Mags is currently in the area of the house we call Bruce’s Office — his desk might be there, but it’s really the cats’ room. Besides the footstool with the cat bed on it, there’s the little antique chair with the cat bed on it, the two baskets on the floor with soft towels in them, and the two chairs with blankets and well-kneeded crocheted throws on them. In other words, they have their choice of beds, and hopefully they can each find one without fighting someone else for it. And they can see out the window to the front yard, where birds sometimes sing.
She’s taking Lactulose to help move her digestion along, and this week she gets liquid steriods morning and night to hopefully shrink the tumor — I hope it does something besides make her hungry, because she hates it. Really really hates it. Which means that I end up wearing it twice a day. It’s pink, and sticky, and the drop that got in my mouth tasted bitter and angry. No wonder she hides in his office instead of sleeping by me. I’m the official kitty holder, Bruce is the syringe man, but she associates me with the taste since I’m the one holding her. Poor baby.
She’s lively enough to fight us, purrs, and is alert — which makes me hopeful. Cautiously, of course. I’ve had too many cats over the years to be anything but cautious.