Day by day. Last week I thought I'd be putting Matisse down on the Friday or this last Monday. He'd vomited froth and bile morning and night, ate one kibble, was demonstrably weak and seemingly on his way out.
Then he rallied.
Came into the bathroom the following morning while I was getting ready. His flanks were fuller. He trotted. He miaowed. He looked happy. Followed him into the kitchen. He'd eaten all the food I put down. And wanted more!
Yippee! He continued to show good appetite, to put on a little weight. I thought he'd turned the corner.
Four days short of finishing the course of antibiotics I stopped giving them to him. He was so unhappy that dreadful day I wondered why I was still inflicting these pills on him when they made not one iota of difference.
So we've had a few days of reasonable appetite. Today he vomited. Today he's a little less keen on eating.
To keep from going mad I have to take it day by day. Be grateful for each day I have with him. I did ask him, rather tearfully, not to leave me. Just seemed like one more blow and maybe a blow I couldn't take.
But of course I could and would. If he sickens and dies, there is no choice but to get through it. I'm just so sick of crying. Feel as though I've no more tears in me.
But of course I do.
One good thing is we've become very close. He spends a lot of time on my lap. I pet him and tell him what a wonderful cat he is while he eats one kibble at a time. I count the kibbles. I listen for the most delicate of purrs. He has the quietest purr of any cat I've ever known. Have to put my head against his chest to hear it or my fingers under his throat. It is no less loving for being so quiet. I am grateful we've had this time together. All those years of spraying-peeing-in-inappropriate-places angst when all he wanted was to be my only cat. I haven't used the prozac for a week or more. He doesn't need it. He's content.
On another brighter note, Fiona contacted me, asked if she could put me under contract! She's still enjoying the chapters I've sent (23 so far. I'm currently writing chapter 40). I am thrilled, absolutely over the top unashamedly giddy with joy. She sold Meg's novel to Hatchette, submitted her work for the Banjo Patterson Prize (I think - maybe Meg did?) but they removed it from competition despite it being shortlisted because of conflicts with publication. She's a go getter and it is such a shot in the arm to find she "loves" (her words) my writing and believes in me enough to want to get me under contract.
I said yes. Was there any doubt?
On yet another note, we've had flooding rains and now have floods. I didn't go see Richard today. Dashed to town to pick up food for me, Mikaela and birds (Matisse has enough) and saw how high the river was beneath Byangum Bridge. High and still rising. The 2017 flood is still vivid in memory. The bridge was entirely underwater. I didn't want to get caught on the wrong side and be unable to look after the animals. The horses are on high ground. Jilleen gave them access to all the top paddocks, the stables and some hay for good measure. The rains will stop in a couple of days and the waters will recede quickly - just need to hold fast. But how we needed it. The ground gurgles with joy.
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