Sylvester took a turn for the worse last night.  I was up all night again, making sure he was going to make it until I could get him to the vet this morning.  The vet is going to run more blood work, do an x-ray, and give him iv fluids for the day, but he believes that whatever Vester has going on is neurological and wants to refer us to a neurologist.

And we’re currently a one-income home, barely scraping by.

I have a decision to make, and I know it.  And it’s killing me.  I am holding on to the hope that it’s not neurological and that magic pills are going to make it all better.  But I am walking around the house is a daze, crying my eyes out, because he’s sick and I may not be able to make it all better.

He trusts me more than he trusts anyone and has slept by my side (or in my hair) for 9 years.  That’s only 52 in human years, I guess.  He’s still got a lot of life left to live, if only.

If only.