That’s poor old Hobbes below. He ain’t right.
We think he has a systemic ailment, maybe lymphoma, although without a biopsy, no one can be sure. If that were it, chemotherapy and/or steroids, if I have that right, might make him more comfy and give him a few more months. That’s not going to happen, though. The vet did give him a blood test, and there’s nothing indicated, no explanation for his drop from 13+ to 7.5 pounds at last weighing. He’s at least 14 years old, by the way.
Hobbes was a good ole cat
The Little Bastard, as I’ve always called him, a.k.a. Señor Buenopornada, a.k.a. El Gordo in days gone by, has meanwhile gone around the bend. The boy ain’t right. He’s like a bowl of fishhooks tossed in your lap, all claws and no control. He doesn’t move like a cat anymore (smooth and legato), he JUMPS like an electric grasshopper, sprints at top speed on the tips of his toes, assaults empty laps, and terrorizes the other cat. He gobbles down food, throws up, and eats some more. Last night he shit in the bathtub, which he’s never done before. (That’s pretty much a one-two-three thing with me.) So far, at least, he doesn’t seem to be in pain.
But oh, he really stinks.
Poor little baby.
Poor old fucked-up Hobbes.
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