small blessings . . .

. . . most of you know I share my house with a lunatic. No, Katie, I am not referring to your father. . . . well, at least not in this case. Snoopy, my now oldest cat, came to us as a teenager from a feral colony in the woods behind the house. It took years to pet him, years more still to pick him up. He has never been a sedate cat . . . he is tense, nervous and jumpy. But he is also really sweet and at age eleven, will finally, of his own volition, come sit in my lap to be stroked. I love this beastie. But, truth be told, his rating at three different vet's offices reads: BAD. And yes, I guess it is deservedly so since he is officially blood brothers with two separate techs . . . but back to the story at hand . . . Yesterday, he woke up feeling punky. So punky in fact that for the very first time, I was able to cradle him to my chest. He was limp, hot, lethargic and would not eat. Getting him to the vet is a major production and hard on him and his already compromised nervous system, so Frank and I decided on a wait and see approach. Snoop hid most of the day, finally coming out in the early evening. A small mewl for a treat told us there was hope. And by midnight he was eating and drinking again. This morning he is his old cantankerous self. Hooray! Thank you Lord for prayers answered.