My sixteen-year-old cat, Smitty, has been sicker than I’ve ever seen her today. She hasn’t eaten, has barely drunk anything, hasn’t visited her catbox, and hasn’t been the sometimes maddening, constantly-underfoot cat that she’s always been. Windows were open and sunbeams were in ample supply but neither was enough to tempt her from her sleep at the foot of Hallie’s bed today.
Her lively, feisty self has disappeared with astonishing speed, almost overnight. I think this is it. I’ll frankly be surprised if she is with us in the morning.
Update: She’s still here this morning.