August 3

I didn’t see Julie for about 2 days. 

This has become more common recently. She is not the social butterfly she once was. I suppose the cancer has sapped some of her strength and joy. 


Last night, I find her under the sitting room couch. She’s barely eaten, and I’m worried. 


I grab one of her Squeeze-Up treats, laced with a few drops of Gabapentin, and lay on the floor next to the couch. I extend my arm toward Julie — not under the couch, but visible to her — and show her the treat. 


Her eyes are open — she’s resting, but awake. She sees me, but does not move. She doesn’t take the treat, but just as vitally, she doesn’t run. 


I lay there, looking at her with my arm extended, while she looks at me. It’s not the most comfortable position, but as long as she stays where she is, I’m not moving. 


A few minutes pass. Still, no movement. 


A few more minutes, still nothing. 


A few more, and…I hear something. 


She’s purring. 


I don’t know what it is. Perhaps my presence here relaxes her, makes her happier in a way that being alone does not. If I could purr, I would be doing the same. 


Fifteen minutes go by. I haven’t moved, or said anything. My arm is sore, but it remains extended. 


And she’s up. Not with the same vigor of the kitten Julie, but moving. Within a few seconds, her head peeks out from the couch, and she eats her treat. 


With that, she’s off. She’s the old Julie again, or close at least. She’s out and about, in my lap, rubbing against my legs, begging for treats, scratching her scratch-board, scamping around. 


Maybe she just needed some nutrition to get her going again. 


The next morning, it’s more of the same. She’s around. She’s normal. She eats and purrs and is herself. 


It’s a badly needed, and belated, good Julie day. 

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