Elgar finally catches a break

I took the cat to the vet this morning, suspicious at the lack of vomiting and astounded by his liveliness – since his operation (just a week ago, let's remember) he's chased a squirrel, flown balletically off the arm of the garden chair and boxed the ears of one of the ginger kittens who've moved in a few doors down. These are not the actions of a cat riddled with cancer. And they're not the actions of a cat riddled with cancer – the lymphoma hasn't settled into a particular part of his body yet.

Don't get me wrong – there are cancerous cells in the fat surrounding the removed lymph node, it is spreading – but right now, he's fine. He's put weight back on. The vet reckons he looks like a different cat (said as he quickly moved out of the way of a hissing and deeply unimpressed mog; Elgar later attempted to escape off the weighing scales and dived back into his carry box before I even got it onto the table. He's so funny when he's on his game).

This is no miracle – it's unlikely but, in the words in Tim Minchin, to call your one in a million chance a miracle is to significantly underestimate the number of things that there are – but he's got some more time. Finally, FINALLY, he's caught a break.


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