The cat is not doing well. OK, slightly better than before. Now he’s not hiding behind the toilet in the bathroom at my parents’ house. Now he’s sprawled in the middle of the kitchen floor — where there’s no sunlight in this part of the afternoon. He’s not eaten, he’s not pooped, he’s not pissed. He’s not drunk enough water. Mom is very worried for him now, too. She reminded me that when her cat had to be put down, my dad took care of all the arrangements; she offered just now to do the same for Geordie when the time comes.
Ye gods, but that makes me scared for him. Not because mom won’t take care of him, or that he’ll suffer or anything — but that she would offer. Both she and dad don’t really think he’s going to make it.