DB is to Most Things as Cockroaches are to Nuclear War

This cat is a survivor. He's had gastro-intestinal issues his whole life which can cause him a good deal of pain. He's come extremely close to requiring the removal of his colon, a nasty, painful surgery. He has numerous small lumps scattered across his gaunt, slightly dehydrated body that may or may not be cancerous (though we have no reason to think they are.) He'd always, at least in his mind, played second-banana to Banjo, resigning himself to wait for the dregs of feline experience. Lately he hasn't been eating much and has dropped down to four pounds. He was so backed up recently we had to take him to the vet for a procedure that used to be common for him, but one that hasn't been necessary for a while. We'll call it a complete system reboot in a bag.

He came back from that weak and disoriented (he couldn't jump on the bed without falling back to the ground). The medication was confusing him, and his slim diet was doing a number on his system. We started force feeding him soft food, and very soon after that he started eating on his own again. Now he's regaining his strength, his mental stability, a little weight, and is behaving much more like his old self (which was, albeit, a little peculiar, but entirely DB.)

He's sleeping in my lap right now. It's impressive how much this little guy has fought through. His first-banana pal Banjo stopped eating, and it killed him. DB isn't going out that way. In fact, part of me is convinced that he's never going out. He'll just continue year after year, ad infinitum to be the same crusty, lovable, pain-embracing nutjob he's always been. The Doob abides.