My so-called journal

Yesterday I had to take my cat Stacey for an emergency vet visit: she had gone missing (not like her) for two days and I found her, silent, in the closet, looking up at me. When I had found her two days previous—wedged between shelves in the MetroShelving™ unit where I keep my clothes—she had run and hid, and I couldn't find her until yesterday.

So I took her up to Heart of Chelsea Animal Hospital right away and the vets took some bloods. What they found was grim: basically, her vital signs were not capable of sustaining life. Her red blood cell (RBC) count was extremely low and the reason I hadn't found her in two days was she had become too weak to get up and go to the litter box. She would require a blood transfusion, the treatment would ultimately cost many thousands of dollars, and it wasn't known if they would be successful.



They let me sit with her and she cleaned herself and purred a little. It was heartbreaking, but they sent her to slumberland and I took home an empty carrier. "Too much death," I muttered all the way home.

I'll get the ashes back in about a week; maybe I'll make a LifeGem™ out of them.

Hope this birthday is a great one and all your wishes come true!