Ring the bells! We (finally) gave Mo his “sub-q” fluids tonight!

It has been an embarrassingly long time since we shot up Mo. We’re supposed to do it three times a week. It has been almost a month. But there were extenuating circumstances! Mo bites. And scratches. And claws his way up my chest when we try to give him his shot. And so, for the past month, we have tried to give him his shot several times, with no success. Every time we pack up the lactated ringer’s solution after another failed attempt, its like we’ve given in to Mo’s death sentence.

And that makes me really sad. We got Mo a month after we were married — 8.5 years ago. He’s been with us through our move from NYC to upstate, and from our apartments to our first house and our new one. He “mothered” Chili after we adopted that grungy, little street kitten. And, of course, he was around when Conal was born.

When Mo dies, I will be a crying mess. I can’t help thinking about when that will happen (he has chronic kidney failure). Yeah, I know. I should enjoy the time we have with Mo and not think about him dying. But I feel like the whole shots thing is just so, well, up in my face about his impending death. The struggle with the shots just makes it worse.

Wah, wah.

Conal, however, doesn’t seem to notice that Mo is doomed. He’s fun to whack! And chase! And bite! Mo’s answer: Big pile of puke on Conal’s bedroom floor.

Real nice, Mo.

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