Ever since the start of Bridget's pee problem, I have been a wee bit obsessed with her health. I've been monitoring her progress meticulously, which involves paying close attention to her peeing habits. I am now quite skilled at litter box stalking. I daresay that the past six weeks I have been witness to every trip she has made into the box while I've been home. She no longer covers the spots in the litter box when she's done, and I think it's because she knows I want to see them. Poor kitty, she probably cannot wait until the day when she can piss in private. Although she seems to enjoy the post-pee praise. "Oh, what a good kitty! That was a good pee, Bridgie!! High five from Mommy!"

My obsession with Bridget's progress is so consuming that I feel compelled to tell everyone in my life about it. Everyone. My co-workers are intimately familiar with Bridget's urinating habits. Last week my hair stylist got to hear all about the illness, treatment, subsequent setbacks, and current tentative improvement, a detailed briefing prompted by a simple, "So how have you been?" (She'll never make that mistake again.) At a wedding this weekend, multiple people inquired about Bridget's health, as I might have gone on and on about my poor kitty's problems at the bridal shower last month. When I saw the groom, the first thing he said was, "How's Bridget?" I'm not even kidding. The groom!

As you may recall, we think the trouble began when we had our metal roof painted, a project so loud that it caused the cats to hide under the bed for days and left Bridget, apparently, highly stressed and emotionally scarred, a state of mind that commonly leads to the physical condition of cystitis in cats. It has taken her nearly two months to recover, and those two months have involved so many diagnostic tests and meds and vet voodoo that I finally stopped telling Rob how much I had spent at each appointment because he'd get this stern disapproving look in his eyes and I was afraid he'd tell me that in order to afford all of this I was going to have to stop buying shoes.

Today the roof painters were scheduled to come back for a second coat. I've been very anxious about this because Bridget is finally starting to get better and the last thing I want is a recurrence. I seriously think the stress of another round of this would give me pee problems. So I'd arranged to have the day off work so that I could take Bridget to, and stay with her at, Rob's parents' house, which was the best solution I could think of for sparing Bridget the terror of another roof painting. His parents kindly agreed, having figured out long ago that when it comes to the cats I'm a total overprotective psycho and it's best to just let me do my thing.

But then last evening I got the brilliant idea that maybe the sound wouldn't be so loud in the basement, and so I made Rob get a ladder and climb up onto the roof and stomp around while I sat in the basement and tried to determine if the faint thunder-like roof rumblings I heard could be considered traumatizing. I decided they weren't, and so today when the painters arrived I scooped up all three cats and carried them to the basement. If Bridget acted frightened, I'd whisk her away to the safety of my in-laws' house. But my hunch was that she'd busy herself chasing spiders and barely even notice the noise from the roof.

She entertained herself for about half an hour, and then emerged from the depths, spider webs clinging to her whiskers, and insisted on going back upstairs. I acquiesced, because I'm a pathetic pushover. She marched up the stairs and into the living room, hesitated for a moment to listen to the sounds of the sky falling above, and then shrugged. Okay, she didn't actually shrug, but she might as well have. Because she hopped up on the sofa, curled into a circle, and fell asleep.

She's fucking fine. And totally telling me that I need to Let Go.