Whereas Fitz used to crouch, hiss, then waddle from the room when Jack was the one pulling himself around the house like the Sean Connery death scene at the end of The Untouchables, for some reason now that it’s Adam forearm pulling himself across the linoleum Fitz actually approaches and lies down next to him. If that was it I’d say maybe Jack broke him in for Adam, but Adam will then bury his hands deep into Fitz’s coat and yank out handfuls of matted fur. Not just a couple strands mind you, but so much hair that his pudgy fingers look like someone dropped breakfast sausages on the floor of a barber shop.
The other day Kathleen and I walked in the backroom to find Adam apparently administering CPR to Fitz. He was propped up with both hands on Fitz’s chest bouncing up and down like a hobbit doing push-ups on a coon skin cap. We laughed until Adam tried to give him mouth-to-mouth then shot us a look that suggested “Don’t just stand there! Clamp the aorta and give me 20 cc’s of plasma stat.” Kathleen scooped Adam up while I was left to check Fitz’s vitals. Though he survived the ordeal I keep finding cigarette butts on the front porch.