A friend found a cat that had been locked in her storage area for two weeks; she took the cat to a vet who kept him overnight, gave him fluids, and antibiotics for his cold. My friend came to me on Friday and asked if I would take him in. And, we did. My sweet husband, David, bought another litterbox and more litter while I fed the kitty. I boiled up some chicken, shredded it, put some broth with it, and fed it to the kitty. The kitty slept with a bowed head.
His head just touched the pile of soft towels that we had gathered, and I covered him with a small, light blanket. He drank a lot of water and gobbled food. He was skinny, skinny, and had a big meow. Sweet natured, the kitty was orange and white, had been neutered but clearly not taken care of in weeks. His spine protruded; his back legs trembled.
Kitty had many physical problems. He was severely anemic; his kidneys were shutting down; he had Feline Leukemia, a blood parasite, and something else that was terminal. We had to put him down. Normally, I would be sad while visiting the cat and realize that this 10 years plus old cat had had some good meals, was warm, and loved in the last three days of his life.
His soul tugged on me, though. And I've pondered this over the last several days. I am sorting out why and will share that later this week when I've figured it out some more.
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