Oh no zombees

Edited to add:
As of 10:00 am, Zane appears to be not-talking to me. I was getting Kobe a drink of water, happened to bump into him in the hall, said good morning and got the frosty treatment.

Frankly?
Fuck ‘em.

I cannot wait to head home for the weekend, where I can spend time with my pet-insurance-protected-and-very-much-beloved dog. I’ll lavish her with affection, dog-park play-dates and soft treats (she’s 14, her teeth aren’t so up to crunching on biscuits any more). I will cuddle her and make sure she wears a coat and booties to go for her walks, and I will tell her that she has been, and always will be, loved.
Some people might make fun of me for being ‘that’ dog owner, but better to be one who cares too much than be someone like Heather, who didn’t even notice that her cat was fucking missing toes.

I can’t do anything about Kobe.
He’s not my cat. I can’t keep him, or rehome him, or appropriate him.
I can cuddle him, for the few remaining months I’m here, but
He. Is. Not. My. Cat.

But regardless of stink eye, silent treatment or drama-llama histrionics, I will not ever apologize for taking care of an animal, and I meant everything I said.

If you can’t afford the medical bills, you do not have the right to subject an innocent animal to your substandard lackadaisical bargain-basement bullshit excuse for pet ownership.