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.
