Kizzy didn't pee last night. About an hour after I wrote my last post, though, his painkillers kicked in and he stopped his frantic litterbox laps and settled down. This morning, there was still nothing in his box, but he seemed cheerful, so we all went to work and school.

Around ten, I went to pick him up and he made a mournful noise. I called Beloved and he picked up the little angel and I honestly thought that was that, but when we got to the vet, Kizzy had a 180-degree personality change and started trotting around the place like a show horse.

He's not blocked. He just hadn't peed.

So then the vet tells us the bladder can get stretched out (much like Buttonsworth's megacolon) after a cat is blocked and so it takes the medicine he's on to snap everything back together. We blinked at each other and collected our little black cat and came home.

So now I think we are in the tunnel that connects a health crisis to the safety zone. Kizzy passed through this tunnel last year, and I'm praying he can do it again. It's a pretty scary tunnel, and I've been through it with people and with animals, and it never gets any more fun.

But he's still here, and I'm very very thankful for that.

Onward.