About 16 years ago, Barbara brought home a little kitten found at the pound. I really wasn't interested in having a cat, but she was a beautiful kitten.
The flea collar she was wearing had the number 65 handwritten on it, and I thought that maybe that indicated her place in line for a trip to the door at the end of the hall. I 'd never had a pet with a number as a name, so the kitten was named 65.
Our dalmatians thought she was a toy for them to play with. Some rather traumatic incidents made 65 shy and reserved. Until out last dog died, 65 was more or less invisible around the house.
Last November she had a polyp removed from her right ear, and when she came home she acted like a different cat. She followed us around, she meowed at us, she sat on our laps, she was very different. (The picture above is with a soft collar to keep her from scratching at her stitches.)
Last Wednesday she had a seizure in the living room. The earliest vet appointment was for Saturday morning. On Thursday she had another seizure, scratching and biting Barbara's foot.
Yesterday morning the vet took some blood and did some tests. We'll have to wait until Monday or Tuesday for the results. 65 does not appear to be in any pain. Barbara and I are probably more uncomfortable during the seizures than the cat is.
Sixteen years with an animal can help a bond develop.