Well, our boy turns 18 in a little less than a month. Born in a small town in Georgia, he has weathered every one of our family moves (to Atlanta, to D.C., to KC) with admirable aplomb. It’s tough when you’re a youngster and your parents make all the decisions, especially when those decisions mean leaving behind everything you’ve known and relocating to new places. I know because that’s what my childhood was like. Other 18-year-olds are heading off to college right about now, but not him. He’s a cat. We went to the vet today, and it turns out he’s lost about a sixth of his body weight. He’s also drinking and peeing all the time, but we don’t know what’s wrong with him. He’s not in any pain, and his behavior is otherwise the same. He purrs when you pet him. On Wednesday we should learn the results of the blood test. Fingers crossed. According to a poster at the vet, 18 cat years is equivalent to 88 human years.
Oh, wow. 18 is so old for a cat. Congrats on the kitty birthday, and here’s hoping the test results are good.
Well, he’s always been very healthy. This is the first time he’s ever been sick, so he has (and we have) been lucky.
Hope Max is doing better. I know what a worry this is. Friday was Pretty Boy Floyd’s last day with me. He was my buddy for 17 years and I miss him so much.
I’m sorry to hear about Pretty Boy Floyd. I had no idea. He was a very sweet kitty.