Poor Puddy.

The oldest of the cats had her poor neck shaved this morning and two vials of blood removed from her old body. That wasn't the worst part-although she wasn't really fond of either action, nor of being shoved into her crate and hauled to the vet's office, she yowled like a car alarm the whole way there and the whole way back. No, the real trauma for the old dear was not being fed this morning and not having her usual bowl of milk (the vet insisted no food or drink for at least eight hours).
Now she is sprawled behind me on the foor, stuffed full of turkey and milk with a big bald patch and a very puzzled expression on her chops.
She's going back tomorrow for removal of an huge tumour that has developed in her inner ear in under two weeks and last night I found another lump in her neck-which is also being removed tomorrow. I am more than a little concerned. She is 15 after all, and I don't like the mysterious arrival of lumps, I also don't like the fact that she will be knocked out for some time tomorrow. So for the next twenty-four hours, whatever Puddy wants Puddy gets.
And despite my even tone, I'm a fucking mess in case she dies on me. Stupid animals making us stupid love them.