The cats were pretty freaked, so I decided to sleep upstairs last night. When I got out of bed, Mongo was stumbling around, falling over, walking himself into corners and bumping into things. I called the emergency vet, and they said to bring him in. So in we went.

They think he's had a stroke. Plus, his kidneys are enlarged, he has kidney and bladder stones, and his body temperature was way down. And he's lost almost a pound in the last week and a half.

He's still at the vet, on an IV and surrounded by hot water bottles to get his temperature back up. Apparently cats can recover from strokes pretty quickly and successfully, so we'll see what happens.

I know this is a weird situation: I'm going to be unemployed, and I don't have massive amounts of money to play with. And I'm socially conscious enough to know that for every pampered pet, there are people in this city starving to death, living on the streets, and/or unable to get medical care. And that's just in Chicago -- throughout the world there is massive famine and disease, human beings dying of things that are eminently preventable. And I care, and I try to do my part to relieve suffering how and when I can.

So I do feel a little guilty/foolish for spending so much money on medical care for a cat. I realize that it's a hell of a luxury. But that doesn't change the fact that he's my responsibility, and part of my family. When I adopted him from the shelter, I promised to do everything I could to take care of him. And he's been a wonderful cat for me: snuggly and affectionate and engaging, keeping me from getting too depressed and comforting me when I'm sick or down. Cats know. And they love you. And I love them.

He's old, and he lived on the streets for god knows how long, so I have to be prepared for things to go wrong. I hope they don't. I want him back here, draped across my chest while I read, head-butting me when he wants attention, sleeping curled around my head all night. He's a sweet, sweet cat, and I want him to be all right.