Somehow, I knew it. I knew it would be bad. I knew Louise wouldn't get out of this one. The vet told me this morning that Louise has intestinal lymphoma. I was weirdly calm during the conversation. It was only after I got off the phone that I started blubbering. Now, every time I look at her, I get a sting behind my eyes.
The vet was vague as to treatment. Prednisone will keep her comfortable for awhile. I could try chemo. I'm supposed to call her in the next week after I've mulled it over and done some research.
Louise got through a heart murmur and an overactive thyroid, and now this. I partly feel ridiculous crying over a cat. It makes me feel like a spinster who is fast losing her grip on reality because her world is entirely feline in nature and company. On the other side of things, this cat has stayed up with me on many nights while I was suffering panic attacks, she keeps my lap warm while I write at the computer, and she always greets me at the door when I come home, and that's just for starters. How many humans can be that consistent even with simple things?
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