Gustopher Bones, Cat of Distinction

Gussy should be home in an hour.

I terrified him and exhausted myself by chasing him around the bedroom this morning. I ended up throwing a sheet over him and stuffing him into the cat carrier. Neither one of us was particularly happy about it.

When I talked to the vet earlier this afternoon, she said the preliminary blood tests she had done on him showed that he's in the beginnings of kidney failure.

I think I suspected something like this for some time. Gus is 13 years old. Of course, his dad, the ever-ebullient, cue-the-Barry-White-music dad, Mo, is still making the rounds with the ladies. (Of course, he was neutered years and years ago, but obviously with Mo, hope springs eternal.)

I know what lies ahead for us. There will be evenings spent with bags of subcutaneous fluids to try to flush the bad stuff out of Gussy's kidneys. There will be special food. There will be long evenings of brushing and petting.

Cats I've petsit (petsat?) have lived for years with kidney failure. Of course I don't know how long Gus will have. Knowing it's an inevitable decline makes me sad.

I keep my eyes away from the bigger picture. I have twelve cats. One by one, they will die. Even the sleek, plump, rambunctious ones. No. Not to think about it, not now. Not to envision an empty house. No.

Gussy will come home tonight. Gussy Squirrel-toes. Gussy Guy. Gus gus gus gus. Gussy will come home.