Once we were eight strong, now we are four, soon it’ll be three. Cats, that is. Through it all our boyo population has remained steady. No longer. We’re enjoying every second with Grim (even if he does wish we’d stop touching his dusty toes while he’s sleeping!) and trying to wrap our heads around our impending lose. With his appetite (temporarily) back, he doesn’t seem sick. He doesn’t *look* sick.
Our joke with him has always been, “Grim Greyling doesn’t ever do anything wrong!” and it’s mostly been true. He’s a clean, fastidious cat who’s never gotten into much trouble. He’s never been a wild hellion like his various sisters, he’s never been big on getting into people food, he’s not clutzy, he’s not impish. He’s mellow, like his daddy, and has always been more interested in chilling than anything else. So now it’s, “Grim Greyling never does anything wrong . . . except this.” This being, of course, dying young. (ish)