I'm starting to wonder if maybe Morrissey is now diabetic. Saw her get up from her bed and drink three times in five minutes, and she has lost a fair amount of weight since coming down with that virus last month. I'm in debt over her last visit to the vet's, and I'm starting to wonder just how much farther I can go.
She's had such a difficult life. When we found her, thirteen years ago, she was alone in a December blizzard. We took her in because the landlord at the apartment we were living in was just going to throw her back outside--and that was inhumane. The next day, I was set to call Animal Control and drop her off there--but when I was on the phone with the centre, I heard a dog howl in misery. And that decided me. I ended the call, and kept the cat.
Her health record is horrid, just as it is a testament to her own strength. She has IBD, which means she's been on steroids for most of her 13 years. Her spine is fused in one area--she was hit by something very hard before we found her, which led to her being paralyzed for six weeks when the spine gave out. She has this heartbreaking habit of picking up anything that is vaguely kitten sized--socks, small toys--and carrying them in her mouth, howling. After Pagan died, she stopped eating and came down with lipodosis. She got through that. She's had calici. And now she's come down with a virus and perhaps diabetes.
It's Friday, the end of a very long week, and I'm too tired to think right now. I don't want to lose her--it'll be my third cat gone in less than a year. But I think Morrissey and I have fought the inevitable for a long time together, and maybe we've gone as far as we can go.
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