Ming is still not eating, not drinking, not using his litter box. I have canceled my trip to Ratville. He’s just a little cat, and he’s getting thinner and littler by the minute. As much as it sucks, it is the ticket that we punch when we take this ride: allowing something to live with us and rely on us. He gives me unqualified love, and I protect him and send him on his way to the sunny meadow where the mice are fat and slow. Maybe this isn’t his time, but I’m not out-sourcing his guardianship while we find out.