Yesterday, Kizzy took the last of his Prednizone. It's been almost a month since he almost died again, and it seems like we got another reprieve.

He's on a new kind of even more ridiculously expensive prescription cat food. This one is supposed to also help with stress, as stress apparently increases the chance he'll get blocked. Beloved and I avoid talking about a relapse even as we watch his litter box like parents of a newborn watch diapers.

We made a barely spoken agreement that if the little black cat makes it a year without a blockage, he gets a medical expenses reset button even though he is working on being our most expensive cat to date, and that is saying something after adopting a Manx with megacolon.

The hair is growing back on his front legs where they shaved him to put in IVs. He begs to be taken outside on his harness every morning the minute the birds start singing. He spends his afternoons, when it is nice, lying in the sun in his playpen outside.

It is so hard not to worry constantly about him, since getting blocked is a) something that comes on suddenly with absolutely no warning and b) not something I can control, other than giving him the prescription food and nothing but the prescription food. Oddly, it gives me comfort to remind myself I could die tomorrow, too, and all we can do is enjoy the purring, velvety bundle of fur in my lap every night.

What we have is today.