I’ve had my cat, Fogg, for about six years now.



She’s pretty much my feline soulmate.  I got her during a sad time in my life.  When I had just one other kitty–my beloved Cleo–who has since gone to be with my Mama in Heaven.

Fogg was the same age as Cleo, and the two of them were polar opposites.  Fogg was feisty and neurotic–a ball of energy and mischief.  But also the sweetest, most loving cat ever.  When I first met her, she stared me down–and who could refuse that face?

Her journey with Cleo was bumpy.  There was a few months where I wondered if I could keep them both–their fights were so horrific.  But eventually, we got to a truce.  And by the time Cleo passed several months ago, there was a genuine respect.  And when Cleo died, Fogg seemed to grieve.

She is our elder stateswoman.  The whiny enforcer.  The low-key, happy girl who loves to be near me.  Always.  My very best girl.

She’s been off for a few months now.  At first, I chalked it up to the sadness she had when my roommate left for San Francisco.  She gets attached to people pretty quickly.  She caught a cold from her ever sniffling brother right around then.  She is always so healthy and strong.  She fought it off, but there were behavioral problems.  Litterbox issues that never existed before.  She’s always been so clean.  We discovered it was an infection, so we gave her the antibiotics, and she got better.  But the antibiotics brought other problems.  Seemingly minor.  Only they’d come back again and again.  Vet appointments made and canceled because she was better.  I eventually changed their diet, and she was still oscillating.  But getting better–more energy and weight gained.  And then, this week, she took a sharp turn back down that path–only much worse than the normal jump back.  And today, worse still.  She seemed different and sad.  And stopped eating.  She hadn’t done that before.

So, the vet appointment is made for too many days away, and I am making her chicken and rice–hoping she’ll gobble it up and decide to sit next to me for the rest of my distracted workday.

I worry about my sweet friend.  I remember her beautiful sister and how quickly she disappeared.  And I really hope we have a lot more time left to play queen of the world at 3 am.

I know part of my worry is irrational.  She is not Cleo.  She is healthier.  It is not the same. But my PTSD brain panics and wants to swoop in to save her.

And I hate doing it alone.  It reminds me that, sometimes, it would be nice if there was someone around to hug me and tell me she’ll be okay.


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