Ingrid has been growing noticeably weaker and skinnier and wobblier every day. Now she has trouble jumping on the bed, her favorite place; when she tried last night, she fell backward onto the floor and landed on her back with a bony thump. It was so sad. When I pick her up, she feels like a Raggedy Ann doll. Yesterday, her bladder leaked a little on our living room chair (ugh - how do you get that smell out?), which is a sign of advanced kidney disease. I am afraid she may not have much time left with us, although cats can surprise you. I am waiting for a call back from the vet so we can find out what comfort measures we can give her at this stage in her life.
She spends a lot of time just sitting — under the bed covers or just next to one of us. She's even OK hanging out with Daniel, who pulls and grabs her like a toy. She still loves to go outside when I open the door, but I don't leave her out there alone. The neighborhood cats would whoop her in a heartbeat.
She's also been gazing at me a lot, and I feel like she's trying to tell me something, though I'm not sure what - "I'll be OK." "I may not be with you much longer." "Please take extra good care of me." "I am barely hanging on here ... help me." (Obviously, I'm projecting onto her all my own sadness about losing her - but I like to think that maybe she's communicating with me, too!)