Constance MacKenzie is bright eyed and affectionate. A very good girl. Which is why it's hard for me to believe, contrary to the evidence, that she's ill.
But here's the thing: she has a sore in her mouth that isn't healing and she's lost a pound since November. When I took her in last Thursday, the vet detected a heart murmur. Blood was drawn, and as we await the test results, Connie is on a course of prednisone.
I still haven't heard back from the vet. There are three in the practice, and the one who treated Connie doesn't have hours every day. I could call and get the results, but I don't want to. I want to pretend she's OK.
My burying my head in the sand isn't costing her anything. The vet wants her to finish the prednisone and then she'll schedule an EKG to assess her heart condition.
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Connie ca 2014
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When I first adopted her almost 9 years ago, I knew she was considered "special needs" and that our time together wouldn't be long. She was malnourished by a well-meaning but batty hoarder. Her gums were bloody, she was carrying a litter of dead kittens (a healthy cat would have miscarried), and her eyes were so light sensitive she could barely keep them open. I've done the best I can and I know she's happy. In fact, she's been so happy that it's been easy to forget that when I adopted her, she already had used up at a few of those legendary 9 lives.
