Exactly one week ago we were rushing home from vacation, trying to beat the 6pm closing time of our vet's office. Our precious kitty, Ben, was very sick and probably not going to make it more than another day or so. He was on medication and doing better before we left, but took a turn for the worse. He'd lost a lot of weight, was not eating, needed a blood transfusion, had a mass in his belly. The prognosis was grim. The only thing we knew for sure was that we wanted to bring him home. As soon as possible, for as long as possible.
It was a very long car ride. A very emotional car ride.
The first night was rough. Ben was frail, and we were afraid of mishandling him; we didn't want to cause any pain. We brought him into our room, so that if he needed us, we would be there. We slept on and off all night, never too deeply. I checked on him 20 times. And in the morning, he was still here.
We carried him into every room we were in. Offered food constantly. Put little dishes of water all over the house. Above all, we spent time with him. We snuggled him and told him how much we loved him.
Fast forward a week. Every day he has gotten stronger. He's eating 10 times a day, using his litterbox, jumping up on and off of the furniture, curling into a ball and sleeping, grooming,
purring.
In other words, he is acting like his old self.
He is still extremely skinny, and I know he isn't cured. But every extra day I get with him is a miracle. Every morning when I wake up and he's sitting there waiting for us to feed him is a great day in my book.
And to think that they wanted to administer the final shot to him. I'm so glad we listened to our instincts and brought him home.
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