You Old Rascal
Wuss didn't eat last night, looking a little frail perched up on his chair beside my desk, but he seemed better this morning. I put out his food and left for work wondering what I'd find when I returned. At the office I thought more than once what was I doing here, maybe I should have waited and then dropped him off at the vet.
I've lost confidence in this vet over the last year and I have no confidence whatsoever he can do much for Wuss from here out. Still, I've made bad decisions for my cats in the past, not thinking to check the pound in Napa within the required three days when the valiant Mouse disappeared after twelve years of companionship. My only defense is I'm an equal opportunity idiot, I make similar decisions about myself.
So I came home early, apprehensive until Wuss met me at the door. He was hungry. He ate some dinner. He's walking a little more stiff legged perhaps, but this has been coming on now for some time and otherwise he seems stable and without pain. I understand it's hard to say with cats, this pain business, and the pain is the crux of it, isn't it? I don't want to take Wuss into the vet for a shot unless he's clearly in terminal pain. In pain, I'd help him that way in a second, but pain doesn't seem to be the issue. Maybe cat people are shaking their heads right now, "how little this guy understands".
I'm tempted to say the hell with the prescription diet, though, old buddy. "Here, guy. Take a crack at this pile of Albacore ladeled over with a little of this imported hair of the mouse sauce. And say, what are your thoughts about Prime Rib, rare, red and juicy to encourage the palate? Yeah? Well, we just happen to have one here in the oven. Or did you notice, you old rascal?"