Minnie is getting old.
It happened this summer, she suddenly has the bearing of an old cat. She hunts less and eats less and is thinner than she’s ever been. Minnie is sixteen years old, a good age for a cat born feral and living most of her life in a barn and on the back porch.
She is still most comfortable in the company of the hens, ignores Fate when she stalks her, and lets Zinnia lick her face.
Minnie doesn’t run away from strangers the way she used to. I don’t know if it’s because she’s become more friendly, or it’s just that she doesn’t want to give up her spot on the soft wicker chair on the back porch.
