Bag of Bones
Monday, 27 December 2010 19:25![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fatrockstarGrady didn't fare well during our trip across the state to visit my dad. It wasn't his caregivers' fault, Grady is simply a sick and stressed out little guy. His appetite had been waning in the days before we left, and I don't think he's settled into bed with me for a very long time. He pretty much sits on the heated throw on the sofa. Once in a while he'll reposition himself to sit next to me if I'm on the sofa with him. He doesn't purr as often as he used to.
He will eat and be okay for a while. After a few hours he will decide he's thirsty and then drink enough water to projectile vomit. That done, he will go eat and be fine again for a while. Tonight I came home to a new spray of barf that was bright green. I think I know what has been causing his recent troubles: The little fucker has been drinking out of the Christmas tree stand. Great.
The tree will come down tomorrow or the next day. Until then I have taken a long swag of aluminum foil and wrapped it around the base of the tree so he can't get to the reservoir there. This is distressing in so many ways -- first I couldn't have a fake tree because Grady would chew on the branches and barf up plastic, and now I can't have a real tree because it's just as poisonous (if not more). Nobody ever told me about this possibility. I thought I was blessed that he wasn't interested in knocking down ornaments.
This is all in addition to the liver failure he's been experiencing over the last few months. If he can't or won't eat his symptoms worsen because he isn't getting his medications. It's been a long time since I lost a pet. I am ready and I am not ready to let go. Figuring out when the right time should be is causing me a little distress. I don't want my little buddy to suffer. I just want him to be my little buddy, you know? He's so skinny now. He is, at least, still talkative.
Having him look up at me from the floor and meowing «Can I have something to eat? I'm not in the mood for what you gave me and my English isn't that good, but I *know* you have something in the Big Cold Box I like if you'd only let me IN there...» makes me think he still has some good time left. It's hard to say how much.
I cried at my desk when I read some of your entries about dear friends passing. Mr. Cat, Baba, Albert, Drake, and the kitty with the Egyptian name I can't remember right now -- they all got my tears, among others. I think about Eddie, too, because I know he's had a rough go of it this year. When it's Grady's time, I hope I have the strength to send him across the rainbow bridge.
He's a good little guy. You all know that already.
He will eat and be okay for a while. After a few hours he will decide he's thirsty and then drink enough water to projectile vomit. That done, he will go eat and be fine again for a while. Tonight I came home to a new spray of barf that was bright green. I think I know what has been causing his recent troubles: The little fucker has been drinking out of the Christmas tree stand. Great.
The tree will come down tomorrow or the next day. Until then I have taken a long swag of aluminum foil and wrapped it around the base of the tree so he can't get to the reservoir there. This is distressing in so many ways -- first I couldn't have a fake tree because Grady would chew on the branches and barf up plastic, and now I can't have a real tree because it's just as poisonous (if not more). Nobody ever told me about this possibility. I thought I was blessed that he wasn't interested in knocking down ornaments.
This is all in addition to the liver failure he's been experiencing over the last few months. If he can't or won't eat his symptoms worsen because he isn't getting his medications. It's been a long time since I lost a pet. I am ready and I am not ready to let go. Figuring out when the right time should be is causing me a little distress. I don't want my little buddy to suffer. I just want him to be my little buddy, you know? He's so skinny now. He is, at least, still talkative.
Having him look up at me from the floor and meowing «Can I have something to eat? I'm not in the mood for what you gave me and my English isn't that good, but I *know* you have something in the Big Cold Box I like if you'd only let me IN there...» makes me think he still has some good time left. It's hard to say how much.
I cried at my desk when I read some of your entries about dear friends passing. Mr. Cat, Baba, Albert, Drake, and the kitty with the Egyptian name I can't remember right now -- they all got my tears, among others. I think about Eddie, too, because I know he's had a rough go of it this year. When it's Grady's time, I hope I have the strength to send him across the rainbow bridge.
He's a good little guy. You all know that already.
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