Even the cat can't stomach it any more

Neuroticat has been a bit under the weather recently.

 Since her black fluffy housefriend died two years ago and since Mr Tubby only puts in an appearance at cat dinner time and spends the rest of the time at ours sleeping, Neuroticat has been, well, a little neurotic, shouting mindlessly at 5am every morning, for example.

When this decidedly Alzheimerish behaviour was complemented by almost-daily vomiting up of undigested cat food, both dried and wet, without being accompanied by hairballs, I thought something was up. I didn't want to miss the signs like we did with Fluffy Cat, who had succumbed to bowel cancer (she now has a doppelgaenger, by the way, a black fluffy tom from the neighbourhood, who visits our patio every single night and miaows hollowly in front of it, just to freak me out. I swear Fluffy Cat's commissioned him from the grave; she was that type of cat).

Neuroticat got seen on Thursday evening and in the treatment room, she was by far the least neurotic of all attending. Because somehow, such visits always descend into an unseemly tussle over definitional authority. OH clearly hadn't thought that the cat's vomiting merited an (expensive) trip to the vet's but I did and I had prevailed. OH can't allow that to stand so in the treatment room, he will make a point of relativising or downright undermining practically every single word I say that might indicate to a vet that there is a problem with this cat. Example:

Vet (palpating a placid Neuroticat's underside): So, is she eating and drinking normally then?
Me: She seems to eat alright. I can't say whether she drinks more or less than usual.
OH: She drinks normal amounts. Our first cat died of kidney failure and he drank huge amounts in comparison.
Me: Could you check her teeth, please -- maybe it's to do with her teeth. 
Vet (checking teeth now): Is she going to the toilet?
Me: Her stool's pale.
OH: But of normal consistency.
Me: We can't tell about her urine because she's now using the cat flap to do her business outside and doesn't use the tray anymore.
OH (triumphantly): I cleaned the tray the other day -- it looked normal.
At this point, I'm minded to point out a logical error: Mr Tubby might have used the tray and not Neuroticat. Also, OH can get away with cleaning the cat litter tray once a month and boasting to the public about that while I somehow end up cleaning 2 human toilets at least once a week. But I don't think the vet wants to know so I shut up.

Vet (lifting Neuroticat onto the scales): The teeth are fine. Is she moving about?
OH: Playing with her toy mouse. Very active.
Me: Well yes, but what about the shouting every morning? And she's very stiff moving up and down the stairs now.
Vet (feels Neuroticat's legs and hips): So what about this vomiting?
Me: Almost every morning, and she brings up all her stomach contents.
OH: Not every morning. Not today.
Me (starting to lose it): Mate, she left a good-sized puddle of pure stomach fluid on the kitchen tiles this morning -- I pointed it out to you.

Neuroticat is being set down in her cat carrier base on the treatment table and instantly curls up into a furry ball of insulted catness. Maybe she's become my externalised unconscious. Earlier, during the teeth inspection when OH held her, she sank one of her teeth into his finger, which I'd have loved to do myself, and seemed to want to tell the world to just **** the **** off.

Vet: I can't feel anything untoward. She has lost a little weight though.
Me: She's only 3.3kg now. When the other cat had dropped to 3kg, it was already over for her and we were too late.
Vet: Well, she's elderly. They naturally weigh less then. We could do a blood test.
OH and me agreeing, for once: Let's do a blood test.

OH and I sit in the foyer. OH is reading a dog magazine. I stare at the receptionist and try to work out whether she might be the sister of one of my work colleagues.

A door opens and the vet brings out the cat carrier. Inside is Neuroticat, shaved on the neck, protesting noisily. We're going to be told that very evening.

Back home. OH silently hands me the vet's bill, a joint liability. Ouch. Oh well. She's family. The phone rings. The vet says the bloods were fine apart from one which was consistent with dehydration from vomiting. "Hah," I thought to myself. And we should monitor the situation. 

So for now we try to give her food in little mounds. Neuroticat disappears upstairs and isn't seen for a whole hour. I go try and find her and can't. OH eventually discovers her underneath the detritus in his study, only her tail sticking out. Oh dear, have we insulted her! We coax her out and fuss her and she is placated enough to join us on the sofa again.