Oh, no. Not Another Cat-astrophe. Please.
Catnip is paralysed. We don’t know how it’s happened. The veterinarian thinks it could be several things, but no way to really know without an MRI. Which we can’t afford.
It’s bad enough he’s got something wrong with him, and has lost so much weight in the last year. He had been on a diet, there was a time when he was really fat. His meds and prescription food kept him huge so he needed to be monitored. He gradually lost weight then suddenly he was scrawny. Tests showed nothing wrong. Here he is in his heyday: 
I called him Fatnip. Among other tubby names. He was huge, weighing in at 7.5 kg at his heaviest. The slow weight loss brought on by diligent dieting and exercise made him look much better although he had a hilarious hanging fat-free belly that flapped crazily when he ran. I wondered how he kept from getting his feet tangled in it.
This is Catnip now, at just under 3 kg (yes, I said “3 kg”): 
He’s all head. With his boning he ought to weigh around 4 kg, or even a bit more.
Well. For all he’s gone scrawny, he hasn’t gone puny. He runs about, happily nosing into everything he can. Until recently he had murderous intent on The Boys, but a short course of antidepressants combined with re-training stopped the attacks. So for the last several weeks Mr. Skinnybutt would romp around, with only the occasional hiss-and-run at the other cats. I kept him in a kennel in the bedroom when I couldn’t supervise him and he seemed to enjoy having a place of his own. It certainly was nice for him since the other cats couldn’t interfere with his eating. He ate a lot. He was let out at lunch every day and whenever else I could watch over him. Sometimes I put on his harness and took him outdoors which he loved.
Last night I got home after running errands. It was one of the rare times I’d left him free to run about with the others while not here to supervise. Big mistake. I got back and he wasn’t any where. I looked for him for several minutes. Then found him under the sofa. I shoo’d him out. He tore off across the floor, his hindquarters dragging behind him. It was a few minutes before I could catch him, although only using his front end he was still fast. I rang the vets, but no one was there, and the message instructed a call to the animal emergency services that I’d vowed to never punish another cat with. So I put him in a basket with plenty of padding. I wanted him to be fairly quiet. He had a hard time escaping that. I brought him out through the night to eat and to drink, both of which he gladly did. He has not pottied yet which worries me-maybe he can’t?
The vet cleared a time to see him today and can’t put a definite reason on this without an MRI, which itself may not provide a reason. She injected him with a steroid and opiate and sent me home with oral steroids and oral opiate to keep him peaceful and to give a chance to start healing. My poor poor boy! He’s been my bodyguard for nine years. He’s been my loving, loveable, pain-in-the-hiney, garbage gut, attack kitty, and shadow all this time. There’s a chance he’ll recover, there’s an equal chance I’ll have to consider QOL and make that dreaded decision.
I fervently hope he recovers.
