First rule of cats: Make your humans look stupid

Okay. This weekend was rough. Tig was declining more and more. None of the treatments suggested was working. So I wrote that post last night thinking that Tig was only a day or two away from that final shot. And I called the vet this morning, and took Tig in for help putting his sub-q fluids in him, and to talk to the vet and discuss our options.

Before I got to the vet, I talked to the tech. Told her what was going on. That Tig still purrs, still sits outside, and, well, this morning he surprised me and came into the bathroom after I turned off the shower. I didn’t feed him, but I did manage to get a Pepcid into him. I think I finally got the hang of the piller. You set it up like a pinball machine and shoot that sucker straight down the gullet with the same kind of snap you use to shoot the ball. Anyway. I did. Tig got the antacid. Then he got 200 ml of fluid. And the tech pointed out to me that he was still alert, aware, and happy. He was purring when cuddled or when doing something he liked. That it wasn’t time yet. By the time the vet told me that yes, he was purring, but he wasn’t eating, meaning he didn’t feel well, and his bloodwork was awful and that it was only a matter of time, I’d made up my mind. “It’s not today,” I told him, and we went home.

Tig spent the entire day outside. I was on the phone with work when I saw the grey Maine coon thinking that he was going to take over Tig’s territory while Tig was still alive. I yelled and ran out with the metal rod I use to bar my patio door, and banged it on the AC unit to make sure the interloper got the idea that he was not welcome here. Sure, Tig was purring a little more today, and seemed happier, but still—he lost another two-tenths of a pound. He’s down to 10.8 pounds from an average of fifteen. And he looks crappy. His fur is getting ragged, he’s thin and bony, he isn’t grooming as much.

Tonight, I took Sarah’s eldest son to a concert because, for reasons too complicated to go into, Sarah needed me to take him. I had to grab Tig and bring him inside before I left. He didn’t want to come in. Then I had to get him a second time, because he dashed out between my legs when I went out the front door. I tripped over him. He hissed. I grabbed him. He swatted. I didn’t think much about it. Because if I had, I would have noticed that he ran out between my feet to get outside.

I got home from the concert about fifteen minutes ago. Tig was eating. The dry food. The good, low-protein kidney diet food. I tried to get him to have some more of the kidney diet wet food, but he declined. Then I asked if he’d like to go out. He ran out the door. Ran. I haven’t seen him run in weeks, except when he rushes downstairs to get away from us after we’ve stuck him with sub-q fluids, and when he goes downstairs, he has gravity on his side. I don’t think it counts.

But today, he ran.

He ate.

And just now, he got into a fight with the grey Maine coon. I don’t see a mark on him. I think I scared the grey away. I put Tig out front instead.

He ran again. To go out.

I think I’m just going to stop trying to figure things out. Perhaps I should just go by whether or not Tig is breathing, because I’m starting to think that’s how I’m going to be able to tell if he’s on his way out.