Turns out, last Saturday’s semi-successful five-miler was the high point of the next seven days.
Sunday I managed to run … a mile. Monday I went to core class but didn’t feel well and bailed on the run. Tuesday, I decided to try running a three-mile loop, but halfway in, my leg hurt in more places than I could identify, so I limped home.
And it got worse from there.
That evening, our 14-year old cat, who’s had some health problems the last couple of years, took a sharp downturn.
He’s my boy–he sleeps on my bed (sometimes by my side, sometimes hogging my pillow) and he’s always been my buddy. We got him when he was four–no idea why someone surrendered this enormous, friendly ball of fluff to the shelter, but we were the lucky beneficiaries. Although he’s lost a lot of weight since school started, in his prime he was close to 20 pounds of goofy Maine Coon. We have sort of prepared for the inevitable, but until the last few days he was still eating. Now, though, he really didn’t seem to be able to walk on his own. In the past when one of the cats has reached the end, we’ve put up the baby gate and turned part of the kitchen into a feline hospice. And that’s where Rascal went.
Wednesday, we were planning to attend my school’s 50th anniversary celebration, but changed our minds knowing that Rascal didn’t have much longer. I hadn’t slept well, worrying about him alone in the kitchen, and I just wanted to go home.
He’s a stubborn dude, though, and we repeated the scene Thursday and Friday. He hasn’t appeared to be in pain–he just sleeps–so I’ve been sitting with him. Friday night I was sure it would be his last, so I set up my exercise mat, quilt, and pillows and stayed with him. But wow, at age 40-something I really can’t get away with sleeping on the floor. About halfway through the night I moved back to my bed. sleeping only fitfully. When the 6:20 long-run alarm went off, I didn’t even consider getting up to run.
Today’s route happened to pass about a block from my house, so around 7:30 I got up, put on some running clothes, and took the dog. I ran about half a mile to the water stop, where I met up with the friend I ran with last weekend. She was on her way back and had about 3.5 miles to go. So I ran back with her the other way, toward my house, for a grand total of 1.25 miles. In my defense I had the dog–Mr. Sniffer McGee, who must investigate every smell–and my calf hurt a little. The good news is the shin and the hamstring felt okay, so maybe I’m down to just one (improving?) injury? Anyway, I figured that this has been such a stubborn injury, if it’s finally healing I shouldn’t overdo it, so the dog and I ducked back into my neighborhood and home.
I met my friends for coffee–and it turns out only one of the six of us had actually run this morning. Some running friends we are. 😉 But it was fun to spend time with them–especially the three I don’t see very often.
I have no illusions that Rascal will get better, but considering the number of times he’s kept me company over the last ten years, the least I can do is sit with him in the kitchen hospice. Take it easy, buddy.