Off to Hospital Once More

I’ve decided to take Josie to the hospital for some tests. She has an appointment for late Friday afternoon. The likeliest problem, I think, is that she has developed hyperthyroidism. Judging by Tungsten’s battle with that condition, I would have believed that Josie’s appetite had to be more voracious than it is. Each case of hyperthyroidism may vary somewhat, of course, and, as Flynn’s mum has commented, her Devon cat was active, his coat looked healthy and he seemed to be eating well. Yet he too has the condition. So Josie will be checked for that, and for anything else the doctor may think possible.

The Great White has been doing very well lately, otherwise, and a loss of weight would not be regretted, if it were to occur under less startling circumstances. Once this new problem is countered, she may be set fair for a long and cheerful life, perhaps as my Not-Quite-So-Chubs.

A New Worry

Even cat can be a source of worry. Having several can cause one’s worrying to be constant. This time, it is Josie’s turn. The trouble is that my Chubs is not my chubs anymore.

Josie has lost rather a great deal of weight in a short time. Previous to this weekend, the Great White was weighed at the veterinary hospital, when taken there for her dental surgery; this was on January 19th. Her weight was 6.41 kilograms, which was down from many months previously when I had registered her poundage at seven kilograms. This weekend, however, I borrowed the PAW Society scales and, when I placed Josie upon them, was told that she weighed 4.89 kilograms. The scale had been calibrated to that at the veterinary clinic the Society habitually uses, so is probably accurate.

I had noted that my Chubs had been losing her principal characteristic, and becoming lighter to pick up. Prior to that, I had observed that I needed to clean her bum fewer and fewer times, which suggested that she has been able to do it herself. This was something she was incapable of performing previously, due to her wideness. I did not, however, expect to see that she had lost so much of herself.

Needless to say, I am rather concerned over this sudden decrease in gravitational pull. The cause may be one of many, or a combination thereof, not all of them bad. The move to the apartment may be psychologically beneficial for Josie. She is certainly eating better than she has in the past, as I am providing her with more flavours of Merrick brand cat-food that she likes. She may just be taking in less food due to her age, which will be thirteen years in June. There are also a number of sinister possibilities.

Josefina has not given me any other reason to worry about her health (the lately removed cyst on her jaw excepted), which is why the new total for her weight startled me. She moves about in the apartment more, so it seems to me, than she did in the house. She is often climbing vertically without much effort. She and Tucker play ‘chase’ now and then. And if her idea of playing with a string-toy is to lie in one spot and grapple with it as it swings by her, then at least she is almost always eager to play. Her mood is usually good and she purrs easily. If asked to render a verdict on her health, I would have judged it to be better than it had been in a long time.

However, the weight-loss is not to be taken lightly (pun perhaps intended). What I will do is to weigh my Chubs weekly for the next month or so, and for a further period, if necessary. I want to monitor any more loss, if it occurs, and, if it does, to arrange for a doctor to see her.

For now, the Great White and I wait. I will lay my plans and be ready, and hope that all my preparations prove unnecessary.

Up, Up and Away

The way a cat lies while relaxing or watching the wide world go by can be quite entertaining. As an addendum to yesterday’s observations, allow me to offer these photographs. The Trout Talkin’ Tabbies implied a certain ability for Tucker and, though the roly poly one cannot actually fly, I did notice the same thing while taking his picture. In another photograph, the simulation is more pronounced.

And with a little manipulation of reality, I can place him among the clouds. But, while he may appear ready to save the world from the villains who rule it, I’m happy to keep him at home.

Spillage

I’ve seen pictures of this occurring with other cats, but in all the years that I’ve had pets, I’ve not observed it personally. Certainly, there have been cats who didn’t fit in cat-beds. The bigger beasts can’t always stuff their girth (bulk, size, fatness, etc.) into the spot they’ve chosen for snoozing or simply relaxing. Witness these examples.

And then there are the smaller cats. Tungsten was one, of course. The tiny terror had no trouble curling in comfort in her beloved cat-bed. Cammie, too, is small, and, like her illustrious predecessor, has no difficulty fitting her little frame into a snug bed - usually.

Last night, in the corner of the sitting room where a bed, already heated by a pad from below, is warmed even more by the hot-water pipes by which it is placed, the princess was so comfortable that she slept through some feline sprawl. The picture is dark because I didn’t want to disturb her by switching on near by lamps. But you get the idea of her spillage.

Comfort is comfort, no matter how it’s shaped.

Difficult Cat / Easy Cat

As I wrote in an article last month, Cammie has progressed a long way since first she came to live with me. It made me think about how ‘difficult’ cats are sometimes stigmatised. I should write that I don’t think there are such things as ‘difficult’ cats. People who want to adopt an ‘easy’ cat often refer to those they don’t want as ‘difficult’. The terms mean simply the difference between a cat who does what the adopter wants and one who does not, or who requires a great deal of time and patience (on the human’s part) to achieve this end.

There are certainly a goodly number of cats who are not easy. Some are unsocialised, having never been associated with people, or have not been for a long time. There are some cats who are downright feral, characterised by an rather an extreme lack of socialisation. Perhaps they were born in the woods, or a dumpster in a back alley. Perhaps they have known nothing but cruelty from humans. But these are not ‘difficult’ cats.

I came to this understanding while pondering how Cammie and I have become friends. I simply ignored her. Well, that isn’t true. I did not press her. When I walked into a room in which she was lying or sitting (or, in the early days, crouching or lurking), I would talk to her, tell her how good she looked, and generally conversed about anything that was on my mind. She grew accustomed to the sound of my voice, to my presence. The important thing was that I let her set the pace of our acquaintance.

To be fair, I had an advantage over many people who want a cat. Cammie came to me to foster. I didn’t want another pet to play with, lie on my lap, sleep next to me, and be companionable. I wanted Cammie to reach the stage at which she would be those things, but I did not bring her home expecting or wanting her to be my friend then and there. People who adopt cats, as I have mentioned before, don’t want to wait six months just to be able to stroke the animal’s head. That is entirely reasonable. But I could wait. That, I think, is the secret to winning over a cat who is, shall we say, less than easy.

In their relations with humans, animals react. Dogs and cats and other domesticated creatures excepted, the beasts of the world do not normally amble over to a person upon first spying them. They stay away. In nature, that’s how they survive. A distrustful cat returns to that tactic. So, we must act friendly, gentle, calm, welcoming. Any attempt to rush things will be viewed as hostility, regardless of the intent. Give a suspicious cat time, give her room to hide or move away if she wants to, give her your patience, and in most cases I believe you will be rewarded not just with attention but affection.

This is how I became friends with Cammie. I continue to advance our relationship. She dislikes being picked up, but tolerates it. So now I hold her at the kitchen window, to which the beasts do not usually have access. She is distracted by the different prospect; meanwhile, I support her rear legs with my hand - she has not let me touch her rear legs before. Bit by bit… When you think of it, the best way to befriend a cat thought to be difficult is to do little yourself, and let the cat do the work, slowly building up her trust. Thus, becoming a ‘difficult’ cat’s pal is rather quite easy.

I think of this when I read of rescue-groups hoping to find homes for cats who are less likely to be adopted than others. Usually, it is a matter of shyness or distrust, often both. Among the blogs I read, Feral Cat Behavior, Random Felines and Daily Dose of Dogs are authored by rescuers or foster-guardians. They all have or have had cats who fall into this category. The rescue-group to which I belong, the Lethbridge PAW Society, in southern Alberta, certainly has some little creatures who need homes with patient people.

I can tell you that though I care for all my cats, no relationship brings me the sense of achievement more than does that I have made with Cammie. When I am at the computer in the bedroom, the princess will jump onto the bed, come over for a stroke or two, then lie down and snooze. She doesn’t have to be near me (and many’s the time she isn’t!) but she frequently chooses to lie beside me, or even on me. I think to myself, in a thoroughly boastful way, “I helped make this. I was able to help her trust.” There is no feeling like it. If you are reading this and thinking of bringing a cat into your home, consider the shy ones, the mistrustful ones and, yes, even the so-called ‘difficult’ ones. A cat who trusts easily will trust anyone; a cat who is afraid and whom you win over, will trust you.

A Return to Bath-time

Renn loved bath-time at the house. He would know what day of the week it was, and Saturday night, after we would watch a movie, he would wait by the door of the bathroom. Then, when I started running the water, he would come in, his back arched, his body wiggling, excited and happy. Why, I don’t know. He wasn’t going to have the bath. He wasn’t even going to get wet, and wouldn’t have liked it if he did. But he loved bath-time.

When we moved to the apartment, he lost his interest in the weekly event. This was natural, I suppose, if unexpected. For almost a month, he didn’t bother to come in to the bathroom when the water started pouring into the tub. He might wander in later, but evinced no special enthusiasm. This has changed.

My big boy once again loves bath-time. Though the pictures don’t show his exuberance, he now repeats his performance from the house, wriggling and twisting, turning and falling, delighted that I am having a bath. (I would blame it on a celebration that I am at last cleaning myself, but I actually have showers other nights of the week.) Renn simply enjoys the fact of the bath.

There is a complication in the new abode, however. In the house, I would bathe in the bathroom upstairs and shower in the shower-room’s stall downstairs. I liked the logic of that arrangement. Thus, whenever Renn saw me filling the tub, especially on Saturday nights, he knew what was in store. Now, the shower and bath are combined, and he has been confused when I run water preparatory to showering each night. He comes wobbling and dancing into the bathroom, only to turn away in some puzzlement at the drawn curtain and the swiftness of the whole procedure. But he doesn’t bear me or the bath-tub any ill will. He will come to understand the schedule, as he did in our previous residence.

In the meantime, I try to explain, and let Renn know each Saturday when it’s bath-time. So far, he has joined me for several weekends, purring his rough happiness. I have no clue as to why my big boy enjoys my baths so much. I just know that I like it when he does.

My Own Little David Thompson

Since we moved into the new apartment, Josie has been yearning to pass beyond its front door to see what lies beyond. She and the other cats hear sounds from without, people talking and walking. This is odd to them, no doubt. They were accustomed to the house and its straightforward frontiers. There were walls, windows and doors. Behind them was a wider world, the Outside. There was grass; there were birds and strange cats; smells and noises that they could relate to what they could see. Not so in the apartment.

My Chubs has been fascinated with getting beyond the new home’s confines. One evening on the weekend, as I returned from putting out the rubbish, I opened the apartment door to find Josie right there, as usual. I decided to let her out. Though I have no doubts concerning her ability to run - she is probably like a cheetah, able to cover a short (very very short) distance rapidly - I also know her mind, and knew she would not bolt. Even so, I closed the door (I am not so complacent about the other beasts) and kept my hands on Josie’s ample form, just in case.

A couple of my neighbours were conversing, and of course talked to Josie. The Great White, normally my principal greeter of visitors, became rather flustered. She looked about her. This was not the Outside. She saw the Outside through the windows, yet the front door led to more Inside. What wizardry was this? There were walls and carpet, just like her home, but it was different; clearly not a real room, but not the wide world, either. Josie found herself in a bizarre world-between-worlds, a dimension not part of anything familiar. She wanted back Inside.

Once safely in the apartment again, my Chubs rubbed up against everything she could find, furniture, walls, cat-trees, me. This was home, this was familiar. It was a close call she had experienced, nearly trapped in an alternate reality she couldn’t comprehend. Since then, she has expressed no wish to go beyond the door, and waits farther inside the vestibule to meet me when I come home. The spirit of exploration had vanished.

This chastised attitude may not last. She may again wish to venture beyond the door. After all, that enigmatic corridor beyond the apartment surely can’t always be there, right?