rikibeth

Kragar came home from the vet Tuesday, still skinny, still needing antibiotics, but acting more like himself. He was eating enthusiastically, and Wednesday he begged at the dinner table the way he used to, and he played with the feather-toy Charlotte waved for him.

Yesterday we didn't see him, even after we opened a can of wet food. Charlotte came downstairs and said "I cuddled him in the sewing room closet, but he can't walk."

He couldn't. He couldn't stand, either. He could move his head, and his tail twitched, and his eyes tracked, but he couldn't put weight on his legs, he just flopped over on his side with his legs all stretched out.

The vet said to give him the prednisone he'd been sent home with, and keep watching him. I put him on my bed and snuggled him, too. My poor sweet cat.

I left work early today in case the vet said bring him in. I spent most of the time sleeping next to him.

Finally I came downstairs to use the computer. A few minutes ago,

shadowflyer said "Are you SURE you left the kitty on the bed? Come help me look for him."

He was curled up, sphinx-style, on the floor of my closet. Which means he must have gotten up and walked there.

He has a dish of cooked salmon, a dish of water, and a dish of crunchies, and

shadowflyer is watching him.

Any extra energy you have to send to an ailing 12-year-old cat would be much appreciated.