Today

At 4 pm. Think good thoughts about a pussycat.

The tumors are so large I can feel them now. He's had a really good morning, snuggled up with Gus and me. His last day is going to be a good one.

I just wish I could stop crying.

After a long, gray weekend

A long, gray Monday.

I am not much of a mind to be all chipper and cheery. The weather gets to me. I should move someplace where it's cool but sunny. I think that place exists only in my mind. I mean, I'm talking about the sunny, cool place with no earthquakes, no wildfires, no winter rains, and no mudslides.

I ask for a lot, I know.

Mo is still here. Rapidly losing weight now, although it doesn't seem to bother him. His eyes drip, get crusty and he protests as I try to clean them. I can feel every bone in his spine now. And yet his spirits are up. He's still hopping up on the bed at night. Greets me in the morning, complaining about food - mostly lack thereof.

After breakfast, he settles in on the couch next to me, jockeying with Gus or Taylor for position. When I come home, he's the first I greet.

I think it will be sooner rather than later, but so far, he seems to be in excellent spirits.

That's my Mo Man.

Getting to the Hard Choices

I've mentioned a couple of times over the last couple of months that Mosby, the Senior Fellow of my household, is beginning to decline. It hasn't been a gentle decline. It seems like in four months, he's gone from the hale and hearty ladies' man to a shriveled old man.

I just realized that Mosby's decline began shortly after Gracie died. Well, she was his girlfriend. His best girl.

Gussy, his son, is with him all the time and has been from the moment they were brought into the same household. (Gus was two months old at the time. Mosby at least one year old.) Now Gus is 14 and Mosby is at least 15.

I've made an appointment for Mo to go to Hunky Vet in about an hour. I'm seriously wondering if this is a good idea. The last time I took him, it was so stressful for Mo that he was hyperventilating and his decline seemed to accelerate afterwards.

I know he's dehydrated, but I can give him fluids at home. I can give him medicine. I guess I'm saying, I don't want to leave him overnight at the vet's. Being confined in any manner totally freaks Mo Daddy out.

He's also not much interested in food these days.

In all honesty, when I wake up in the morning and when I come home at night, Mo isn't with the greeting committee anymore and I'm afraid of what I'll find when I go looking for him.

I know, I know. Past experience has taught me that it won't be long now. I just don't know how long that is, three weeks or three months.

I do know that when it's time for him to go, I will not take him out of the house again. I will call a vet and have him/her come to Ma Maisonette.

They're going so fast now. Leaving me so soon. But I always knew I would never be ready for Mosby to go.

Once, M the Perfect (Former) Roomie and her former boyfriend and I were sitting in the living room, watching Mo go after Gracie. "We've decided," he said, "that if there's one cat in the world that should be cloned, it's Mo."

Honestly? If I had $50K just sitting around with nothing better to do with it? I'd seriously think about it.

I don't want Mo to go. I'm not ready for him to go. But I don't know if I ever will be. It's not like I will ever love him any less than I do now.

The Geriatric Ward

Mo has suddenly gotten old. Very old, almost overnight. He has an old cat's body now. He's lost a lot of weight. His fur is rumpled and dry-looking.

His eyes were watering badly. I felt guilty for not finishing up the antibiotics prescribed for him. I mixed up the rest of the batch and gave him a dose last night and this morning. This evening, he seems the better for it.

But he is still an old man. I hate to see this happen, but it's inevitable.

This morning, I heard a strangled little meow and went in search of it. I found Boris in the litter box, hunched up, looking miserable. Poor Boris. Plugged up again.

My fridge looks like I could run a vet clinic from it. I found the syrup to dose Boris (it's worked twice so far) and he was not pleased.

Gus has taken to following me around. I think he misses Gracie, who was cuddled up with him and Mo almost every morning.

The cats are changing and the dynamic is changing.

Phoebe is coming around for affection. This morning when I woke up, she was at my side. And just below her, to my astonishment, was Sophie.

Katy rarely ventures out of my study. There's a comfy bed on the desk and that's where she's spending most of her days. I realized that Katy's probably close to eleven.

Butch is a loose cannon these days. After eight years of sitting on the kitchen table or the top of the little china cabinet, he can spring up anywhere these days and frequently does.

This morning when I ran down to the basement to fetch something, I spotted Dylan on the basement floor, behind a box. This is nothing like my showman cat.

Things are changing. They always do.

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.