There's a little sadness in the feline world this weekend: Poppy's oldest and most favoritest baby, Puff (aka Herr Puffen Huffen), has advanced kidney cancer. The good news is, Pop took him to a vet oncologist on Thursday, and with chemo, he has a 70 percent chance of going into remission and hanging out for a few more years. The not-so-good news is, he has to get through until Monday to wait for the biopsy results and start treatment, and he's not doing great. He's not on death's door or anything -- at least, I don't think -- but I went over there yesterday to help Pop administer a fluid IV for him, and he's down to, like, 7 pounds, wants to eat but can't and has really raspy breathing. He jumped right into my arms and cuddled with me, though, so I want to believe he's got some fight left in him, if not for anything else than for Pop's sake, because she a mess right now. And I can't blame her; when it's the Rube's time, I don't know what I'll do. I mean, I raised him from two weeks old, so he's MY BABY.

Anyway, good thoughts to Puff, por favor.


[UPDATE 11/12: Talked to Poppy earlier -- Puff is hanging in much better than expected. This morning, he got up in bed with her, and he's definitely interested in eating though he can't swallow; she's been making him mush and feeding him through an eyedropper. He also gave the vet techs hell today when they hooked him up to the fluid IV, so THAT'S the Puff we know and love.]