In the beginning it went like this:
*thin, poorly kitten limps into the kitchen*
*looks up pitifully*
Cat-mam who should know better:
"Oh, you poor itty bitty, do you need a treat? Yes? Does my little Toet-toet need a treat?"
Cat, weakly: *meeeeep*
For weeks the strategy worked: Harley would limp into the kitchen at all hours of the day and because I was so happy she was actually asking for food, instead of being all lethargic, I gave in. She snarfed and inhaled a massive amount of Friskies-with-cheddar.
But, she did start to get better. On glucosamine and still walking deliberately and carefully, but no more limping (well, almost no more limping), and several times we've had to drag her out of Zeb's food as she didn't have the patience to wait for her own.
I noticed it first when I realised I was laughing at her. I figured that if I'm not feeling the pangs of pity anymore, she must be better.
Remember this? There was no laughing then :/
Tomorrow we're going to an archaeological site, see if I can unearth a bit of mojo :)