Last Thursday night, I went over to feed Buddy and give him his insulin. (It was "Star Wars" night, and Briton was not going to be able to leave the theater until very, very late.) Briton had said he hadn't been eating, despite appetite stimulants. He was lying in the middle of Briton's bed, and looked bad. Very, very bad. I'd had a knot in my stomach about him all day, and I saw why. I got on the bed with him, just petting him, and knew something had to be done. Otherwise, Briton was going to come home to find that he had died. Off again to UGA VER. The resident who did the intake recognized my name, and said, "Madeleine, right?" Turns out he was part of the team taking care of her. I did the best I could to answer his questions, but, as involved as I've been in the last year-plus, I didn't know everything. He isn't my cat. When the initial diagnosis and treatment options came in, we were looking at up to $35...