Last night

Warren said something really great to me. We were hanging out with him and Carl at Lanesplitter, and I was telling them about Friday.

On Friday, Adam and I took Oliver to the vet for a limp and what we suspected was a cold. The limp turned out to be an ingrown claw, and the vet also noticed a drop in weight. He's down from 12.6 pounds in late October to 12.0 today. She asked permission to do a blood panel to find out what, if anything, may be going on.

I gave permission, got off the phone, and broke down. Oliver is 19 years old and in the near-decade I've had him, I've never had anything but a positive report from the vet.

When we picked him up later that day, the vet told me to relax. "He's in amazing shape for such an old cat," she said. "Cats usually live 15-16 years, tops. Oliver's doing great."

I should know tomorrow about the bloodwork results. It could be kidney disease, or a thyroid problem, or diabetes, or arthritis. He's also developed this completely bizarre habit of shrieking over his food -- Adam and I will come running at top speed, and Oliver will be standing there over his bowl looking as confused and dopey as ever. It's as if he's unaware that he screamed at all.

No one ever said being a pet owner is easy. He looks happy, he seems comfortable, he's eating and being social and doing everything a healthy cat does. But I was telling Warren and Carl all this, and Warren said: "Allison, not to minimize your cat being as old as he is, but every day he lives is a victory. I've seen you come so far in the time you've had him. You've done so much."

It made me feel good.