I haven’t puked my guts up for about 20 years. But that may change very shortly.

We all know El Mog has problems with me going away. Well: I was just away. And I have returned to an empty house. Elgar is at the vet, taken there by a very concerned catsitter on Saturday when he wasn’t eating, had drunk all his water and was trying to drink from a fresh bowl but just throwing it back up again. I’d already told her how the vet had taken blood and urine tests on Wednesday after noticing a big, unexplained, weight loss… it seems that these tests have shown something wrong. The vet wouldn’t tell my lovely catsitter what’s wrong because he hasn’t told me yet. But something is wrong.

The most likely candidates seem to be diabetes or kidney trouble. And it’s killing me that I don’t know, and that my poor little cat – who is terrified of being in a cage – is stuck at the vet barely 20 minutes walk away. They open at 8 in the morning. I should call first, but even if they tell me I can come straight away it’s still 20 minutes too late for me. I don’t think I can sleep, I feel like spending the night hunched over the lavatory.

How the hell do people with actual children cope when they get ill?

And the worst bit is that the section of my brain that keeps a hold of reality keeps saying “hey, you’d better see if the cat wants to come in. Well he’s not in the flat – where else could he be?” That’s another reason for not going to bed; that empty space next to me, where he should be curled up and purring, is going to be very hard to deal with.


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