Oh, right. I'm not twenty-five years old anymore. I should have remembered that when I spent the last week getting too little sleep and perhaps a little too much alcohol. This morning, I felt every one of my over-twenty-five years. I sure hope I appreciated that young body when I had it. I know I was cocky about not being prone to hangovers. I also thought I had an iron stomach, and could eat anything I wanted without consequence. Ah, the arrogance of youth. Why can't it go backwards? The older you get, the more things you can eat and drink, and the easier your body takes it - that's how it ought to be. Then we could enjoy it more, as we grow into our indulgences.
I'm afraid the denizen of Cricketstan is quickly approaching the point of no return. I've been trying to medicate her, to soothe her ravaged digestive system. Nothing is helping. She's wasting away in front of my eyes, and she's living in a constant state of agitation. Sometimes when I bring one or two of the other cats in, to visit elderly Aunt Cricket in her assisted living facility, she acts like she barely recognizes them. That's especially hard on my white cat, who had a very special bond with her, up until last year, when something in Cricket's mind snapped, and she started hating everyone. On good days, all she does is stare when the white cat comes in to her private room. I can't believe that on the heels of losing Torden, I'm facing the very real possibility that Cricket may not last the summer. If only her small intestine could hold on to some of the meds long enough to absorb them. I don't think anything is getting through at all. Today I added in calorie-dense food paste. It's a last-ditch effort, but I honestly don't think it's going to help.
I don't like ending on such a low note. But I'm not sure I can pull myself back up now that I've let myself fall into gloom and doom. Perhaps tomorrow's topic will be less of a drag.
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