After a very long period when I thought he was going to die at any minute but didn't, I had become reconciled to the fact that I was likely going to have to make provisions for Linda's ancient cat Butler in my will. He is decrepit and cranky and as slow moving a feline as I'd ever seen, but he wasn't getting any better or any worse for so long, I figured he had a paw on eternity.
Well, I may have figured wrong. He woke up this morning with a swollen face and a bloody nose, so I brought him to the vet. (That I am not bleeding is a minor miracle--he doesn't go to the vet quietly, shall we say.)
The result? Butler is going in for surgery tomorrow morning, for he may have 1) An abscess; 2) a bad tooth (or teeth); or 3) cancer.
Poor old guy. Poor Linda. She has known he was pushing his mortal envelope for all it was worth for a while now, but she's also known him his entire life, and the thought of his death is too much to bear.
Which explains why I went to the vet, not her. They left me, a non-cat person, in an examining room with the old codger for an uncomfortably long time--he kept trying to walk off the stainless steel table, but I knew the fall would kill him, so I ran interference. Quite literally.
Again, the fact that my skin is intact is a miracle. He usually bites/scratches first, then asks questions later. Actually, he skips the questions part, too.
Well, we shall see....
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