It's been a mostly quiet weekend at Chez Wandering Cat... and not in a good way.
But Friday, I came home from work, and while Tux was happy to see me, there was no sign of Rocky (He's almost always the first one down as soon as I walk through the door.)
I went upstairs to find him snuggled in bed, I gave him a scratch and he seemed okay, but he didn't follow me downstairs. In fact, I didn't see him until dinner time, when he heard the can of food open. He ate, so I didn't think anything of it.
At least not until little later when he was sitting with me on the couch. That's when I realized he wasn't purring. Even when I scratched his ears and chin (that's always guaranteed to get his motor going). I mentioned it to Dave, and he said he hadn't heard him purr in a while either.
Anyway, we decided we could hold off a bit before having to whisk him to the emergency vet again. I kept a close eye on him, checking the box every time he came out if it. Friday night and Saturday day seemed to stretch on forever. He was still eating, so I knew he couldn't be too bad off. But it was just so disconcerting to pet him and not hear that happy purr. It's like Oreos without icing... just... wrong.
Finally, just after dinner, we had litter box success! Obviously worn out from the ordeal, he retired to the bedroom.
And now he's back to his normally, noisy old self - screaming at the back door every five minutes so he can go out and sit in the mud.