Kirk, my shadow, is ten — only halfway in cat years.

I’ve had cats live into their twenties, so when Kirk started losing weight, we thought it was a good thing. A thing most vets have said he's gotta take the weight off. Always full-figured. Big and orange. Suddenly Kirk was a become a celebrity on Ozempic — like if John Candy claimed it was just exercise and salad.

Soon, he started throwing up. We watched him eat, then he'd immediately throw up bile. My heart sank. The vet took one look and said, “He’s jaundiced — you need to get him to an ER right now-- also our blood machine is down"

What I thought would be a quick visit turned into panic. Thankfully, Max’s cousin Rachel works for VEG (a network of animal ERs), so we rushed there. Within an hour, we saw another orange cat pass away on the table — hit too close to home.

Kirk stayed overnight — two grand later — hooked up and caged like a little prisoner. No clear answers. The vet (who happened to be British, which somehow made us trust her more) said his levels were off the charts. Possible liver disease, inflammation, autoimmune issues, or something toxic he ate.

At home, Max has been watching him like a hawk while I work. Some days Kirk eats, most days he won’t. He’s weak, yellow, and not himself. Went back on Monday, another antibiotic to add to his feline cocktail. On Wednesday, we will go back and try steroids.

A few friends have asked if they can donate toward his hospital bills, which is beyond thoughtful and generous in this economy. I know, a go fund me can enlisted an eye roll-- we all have things we can't afford, get in line. I know everyone’s stretched thin right now — I wish there was kitty Medicaid. Donation or not, if you’ve ever met my little buddy, please think of him this week.

We’re hoping he pulls through — that our captain (his name sake) doesn’t fall to the fate of sailors marked with scurvy.