Sunday, July 10, 2011
This is my cat, Roscoe. Or Rosco, I'm not really sure. My brother named him, but we never really clarified how to spell his name. He's around 14 years old, and is sort of like Clint Eastwood in Gran Torino: a grouchy old man who seems mean spirited, but is a softy inside. Actually, I see him as being a lot like my brother was: he doesn't quite know how to show affection, but he loves us.
Now, this cat is, to quote Jim Ross, tougher than a $2 steak. He's survived in the back of a restaurant parking lot when he was a kitten, he was abused, he lived in our backyard for a while, where he got beaten up by other cats (he only has his back claws, so it's a miracle he survived at all), and, most recently, he has come down with thyroid problems and an apparent cold that are both scaring the hell out of me.
For the past 4 or 5 months, I have given him medicines orally and aurally, in hopes of keeping him strong. The seemed to work at first, but the past few days, he hasn't eaten as much, and his cold seems to be getting worse. His left eye has mucus drip from it during the day, and his nose runs, sometimes red with blood. Tonight, I got home from work, and he looked the worst I've seen him, and it scares me. He's silent, still, and his face looked downright mangy. I'm so scared to lose him, because, besides my brother's dog Yamira, he's one of the few remaining links I have to him.
To be honest, I'm not sure where I'm going with this. I'm just scared, and I needed to say something about it. I just hope he's alright.