...if you have read enough posts, does this young lady have a life? Why, yes, yes, I do. I am a moderately well-adjusted pre-30 year old with a good job, a great guy, and a gorgeous cottage in Los Angeles. On any given day prior to the start of this odyssey, my cat was one of many things I was thankful for in life, but I did not sit home on weekends staring into his magnificent amber eyes. I traveled a lot for work, rode my bike, saw lots of movies, tried to make brunching an art form, and occasionally indulged my desire for high-priced electronic gadgets.
For the first two years after his FeLV+ diagnosis, whenever my cat did something particularly smart or funny, I smiled, but the same thought always bubbled to the surface of my brain: How long? Often it wasn't even a consciously worded question...I would just feel my smile twist a little. After we moved to the cottage, the question was still there, but it was silenced for long stretches by his continued good health.
Until two weeks ago, when the question resurfaced with renewed ferocity. How long? How long? How long? I'm writing now because posting kitty anecdotes to the web is cheaper than paying a therapist $130 dollars to talk about my cat. Or turning into the weeping cat lady at work. Because that would really be too much.
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