I turned forty at the beginning of the year. Time marches onwards, but it's not really that big a deal. I mean: it's not as though I'm sitting here saying "oh no, I never got to see the world or fall in love or do any of the things I've wanted to do" because I have. And had a really good time doing it too.

What this diary entry is about is this wee lassy here. Alice. And time marching onwards.



Alice is almost seventeen years old, which is old for a cat. And not long ago, she developed a sudden and large growth on her hind quarters. It's cancer.

The vet drained it of fluid, but it filled up again. He recommended against radiation therapy because killing all the cells in that area will just mean her body has to process that amount of dead material. And surgery is fraught with complications too: if she didn't survive, the last memories she would have are of the inside of a cage at the vets, followed by being put under for surgery, and then...? Then she'd be miserable for weeks. And the vet says there are two main forms of cancer (and this isn't the slow, staid, not a game-ender type).

To cut it to one sentence: she has around a month to live. She's not in any pain right now, but she has lost 2 pounds (around a kilogram) in the last two months.

We won't be replacing her. We couldn't.