For the past four years I have cared for someone I thought I knew and just found out they are a complete impostor. I can think of no better term then to call him an animal. He is a cat specifically. He has warmed itself by our nightly fire, purred contently on our laps and ate the food we provided. We even let him intimidate our dog and beat up our other cat, Pollie. The cat formerly known as Hobbes, a.k.a. "Psycho kitty", is not Hobbes after-all. You-see, when we moved into our new house four years ago Hobbes ran away. Four months later, an emaciated, beat-up and weak Hobbes look-alike showed up on our door step acting like he belonged there. It was Thanksgiving day to boot. We took him in, nursed him back to health, paid his vet bills (yearly check-ups included) and told the amazing story of the lost-and-found-on-thanksgiving-day cat. Even the vets were amazed at our wonderful cat who came home story. So, it is ironic, after four years of regular shots and check-ups that our vet should break the sad news to us that Hobbes is not who he said he was. Actually, Hobbes is not who she said she was. Hobbes is a girl.
So, what choice do we have but to continue to let her live our her little charade. We'll let her warm herself by our fire, purr in our laps, intimidate our dog and beat up Pollie. However, I've lost a little faith in our vet who has taken this long to figure out he was a she.
