Our distinguished gentleman, Mister Jack, is in bad shape.
To make a long story short, I noticed his breathing was rapid and shallow and erratic, and we took him to the vet immediately, which was a very good thing. They immediately put him on oxygen, drew a shitload of fluid from his lungs, and generally are trying to stabilize him.
It could be congestive heart failure. It could be fluid buildup from lymphoma or something at least as terrible. They had him in the swanky brushed steel and glass oxygen suite, so we couldn’t even pet him goodnight. That might’ve been a good thing, though, because he was surly and stink-eyed despite all infirmity.
All in all, it’s 90% pretty awful, and there’s not a great deal of hope of doing anything more than making him comfortable for long enough for him to forgive us.
He’s been with me since 1992, when I smuggled him out of my relatives’ house in my cleavage. He transformed from a fraidy-cat to a pimpin’ party-cat when he came to permanently live with me. He follows people like a dog, eats asparagus and wheatgrass and loves to bitebitebite string. He sometimes likes to walk on the dogs like they’re furniture, just to show them who’s boss. He’s a milk stealing, love/hate-biting, nad-stomping, hairball-horking, skirt-snagging, food-begging, cabinet-ruining, dog-tormenting very stylish babooshka hat prancing pony Houdini Cat, and he’s been with me the entirety of my adult life. I can’t contemplate a world without my Jack.
We go to see him at 8 a.m.
I know he’s sixteen and grumpy, and really miserable right now. I hope he has more good times left in him, but if he doesn’t make it, I hope he knows how many people love him, even though he’s a cantankerous, eight-toothed, quack-meowing, cookie-pawed coot.