It's been a week of fighting this antibiotic pill into Max, and he's not really any better for it. He hasn't really been eating. His eye has been less weepy, but that's about it. I took him in again last night and two doctors are reasonably sure he has cancer. He's lost nearly half a pound in the last week and a half due to not eating. They took some actually tissue samples this time instead of just a swab, and now I'm waiting for results again, but, like last time, not really hopefully.
To be honest, I think, soon, I'm going to have to take him in and, you know, not bring him back. Can I actually say it? Have him put to sleep. Maybe as soon as this weekend. I don't know.
The one bright spot was they gave him an appetite stimulant last night that was like Popeye eating spinach. Max was all over me when I got back from the store about an hour after we got home. Over the course of a couple of hours, he ate just about two cans of tuna. He really perked up. He even stood his ground when Ally was trying to pick on him and put the run on her. I don't remember him doing that even when she came to live with us. So I've asked for more of that. If I can keep him eating well, so much the longer he'll be with me.
I'm pretty much resigned to the fact that it's cancer, though I still hold out some faint hope it isn't. I don't know how long I have with him and that's what's got me anxious. I mean, if I already knew there was a set date, I could at least enjoy the time till then. But really, now it's down to watching him for signs of chronic discomfort, or the day when even appetite stimulants don't do the trick. It's no way to enjoy a pet, but on the other hand, I can't bring myself to hustle him off the planet any earlier than compassion requires just so I don't have to deal with it. Ten years together, not quite, just seems like awfully short change, especially in a cat who was never sick a day in his life before.