Homer, part 3
I brought Homer back into the vet this morning. His lungs sound pretty good, and his runny nose is getting better. The problem is that he still won't eat. He's maybe been drinking on his own a little, but he hasn't eaten anything other than the pellet sludge I've been syringing into him as much as I can. And now he's even resisting that. He's holding it in his mouth and refusing to swallow.
On Friday afternoon, Spike and Homer were in the crate on the couch while Neil cleaned their cage. Neil put the vegetables for their dinner on the couch next to them, and I had to spend the whole time pulling Homer off the side of the crate, where he was trying to climb out and get to the veggies. Then on Saturday, he started getting sick.
Homer is sitting in the same crate he was in on Friday. In only a few days he's sitting in the same place, and instead of scolding him to stop trying to steal the food, I'm crying and begging him to eat something. I can't get him to eat, and he was too skinny before he got sick.
I don't think he's going to live much longer.
I'm going to have to warn Elvis that he only has a year to live too. Let me explain.
When I was a kid my brother and I had three guinea pigs. Mine were Emma and Oreo. My brother's was Kate. I mean, we both took care of all of them, but he named Kate and I named the other two, so there was some posession there. Emma died suddenly of undetermined causes when she was two and a half. Oreo had to be put to sleep from a bad tumor when she was two and a half. Homer is two and a half.
I named Homer and Elvis. My husband named Spike and Fudge. Elvis only has a year to live cause he's about one and a half, but Spike and Fudge will probably be fine for some time. They're not really mine. It's just my guinea pigs that always die way too young.
Alana
