The scene is simple: Kako is lying next to the patio doors in the bedroom.  Vazra decides to lie down next to her.  Larenti sneaks in behind them to sit by the open windows.

The problem is equally simple: Kako hates all her siblings except Grendel.  In fact, she deplores Vazra only slightly less than she deplores Larenti, and that is unequal only to her hatred of al-Zill.  Oh, and she barely tolerates her own brother Kazon, let alone the devil incarnate, Loki.

So how did they all respond to this apparent conflict?  Each according to their gifts and dispositions of course!

Vazra pretended not to see Kako and instead looked out toward the patio, casting an intentionally disregarding look in her direction—but not at her, mind you, but instead over her.

Larenti decided it best not to get involved.  He pointed his attention out the open windows and put the potential ugliness behind him…both literally and figuratively.

Kako aimed her steely gaze at Vazra and never blinked, staring at him with a disdain that was palpable like a fog of evil intent filling the room and covering me from head to toe.  He knew it wise to make any motion a movement away from her.

Mr. Man.  Kazon.  My baby.

Black like midnight.  Loving as though his life depended on it.  Companionship incarnate.

It’s the Mr. Man Show…
…starring Mr. Man!

Derek said those words all the time, amazed at how no one could take my place in Kazon’s world, sometimes hurt and sometimes amused by Panther Kitty’s ability to stand at the door and lament my absence with such brutality that it made Derek cry.  No matter how much he called out to him, Kazon would sit at the door and weep his longing upon the altar of desire with heartfelt calls begging me to return.

Nothing has changed in that regard.  Kazon was, is, and always will be my Baby, my Puppy, the child who needs me desperately if he is to survive.

He’s a Kazon man…
He’s so alive…
He ain’t got no boundaries…
He don’t compromise…

Sung to the stupid Ford truck commercial, that’s my own dimwitted greeting for Kazon from time to time, something I believe most people do when it comes to the animals who share their lives: take a song or jingle and modify it in the name of a loved one.

Kazon doesn’t care though, for he recognizes the salutation and responds to it.

While I think it unlikely, I fear for his well-being should he outlive me.  No one has ever been able to fill that place in his heart that belongs to me.  What would happen to him if I could no longer be his Daddy, his bed and cushion, his savior and buddy?

I wonder.

al-Zill has discovered his own tail.  This results in some rather entertaining chase scenes.

I’ve yet to capture any photos of the fun since I usually know it’s happening only when he bounces off a wall or runs into something; then when I get up to investigate, he stops.

But the fun he has lends itself to some extremely hilarious escapades.

He becomes enthralled with trying to catch his tail and even tries sneaking up on it.  This includes crouching down and peeking over his own shoulder as he watches it twitch from side to side.

He gives a little butt shake as cats are wont to do when hunting, then he makes the leap and tumbles in a spiral of uncontrolled folly.

This can go on for several minutes before something else catches his attention, be it hunger or thirst or a toy or another cat—or me.

And on the subject of al-Zill…

His neurological problems have diminished greatly since I rescued him.  They’re not gone, mind you, but they’re better.

Still, when I’ve been holding him and move to put him down, he becomes like jelly and sometimes falls while trying to gain his footing.  From time to time he has problems trying to run or walk.  He even falls over or off of things every now and then, and I don’t mean in the normal way felines do these things.

He’s still making progress, however, and I think being in a stable environment with good care and food has helped him.

According to the vets, he will never be free of this plague, never be fully sure of what his body will do in response to the sometimes chaotic and random messages his mind sends out.

At least I know he’s no longer threatened by the dangers of being outside under such conditions.

In a most fantastic yet perplexing manner, Grendel’s condition suddenly reversed course in the past few days.

His weight loss stopped, his shaking disappeared, his overall demeanor improved…

Why this is I can’t say.  Hell, I can’t even say what ailment vexed him these last weeks.

Then again, several veterinarians are similarly perplexed, so I’m in good company.

Nathalie and I recently spoke about this during our regular visit to the neighborhood Starbucks.  You see, one of her dogs has been ill for a spell, progressively succumbing to old age and tired bones.

We spoke that morning of how a sick loved one like this wrestles one into the pits of despair, the curse of depression.

It’s the same I felt when my father faced the danger of aggressive tumors in his head, when my grandmother walked the lonely walk toward death, when Derek battled those last hopeless weeks against a foe he could not overcome, and when Henry struggled against the menacing torment of more than twenty years of life that a cat rarely enjoys.

So these weeks since Grendel’s health spiraled down the drain have been dangerously painful, horribly difficult and ravenously abusive.

His weight is low, so much so that I feel I might break him each time I pick him up, his skin easily giving way to bones underneath no longer shielded by fat and muscle.  There are times when I believe I might well throw him across the room accidentally as I expect more substance where none exists.

Nevertheless, he reached a turning point over the weekend that I hope leads to a mending, a recovery.

Things are not what they seem, however, for he still faces an uphill battle and many challenges, not the least of which is the specter of this devil returning in the future.

We still don’t know what it was—what it is.

Grendel’s condition remains unchanged at present.  He continues suffering from trembles that quake him from head to toe.  He also continues losing weight despite this very regular behavior:

His appetite seems normal both for food and water.  His activity remains the same.  Even his attitude and interraction continue on their respective normal courses.

Nevertheless, I know him too well to be fooled by the feline inclination to hide at all costs any sign of illness or weakness.

Yet all the tests have thus far been negative.  No thyroid issues, no diabetes, no infection, no nothing.

I find this very troubling.

We have more investigation forthcoming, more tests, but I refuse to put him through too much considering his overall condition.  Stress is a cat’s worst enemy after all.

Grendel is sick.  Very sick, in fact.

And this atop the many ailments that already beset him: the immune system disorder that attacks his own intestinal tract, the stones within his kidney and bladder, the asthma that besets his lungs with fervent evil, and the arthritic bone spurs that grapple with his joints.

Yet even now some new villain wields its tempestuous blade in another attempt to rob his marvelous spirit of life.

Within the past week he has lost almost a full pound (half a kilogram).

He shakes and shivers as though beset with a fever measured far beyond what we humans can know.

A glaze rests within his eyes, visible in both direct and indirect light.

Today he spent hours at the veterinarian’s office, blood taken, tests given, all manner of suffering poured upon a soul already in torment.

Results offer no clue as to what vile ghoul stabs at him with blades of anguish.

For those who believe in some deity, some god, I ponder this on your behalf: What devilish being would continually visit upon this hapless soul the murderous agonies of such a life?  Is this the mercy you would have the rest of us believe your god practices?

Grendel is the child of a lesser god, a savior of such sadistic tortures as to be the very fiend from whom we are promised salvation.

Go and pray now, offer up your shallow wishes for help to that wicked, malevolent thing you call a god.  It doesn’t exist, you know, for my poor child can testify that no divine being would see fit to torture such a loving soul with so many plagues.

As for what will become of this episode, one cannot know.  The promise of days to come has been taken from my sponge, my alpha, my tiger.  Little hope remains that he will survive this onslaught.

Your disgusting gods notwithstanding, I have more hope than that, hope resting not upon such empty promises but upon the best science and medicine that money can buy.

Now we wait…

Grendel

Loki

Kako

Kazon

Vazra

Larenti

al-Zill

Collectively taking their leave…

[Loki]

There’s something about this photo that tickles me.

Is it that Grendel appears to be leaning into the light, as though it exerts a force on him like wind such that he has to brace himself in order to remain within its warm embrace?

Or is that his position makes him look tubby, portly, like a little fatty whose plump belly supports him as much as his legs do?

Something else entirely?

[btw, that's some portion of Vazra in the bottom-left corner]

I find myself continually entertained by Vazra’s air of entitlement.

This manifests evidently in the way he treats personal space, both his own and that of others.

If one of the other cats invades that space while Vazra is sitting or lying somewhere, he gets cranky, bitchy even, and he’ll complain obstreperously until the infraction is righted.  And don’t even think you intend to sit or lie against him in some way.  Why, when that happens, you’d think someone had stepped on his tail with all the moaning and groaning and complaining he does.

Yet when the tables are turned, attitudes change abruptly.

A perfect example is when I’m sitting on the couch.  You can bet two or more of The Kids will be with me.  When I have one on my lap and at least two others spread out beside me, that leaves no room for anyone else unless they choose an arm or the back of the furniture.

Vazra doesn’t see it that way.  When he wants to be on the couch with me, nothing stands in his way.  He’ll step all over any feline already there, and he’ll choose a spot and plant himself—even if that means on top of someone else.

This generally leads to what I call “The Great Upset” which entails everyone being dislocated as cats scramble and protest and hiss and throw a few swats.  All the while I sit and laugh until I cry, for when The Great Upset ends, Vazra is generally left with the couch and me all to himself.

But don’t you dare reverse the roles on him, for any feline assuming what’s good for the goose is good for the gander will find vehement grumbling and selfish hostility as his response.