Once upon a time there were thirteen cats.
Now there is one.
We had the mobile vet come out today to help Nicky leave the fold. He had been to the vet back in early March for a minor issue, got a clean bill of health - x-rays, bloodwork, urinalysis - but in the last few days, he dropped a ton of weight and lost interest in everything but sleeping. A sudden, massive weight loss is never good, and it can bring on failures of various systems,
I thought about taking him back to the vet, but decided against it. Nicky was eighteen, more than a good age for a cat, and other than that trip last month, he's needed very little healthcare in his life. Whatever the problem was, whether it was something missed in March or a totally new development, it's unlikely that it would be treatable at his age, and I hated the idea of putting him through more testing, much less multiple car rides to do it. Plus we're still not able to go into the vet's office with him, so he wouldn't have even had the moral support of his people.
Now we have one cat, Harriet, who was Nicky's littermate. I never imagined she'd be the last cat standing - and although she's also eighteen, and has some of the same intestinal issues as her brother, she's round and pudgy and bounces around the house like a kitten. So fingers crossed she'll be with us for a while to come.
Bon voyage, Nikolas Vladimirovich von Putintat. I hope the Great Litterbox in the Sky serves abundant salmon and knows that you like it well-watered. You were a good cat.