Saturday, April 14, 2007

Worried

I'm worried. Ophelia appears to be ill, or at least not in good health. Last night, she peed on The Husband's pillow -- apparently because she could not get off the bed. She's weak. She's lost weight. She's got peeling skin on her sides.

On the positive side, she's still eating and drinking, she still walks around, she will play (a little) and be a little pissy as she normally does, she's not doing the sick kitty curl, and where the skin is peeling, the skin underneath appears healthy with new fur growing in. She was always overweight and now she's an older cat, so the weight loss is not unexpected. I knew she'd dropped at least a pound last year, but now it seems she's 3 pounds lighter than she was and her flab is hanging from bony hips. It's disturbing. She's had bladder problems before. I can't take her to the vet until Monday, because it doesn't appear to be an emergency (and the emergency vet is extremely expensive).

I don't think it's that cat food poisoning thing, because the other 5 kittymonsters are all fine and normal. They eat from the same feeder. My thoughts keep turning to cancer or diabetes. We use a urine enzyme cleaner to clean up after our Famous Peeing Cat, Laguz, so maybe she's been laying where that hadn't dried up and she's having an allergic reaction. I just don't know.

All my pets are special, but Ophelia is very special. I got her right after another kitten we had adopted (and whom I completely loved), a little black male named Othello, was diagnosed with feline AIDS and had to be put down. I was heartbroken. About then one of the women at work brought in pictures of a kitten her husband had rescued in a litter from the oil drip pan of a bulldozer. The kitten was about 3 weeks old, just a handful of full and ears and eyes. I told The Husband, who was adamant that we already had three cats and a dog, so we really didn't need another kitten. Othello had been an accident, a rescue from a desperate friend. I cried about him every night. (I get teary about him now.) Finally, after about a week, he told me to bring the damn kitten home.

Ophelia took over our lives. She was so tiny we would loose her in odd corners -- she found a tiny hole into some deadspace in our kitchen cupboards and scared us to death once. She fell asleep under a throwpillow one, causing another 2 hour whole house search. She had the older cats all buffaloed, running around with her teeny Christmas Tree tail and big eyes. She had to be bottle fed and lifted into her litter pan. When we drove up to see The Husband's mom in Virginia, we had to take her with us and she rode half the way up perched on the car's steering wheel staring at us, and half the way curled on my shoulder sleeping. I bonded with her completely, as did The Husband.

I know that the pets that I love die. Hell, I'm still having sad flashes over Calico, and I can't say I loved her as much as I do Ophelia, but as crazy as she made me, I miss her. I KNOW that pets die, just like people die, just like the flowers in the garden die. Ok, fine, take a deep breath and blow my nose. I accept the big damn Circle of Life thing. Being scared won't change anything. Worrying won't help.

I'm still damn worried about my cat.

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