Shannon says this seems like hiding behavior -- which is common in animals nearing death -- even though we do actually use that bathroom quite a bit (and so it's not a very good hiding place). There must be something about that spot in front of the toilet that appeals to her. The behavior is weird enough to make me very sad, because it's just not normal and so it implies that things have gotten drastically worse in some way that we can't see.
She still purrs when we pick her up (even when we're pilling her), she still loves treats, and she still gets excited about mealtime (though she doesn't eat much after all the anticipation), but even when we are hanging out with her she sometimes just sits/stands with her head hanging down, dull and blank, not interacting at all with the world around her. She still almost always puts her head up and says hello to me (with her ever strident, insistent, yowly meow) when I enter the room, but she never gets up to come see me anymore. And she doesn't really react to the subcutaneous fluids now, just lying there and not even twitching when I put in the needle.
So things aren't looking good. Shannon and I are both resigned and sad, because we know what's coming. To be honest, I worry every night that I'm going to walk into the bathroom on one of my midnight pee missions, and she'll be lying on the rug as usual, but she won't be moving at all anymore. I don't want to find my cat dead alone in the dark at the foot of a toilet. She deserves better love than that, but I know she's choosing where she wants to be, inasmuch as she can make "choices" in her diminished state. I don't want her to be alone because I don't want her to be alone, but it's not about what I want. If she's most comfortable on the rug in front of the toilet, then I'm glad there's a rug in front of the toilet for her to be comfortable on.