A transcript of the actual conversation I just had with my cat.

"Baby. Really. I don't like being able to feel your backbone. Would you just eat already? I mean, I know it's cool to pull that Hollywood shit and not eat for days - but that's only if you are named Lindsay or Paris or Vanessa or (at some points in time) Britney. Just effing eat already. Be fat Britney. We like fat Britney."

It's hard to speak a parenthetical phrase, for the record.

Her Maj did great for about a week on twice-daily 'roids. When I cut back to once a day as per vet instructions, she started to decline again.

Tomorrow is the follow-up appointment before I leave her in a stranger's hands for 8 days. I weighed her tonight on my crappy Target scale and it came to 6 lbs. Because it's a crappy scale, I know this isn't accurate but I don't think she gained enough weight over the last 10 days and I fear the wrath of the vet, despite having done everything I could to get her back on track. This is only compounded by the fact that when they saw her initially 14 days ago, they were so alarmed by her status that they insisted upon keeping her overnight and doing a biopsy the next day even though they "don't normally do biopsies on Thursdays." I had done everything as instructed up to that point but when that statement was uttered, I still felt like a complete failure.

Kids? NO THANK YOU.

This afternoon I had the most selfish thought: "Thank goodness someone else will be worrying about her for a week." And I didn't feel bad about thinking that. But the fact that I didn't feel bad about thinking that, made me feel bad.

DAMN CAT.