Sad looking dogs, a love bird that was quiet and still, and a lot of nervous and bloodshot eyes on the humans. Sigh. Spent 3 hours waiting in the packed emergency room at Dove Lewis tonight with sweet, sick Picasso. Came home to find her hiding in the corner, not moving, and not coming when I called her. Knew something was wrong. She didn't recognize me. I'm really scared, and sad. She's staying the night and getting blood work and x-rays: something is wrong with her stomach because she hisses when you touch or squeeze it.
Picasso came to live with me right out of college when I was still living in Chico. She was the last of a litter of kitties at the pound, and she talked to me from the very beginning. Yes, she's a talker. I talk, she talks back. She talks, I say, "You don't say?" We have great conversations. She works with me in the garden, and goes everywhere I go around the house. At night, she demands her own pillow. She's my buddy, and has been for 13 years.
She even blogs with me.
I hope she's going to be okay.