Lucy is at the vets this weekend. She’s been there since late this past Thursday, on an IV solution to get her strength back up. Before she was taken to the vets by my wife, she’d stopped eating nearly everything I could think of to put in front of her, and wasn’t drinking much at all. She’d been ill with something since this past November when she started vomiting about once/week. We took her to the vets, and tried out some anti-vomiting medicine, which seemed to help a bit. But about a week ago she took a turn for the worse.
Although we have two other cats and the two Labs, Lucy really is mine. The house is very empty without her. There’s no Lucy to run up into my lap in the evenings when I’m sitting in my chair. No Lucy to come out late at night and herd me back to bed. No Lucy to sleep at my feet, no Lucy to walk on my shoulders and purr in my face in the mornings.
I’ve checked on her every day including today, and she looks and acts a lot better than she did this past Thursday. She comes over and talks to me when I visit. I think the hardest thing for me to accept out of all this is how I almost killed her with kindness, thinking I could figure out what was wrong with her. Owning a cat doesn’t make you a cat expert, no matter how long you’ve owned here, and no matter what you’ve read over time.
She’s been in the household since 2008. That’s seven years. She’s had a good life with good food, toys, places to play indoors, and regular vet visits. Hopefully she’ll be around another seven years. If not, well, I have a lot of memories, and there are no shortage of little guys and gals who need rescuing. But Lucy will always have a special place.
In 2008 she picked me. I didn’t pick her. And she’s been a loyal little thing ever since.