In the Grass

When Herself came home from running errands yesterday, she noticed that ancient and venerable cavy was lying in the wood chips in front of his house in his habitat, rather than resting on the towel under the house as is his custom.  The chips were scattered about, as though he'd been flailing.  Oh, dear.  Herself reached out a hand to him, and he feebly attempted (and then failed) to scurry into his house. It seemed as though he'd lost the ability to control one of his back legs.  He was not squeaking or showing any other signs of distress, fortunately.  

Herself picked him up -- all skin and bones he is now, a mere shadow of his once succulent self -- and took him outside.  A late afternoon thunderstorm was rolling past nearby, and so there was a pleasant breeze and the air and grass were cool, moist and refreshing.  She and he sat in the grass together for a while.  He nudged and burrowed his face in the grass contentedly, and then dragged himself next to Herself's leg, where he settled down and had a brief snooze. 

When he awoke, Herself took him inside and gave him a warm bath; it's clear that fur care is beyond his capabilities now.  She tidied his habitat and put him inside.  He managed to prop himself up briefly on all four legs and tottered into his house to lie down on his towel.

Moose has seen The Grim.

This morning, he has revived somewhat.  He waddled out of his house for lettuce, and then scurried (albeit quite slowly) back into his house once more.  His days are clearly numbered, but he does not seem to be in pain, and for that we are very grateful.

Good boy, Moose.