This has been a really hard year for my cat, Pterry. Pter is an old farm cat who made an honest living by killing rats under the chicken coop during his hunting years. Now Pter is retired and living the life. He's not much to look at anymore—a couple of contacts with bobcats and raccoons have left him with scars here and there—but he has some distinguished markings. His human birth mother thought his stripes looked like the outline of a pterodactyl, so she named him Pterry, forever condemning his vets to misfiling his records and making life just a little more difficult. I am no spring chicken myself, and I live on a meager fixed income, but I love my old cat to distraction.

In August, a bobcat got hold of Pter and bit him badly. I spent a goodly percentage of my income on the vet that time and on his poor abscessed tail. Then in October, one of the feral kittens my landlady brought home gave Pter a love bite and it abscessed, leading to another sizeable vet bill. It's December now, and I was hoping we'd get through the rest of the year without any more vet bills, but you should never count your chickens: Pterry has just been diagnosed with diabetes. It's not curable, but it is treatable—for a price. The price is one which I cannot afford.

Pterry's vet put together a Plan of Action and some preliminary cost estimates. To get him started, I need to come up with enough to cover his initial treatment, and then there will be ongoing medications and vet visits. So far, Pter doesn't seem to be in pain, but without treatment, the disease will progress and cause other problems. If he's treated, the rest of his life could still be pretty normal and pain free. My sweet, sweet kitty who loves to play with fawns, who protects the chickens but still hates dogs with a passion. My good boy. My little furry bud. We really need a little help this December. I hope Santa knows where we are.