I just had a thought... what if Elvis is faking it?
What if he's not really sick, but just playing me like a sucker? I mean, let me explain what it's been like around here the last couple of days.
Me to Elvis...
"I'm glad you're comfy on Mommy's $100 Tempur-Pedic pillow. No, no... don't move. I'll just sleep on the cheap $10 one I got to fill the shams. Don't worry, stay right where you're at."
"What? You want me to pet you for two hours straight? Sure, I've got work to do, but come sit right here, on my lap."
"You say you don't like your cat food? You want some of Mommy's tuna fish sandwich? Well, sure I'm hungry, but here... have the rest."
I mean, I'm actually giving him things to hump, instead of yelling at him for doing it.
He could've been planning this his whole life. He could've been putting change in his pockets every time we went to the vet, knowing that one day, he'd empty them out, and everyone would worry because he lost weight. Maybe his tumor isn't a tumor at all, but some kind of prosthetic he bought off the black market. Maybe when I go to sleep, he sneaks off and meets his other feline friends—who are also all faking it—and they all share a hearty laugh at what suckers we all are. Maybe this is his way of getting back at me for this:
Just a thought...