The Old Man.

Kitty is sick. It's hard to tell with cats. One minute he seems OK, and the next he seems like he needs a wheelchair. I think I've said it here before, but I wish they had a 10-word vocabulary so they could communicate with us. Pain, yes, no, happy, sad -- stuff like that. It would make the chore of pet ownership a bit more tolerable.

I stress because I care, and I know he can't help himself.

I remember a similar situation when I was married. The cat was sitting in the same spot when I came home for work as he was when I left, and his food bowl was untouched. Not quite the same as now, but eerily similar. I start to worry when he doesn't eat.

The ex figured we should just let him deal with it. My reply to that sentiment was, "He can't drive himself to the doctor, so it's up to us to make that decision for him." Sometimes she was too cold-hearted for her (or my or the cat's) own good. Needless to say, I drove him to the vet.

He's losing weight which, when he was 12 pounds wasn't an issue. Now that he's more like 8 it's kind of a big deal. Of course, his not eating much contributes to his weight loss. The photo is about 5 years old. He's a skinny 18 year-old man now, and his energy waxes and wanes to the point that it's worrisome.

He has an appointment for 1:00pm on Sunday, which conflicts with the Eagles game. There are a lot of games, but only one cat. Something tells me he'd do the same for me, so we'll see what the vet says. I have to drive him there, because he can't drive himself.

Besides, I'll be home in plenty of time to catch the second half. I'm hoping that Kitty and I can sit on the sofa and watch together.