Defeat never comes to any man until he admits it.
When last we left our intrepid author, she had suffered three fierce successive blows, all alliteratively beginning with the letter “C.” While the final blow (computer) seemed to right itself rather quickly, Life turned about to prove that the electrical problems were not the third shoe dropping, as it were. The third “C” was “cat,” and even more specifically “Clive.”
My lovely skinny-butt Clive (as opposed to my lovely hog-pig Eliot) began to make himself scarce at the beginning of last week, not appearing to bother Dad for morning attention and being pet, sleeping in uncomfortable and out-of-the-way places such as the laundry basket, eating meagerly and paying a lot of attention to water. My parents went out of town for the long weekend, so I loaded him into the cat carrier and off to the vet we went. I was worried that he was sick, but was sure that there would be some pill, some special food, some overnight treatment that would get my kitty back to his normal self.
Kidney failure. I felt like someone had pulled a rug out from under me and was trying to smother me with it. That’s part of why I held off on a blog entry – until a few days ago, Clive was in the emergency vet, hooked up to fluids and peeing up a storm. He’s since home, happy as a clam, and back to his normal self. Collective heave of relief, please. We have to give him fluid injections every evening, which is far easier than it sounds, and Clive is a laid back guy; though he’s annoyed that we jab a needle into his scruff for two minutes a night, it doesn’t hurt him and he gets back to the business of loving us quickly.