After a harrowing, thumb-gnawing week, we took Vernie home from the hospital. He was skinny, scruffy and glassy-eyed, but meowed up a storm and flopped on his back for a belly scratch to let us know everything was OK.
In between cuddles, we poke him with needles full of insulin and jab him in the ears to draw blood for glucose testing, which requires a steelier nature than I possess. It's a good thing Vernie's not too bright, because he hasn't yet associated cuddling with the bloodbath that typically ensues. He only knows something's up when the glucometer doesn't turn on and I start flapping my hands, or when I cry over missing the miniscule vein barely detectable by the naked eye. Poor Verne.
Roy is completely perplexed by his little friend, who has now become the dominant animal at the food bowl. Verne body-checked him over kibble early yesterday morning and Roy stalked straight over to the bedroom to tattle.
Vernie seems to perk up a little every day, mostly out of courtesy and an eagerness to please, I think. Your sweet comments, emails and tweets of support have helped so much - thank you all.