This month marks 16 years with Aremid. This cat defines me. There is no Toastie without Aremid.
But there will be someday. He can’t outlive me, because I don’t know who’d take him in.
And he may be on his ninth life right now. He’s been getting by with his hypothyroidism and irritable bowel for the last couple of years, with daily methimazole and prednisalone. But he’s been losing weight again and not being himself. He’s been hiding. He’s been listless, at times, and lethargic the rest of the time. He eats when there’s food in front of him, but I don’t see him making the effort to go and eat. He usually responds to me, but I am used to him always responding to me. His vocalizations, which have generally been whiny and annoying for 16 years, are now meek.
So it was not good news when the results came back from the vet that all of his bloodwork came out fine. This means we don’t know what’s wrong. We’ll probably put him on an antibiotic just in case there’s an undetected infection.
I should break out my real camera, which has been out of sight since Mexico six months ago, but I suppose I don’t really want great pictures of Aremid looking so bad.
He actually doesn’t look quite so bad in the picture from the vet’s office back on Friday. But he seem to have gotten worse over the last three days.
All this being said, I am not at all ready for the “he’s lived a good life” sentiments.
That being said, he’s right next to me on the couch now, and, the way he looks right now, I’m worried.