I’m a little crazy about cats. I used to have four of them, and I adored all of them.
Topaz, who was dumb as a box of rocks, but so incredibly sweet and just lovely. She died of cancer/FIV several years ago, before we moved to this town.
Jazz, who had the most annoying meow and couldn’t use a litter box for all the world. It made the house just lovely (NOT), but I loved her. She died a little over a year ago.
Jet, who I adopted in 1993 or so with my ex-husband. She was always just mine. She wouldn’t have cared if all the people in the world just disappeared, as long as I was there. She died several months ago after a sudden decline.
And Tiger. Tiger is a doll, very sweet natured, patient up to a point with Sam trying to “pet” him. When Mark and I got back from our honeymoon, he had gotten very obviously sick. He weighed less than 5 pounds, and was diagnosed with chronic renal failure. I was told he wouldn’t live through the weekend.
Ten and a half years later, here we are. He’s my last kitty left.
Tiger had to go to the vet today. His weight is down, way down. We noticed over the weekend, and of course the fracking vet was closed for the holiday. It’s amazing how fast cats can go downhill – they hide illness very well until they just can’t hide it anymore. He’s not been eating much, if at all. He doesn’t seem to be in any pain, or I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t hesitate to have him euthanized. But for now, he’s staying at the vets’ for a few days, on a constant IV drip, in the hope of saving his life. Just one more time.
I think he’s used up 8.5 of his 9 lives this time. But keep your fingers crossed, would you?
