Princess Twinkle Toes is no more.
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I've been wanting to write this post for at least a couple of weeks, to help me put my thoughts in order and make a decision about Princess' future. A couple of days ago something changed to make that decision easier, but I'd still like to talk this through. (TW I suppose - talking about the pending death of a pet.)
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I appear to be awake at an unsociable hour and have a backlog of things I'd hoped to post about. This will no doubt be more than a little disorganised and rambly, so no change then.
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First the good news: for the last week I can definitely confirm that Princess' pee has not had any visible blood in it. And in other good news, today we caught the aforementioned substance on one of the puppy housetraining absorbent pads we put out near one of the litter tray stations.
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Last week Boris Giles went to the vet for his first annual checkup and vaccinations. A couple of weeks ago Princess went to the vet on a semi-emergency visit and was back again today, but we at least caught her pre-emergency.
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With all the trouble we've been having with Princess' poo, 'twas her pee that sent us to the vet in a hurry this afternoon.
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Because Cally and Princess are Cat Haven rescue moggies their exact dates of birth are a bit of a guess a few months each way, but about now I'm upping their ages from "y and a half" to "pushing y+1". Thus my two eldest are now the ripe old ages of Pushing 21 and Pushing 17 respectively. There's something to be said for hybrid vigour.
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Life is good for the kitties of Sector 7.
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Sometimes it feels like all I do is look after (and indeed blog about) the cats. There are worse things to spend my time on, but sometimes it gets complicated. Herein I record Buffy's spey and Boris Giles' sundry bacteria, with end notes on Cally's arthritis and Princess' thyroid.
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Last Monday I took Princess to the vet (along with Cally for her monthly Cartophen shot, sigh) because I was getting concerned about her weight loss and some particularly nasty self-inflicted wounds.
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