I can't believe I didn't mention this in one of the earlier blogs today: On July 9th, at about noon, my husband took our dear pet, Acie, to the vet. She hadn't eaten in a few days, and she'd been just dragging herself around for a couple of days. We knew there was something seriously wrong with her, so as I put her in her carrying cage for the ride to the vet, I said "Good-bye, and thank you". I went in the house and cried, while my husband struggled with his own tears and drove away. It turned out that she had had a stroke, a blood clot had settled in her back, and her temperature was 4 degrees below normal. Frank had fifteen minutes with her, to say good-bye, and then they took her from him and put her to sleep. She was 17 years old, and a very dear firend. We miss her.
Oh--I mustn't neglect to tell you about the giggle she gave everyone during this tough time: You see, her cage and her litter box were always kept side-by-side in the bathroom. In the cage, I kept a folded towel and her food and water dishes. So, for her, the cage was her dining room and a place of comfort and refuge. At the vet's office, then, she kept trying to get back into the cage every time the vet tried to set her on the table. Eventually, the vet had to turn the cage to the wall in order to keep Acie on the table. Apparently, cats don't usually like their cages. Acie loved hers.