It has been a poignant week for me as Friskey, my childhood pet, became ill. She's been listless, vocal, and vomiting (more than is normal for a cat) for some time, so finally we took her to the vet on Monday. Driving in, Mom and I discussed the very real possibility that she would have to be put to sleep. Cats live 12-17 years on average; our little fuzzball is 15.

We put her on the scale and she was down a few more ounces from her visit just a few weeks before. More anxiety. We calmed a bit when her temperature came back normal, but worried again when they asked to keep her for the afternoon. We were relieved when we were able to take her home.

Returning to the vet's, we were shown x-rays of my cat's constipation...and the arthritis in her pelvis. The had sedated her to relax the muscles, and spent the afternoon cleaning her out. Poor kitty. We were told to stop giving her dry food and switch to canned as it is 80%-85% water which would make it easier to pass. We thanked Dr. Tom as we carried her hangovered form to the car.

Closing the doors Mom and I talked to Friskey in friendly tones, petting her head, her back, grateful that she would be ok, that her time had not yet come. We seem to be clutching onto every scrap of life we can find right now. Friskey has become a great comfort to Mom since she's been ill, and she's come to care for my cat more than she ever would have guessed.

Mom addressed her, finding her problem ironic, "I don't know how you did it, Frisk, but somehow you've inherited the family problem." In my lap, the cat looked back at her in somewhat dazed but sarcastic eyes as if to say, "...and let me tell you, I am not happy about it...not one bit."