Too weak to lift her little head

Four years ago, my little girl Muffin got sick. I had to leave her at the vet clinic for treatment. I ensured her I would come back, every day, but returning home without her broke my heart.

Her kidneys weren’t working, she wouln’t eat, and despite days of IV medication, her health didn’t improve. She was getting so weak she couldn’t lift her head.

I went to visit her every day, often twice, took her out of the cage, into my lap, trying to convince her to eat, showering with all the love in the world. Normally she’s not a lap cat, but she let me, and some days she would eat a tiny bit. But her kidney values weren’t getting better.

After five days the vet said I could take her home. There was nothing else they could do for her. She advised me to prepare to say goodbye, and to spoil her with whatever she wanted. It would be days, a week at most.

So I took her home and did what the vet told me to. We cuddled, she purred a bit. I bought her favorite chicken mousse. I stayed at home as much as possible, determined to make her last days the best possible.

Then, a weird thing happened. Little by little, she started eating again. Purring, climbing onto my lap, sleeping on the radiator (because the warmer the belly, the happier the cat). She gained some weight. Sat in the sun.

Days went by. Then weeks. Months. I kept spoiling her, chicken mousse and all. Because that’s what the vet said. She got back to her old weight (3 kilos), and we cuddled more than we had ever before. She purred and purred and even played.

Four years have gone by. She’s a round little fluffball right now, at 4 kilos. But the vet said to spoil her, so I keep the chicken mousse coming, and the cuddles. And she purrs, my miracle girl.

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