Kitty’s doing worse, so I took him in to the vet this morning way before his appointment – they seemed to think it was important enough to try and sneak him in between appointments. I’m so worried about him, poor thing – he feels so poorly and he’s in pain, but he was still rubbing his head against my fingers as we sat waiting in the vet office and I dangled my hand into his carrier.
So now we wait for the vet to call.
I can’t help thinking back to – what, three years ago?! – when the vet first diagnosed his stomach condition and gave him three weeks to live, and thinking “well, he’s had a good run.” Then I feel so guilty thinking about how lately he would try to cuddle and lie down across my book or chest while I was reading or paying bills and I shoved him off because I was juggling house stuff or wearing white or some stupid reason.
But I can’t keep thinking that way, this isn’t the end for him. I’m sure he just needs some IV fluids and anti-inflammatories, and he’ll be back to his old self again, ripping up carpet and yowling like a feline Alanis at three in the morning.