This morning when I was still half-asleep, my grumpy, touchy, adorable cat jumped up on the bed and started hovering near my right shoulder, with that expectant look that I have gradually (over several months) figured out means: “Turn onto your right side and put your right arm out, but bend it at the elbow and make sure your elbow and wrist and hand are all touching the mattress, so your forearm is facing the ceiling, at the most awkward angle imaginable, and then I’ll curl up against your torso and rest my chest and chin on your forearm with two paws splayed out somewhere and we’ll both fall back asleep for another hour.”
We had that cozy peaceful extra hour of sleep that I love so much. And then she spent several hours throwing up and acting weak and disoriented and very upset, so we took her to the vet and learned her blood sugar was scarily low. They stabilized her quickly and figured she’d be okay with an adjustment of her insulin dose, but half an hour later her sugar crashed again and then the doctor had to start talking to us about preparing for the possibility of putting her to sleep if they can’t figure out what’s wrong, or if she has a seizure, or if she needs many thousands of dollars worth of support. Also she might die in the night.