Hobbes is back...

...and, happy as I am to have him here, it's been a rough few hours.

Clearly, the experience was traumatic for him, even though everyone at the vet clinic went out of their way to pay attention to him. When we got into the apartment, he hid for a while, and still shies away when I get too close (though he will come over to be rubbed and petted). He probably thinks every time I get near him, he's going to get a pill, a shot or worse.

And, for the next week, that will be partly true. He has meds to take twice a day, one pill, one liquid. A cat does not "take medicine." Some human -- me -- forces them down the poor guy's throat. Put the stuff in his food? He's not eating much right now, and has shown a wonderful instinct for eating around pills in the past.

I'm not complaining at all. I'm incredibly happy to have him home and, as the hours go by, he's getting back to being his normal self.

But it still hurts to know that I did something that frightened and upset him. The concept of "for his own good" just isn't something he can grasp, and I doubt he associates all that grief with an improvement to his health.

No matter. My friend is here.

He did achieve a new place in the record books today: not only is he the oldest cat I've ever had, but he is now the most expensive.

I don't think I'll tell him.