Stranger in a Familiar Body

I am utterly devastated, and it involves this little guy.

There was much anticipation to visit CT this past weekend. Lots to do and lots of people to see. A party at my cousin's new home, seeing as much family as possible, and going on little excursions. What I didn't expect was the frightful sight of one of my beloved kitties, Morgan. See, I'm not allowed to keep pets in my apartment building, and to be honest, I'm not sure I would. I say this because I am probably one step away from becoming one of those crazy cat ladies you see all the time on the news. I'm still too young and I haven't gone through menopause yet to allow myself to become like that. Instead, I view the three cats my mother has as my own. I expressly took Friday off in order to fully enjoy the weekend. Upon arrival late Thursday night, saw Morgan in such a state that tears began to well in my eyes.

About two weeks ago, I received a phone call from my mother, Morgie wasn't doing too well and the veterinarian confirmed he had a fever of 106F. The vet surmised it was a virus, prescribed him pills, and sent him on his way. Gradually, kitty got his appetite back and resumed normal bathroom activities. But still. According to my mother, he wasn't the same. Now, weeks later, he hasn't come back around - mentally and physically. There is a familiar ritual I have become accustomed to when I arrive at my mother's home. The cats enter the living room and do that little dance around me. It is a combination of reminding me that they are somewhat acknowledging my presence, and an opportunity to rub up against my suitcase, thus firmly placing my belongings in their territory. The rubs are also a reminder that I should be ever so grateful they awoke from their 20-some hour slumber to grace my presence.

I arrived, gave pets and lovings to two felines and watched as the third sat at this food dish staring at me with vague familiarity. I approached and got the terror of my life. He was unresponsive except for a faint purr and a weak acknowledgment of my presence. There was none of his normal behavior. No heavy purr factory emanating from him. No rubs. No circle dances. Nothing. The luster in his eyes, the luster of his soft fur - gone. Flea bitten for a cat who never seems to get fleas. Instead, the silkiness of his coat due to result of the OCD like devotion to grooming, was dirty, scruffy, and blanketed with scabs from heavy scratching. Oh, and the scratching. Morgan's right foot was out of whack. Probably a symptom of his illness or soreness from all that scratching.

The next morning, I woke to two cats hanging around me meowing and rubbing up against me for the glorious thing I am known to them - wet food. This is usually followed by the excitement of three male cats vying for my attention, circling my legs and batting away at each other in dominance as I dish out the smelly nastiness that is canned food. Usually, Morgan is the first to lie next to me, waking me with his loud meows. He is the ringleader and the greediest eater of them all. This weekend? Nothing. He was not even aware I was even opening the cans. I had to scoot him in front of the dish for him to acknowledge the grub.

Of course, I managed to carry on with all the weekend plans and have a pleasant time with my family; but not without constantly thinking about this poor sick soul. Attending my cousin's party, the numerous dogs frolicking about only reminded me of the one back home who wasn't doing any activity. Come Sunday, my goodbyes to Morgie were laced with extra kisses and hugs, hoping I'd see him again and praying that it would never come to something drastic...