One Step Forward, One Step Back

Raleigh has again decided that I am someone to fear. He seems to have reverted almost to the stage at which he came to live with me. He doesn’t come onto my lap anymore, and scurries away from me whenever I walk near. It needn’t even be in his direction; he takes fright and runs.

While this is a set-back for the Peach’s integration into the household - which was proceeding rather well, in my estimation - it is not a complete reversal. At meal-times, he will often advance toward me as I carry the food-bowl to him, and he rarely runs at those times; on other instances, he goes back to hiding in the corner behind an armchair, and waiting for his food there. He also still comes out to play. He will sometimes expect the string-toy to come to him, wherever he has placed himself out of the way, but he is more involved with me at those times. He also enjoys rushing into the tunnel and fighting the string-toy from there.

While this is a frustrating development, I must remind myself that rescuing a homeless animal is about the animal, not the human. As I tell others, it may be months, even years, before a cat is fully comfortable in his new environment. He may never become comfortable. I don’t think that will be Raleigh’s fate. I believe he will find that he is safe and welcome in the cosy apartment. It will take time and patience. It will take his time, and my patience.

The Great White Iceberg

Josie’s test results were reported to me yesterday, and they were not as good as I had anticipated. My Chubs has some kidney issues.

The doctor stated that Josie is in stage two kidney failure, which isn’t disastrous, but isn’t good, either. The SDMA test’s ‘normal’ range ends at 14. Josie came in at 15. She may need to go on a special diet, but not yet. We are on a watching brief right now, and I will take Josie in for a re-examination in three to four months.

This affects her prospective dental surgery, but does not eliminate it. Some of her teeth are bad; they are causing her discomfort, so that she chews on one side of her mouth only. Her mouth must be seen to. If not, she will be in pain for the rest of her life. Neither her teeth nor her kidneys are going to improve, so it is best to tackle the former while the latter is not in a dangerous state. She could have as many as six teeth removed, but the extent of the procedure won’t be apparent until it’s begun, and the doctor can see what’s what inside the Great White’s mouth. Josie will be on fluids for the whole day that she is at the hospital, before, during and after the operation. I will set a date for the surgery today.

I suppose diminishing kidney function is to be expected as my cats age, but Josie has been changing - aging - so gradually, so it seemed to me, that I didn’t expect her to be suffering, either from such bad teeth or from incipient organ failure. As with all cats, she is an iceberg when it comes to health, or, rather, ill health: there is much below the surface.

Her problems, however, will be attended to, and she will feel much better, heading into the last quarter of her life. And I hope to make those years worth living, no matter how many she has left.

My Own Little Sultan of Swat

My cats generally get along with each other. Cammie hisses and snarls if one of the others inadvertently comes too close to her, but aside from that, there is little hostility shown. What Tucker does from the dining table doesn’t really count, in my opinion.

His favourite location for relaxation is a chair at the dining table. Initially, he disliked the thin cushions with which I equipped the seats, but he eventually changed his mind, and now curls up on the central chair very often. It’s his chair, not only due to its comforts, but because of its location. From here, the roly poly can whap any cat going by.

Tucker is not a violent animal. He will eschew confrontation if it arises. But now and then, he will strike a passing cat. That is especially the case if that cat is passing under or near his chair at meal times. When he does it, I will remonstrate with him, and he will look fittingly contrite. And then whap the next cat who comes near his chair.

He is my own little sultan of swat.

Why Mornings Fear Me

Each weekday morning, I wake at five minutes after five o’clock. Well, that’s my goal. Because the prime vomiting time in the apartment is between four and five, I generally wake during that hour. On weekends, I sleep to five-thirty. (I have to give the sugar twins their injections at the same time every day.) Some Saturdays and Sundays, Josie will wake me at six minutes after five, thinking that I am over-sleeping. She’s helpful is my Chubs.

Anyway, this morning was a bit different. After cleaning up the puke - Parker threw up at 2.20, so it wasn’t him this time; I think it was Tucker; despite the hairball medicine and laxative, he continues to toss up bile - I fed the beasts. I noticed a new outsider-cat, a white and tabby animal whom I am naming, for convenience, Polydora. She seemed to want something to eat, so I fed her, too. Then I cleaned the litter-boxes, washed and shaved, made the bed. Then I heard the sounds of feline confrontation.

None of mine were in a fighting stance. In fact, they seemed interested in something that was transpiring outside. This wasn’t good. I looked out the door; Polydora was long gone. Instead, Hugo and Smudge (another outsider-cat, and a neighbourhood regular) were facing off. They did not sound as if they were debating the respective merits of eighteenth century French and Italian opera.

I seized a long and sturdy stick (it is used while I am absent to ensure that the door to the ditch cannot be slid open more than an inch) and stepped outside. Before I could distract them by banging on stones and wood, they closed, and the battle was on.

They rolled furiously and the fur flew, most of it Smudge’s black and white hair. Hugo is the bigger and, I am sure, more dominant; Smudge probably wanted simply to retreat but couldn’t afford to turn his back. I started yelling, and advanced upon the combatants, thumping the stick on the ground. They were likely confused by the approach of an unknown quantity - a middle-aged human in carpet slippers shouting incomprehensibly - rather than frightened of me. Whatever the reason, they parted. Now, I pressed my advantage and moved into the three or four feet between them. I spoke more reasonably, urging them apart. They walked, slowly, carefully, in opposite directions. When I returned inside, Hugo was sitting at the corner of a fence looking victorious, while Smudge had retired out of sight.

I calmed down my beasts and finished the morning routine in time to arrive at work almost not late. All this is why I wake two hours before my work-day must begin, even though its location is just ten minutes away by bicycle.

Oh, and just before I left, I saw Cammie dragging her bum across the new rug, and I don’t think she was hoping it was a water-slide. This can’t be good…

Josie's Turn with the Doctor

It was Josie’s turn to go to the doctor yesterday. There was nothing outstanding about her health for which I was concerned, except some smelly breath. I thought it might be indicative of gingivitis or bad teeth and, being fifteen years old, she would need any surgery that might be required done sooner rather than later.

My Chubs did well at the doctor’s office. She purred from nervousness and hid in a little cubby-hole until the doctor came to see her. The results of the superficial examination were good; Josie’s lungs sounded clear, her heart was strong. She does have a few bad teeth that may be causing her discomfort when eating. Blood and urine were taken and have been sent away for analysis. I will know the outcome today or tomorrow.

The doctor was confident that the Great White will have little wrong with her. Josie has always been one of my healthy ones (it makes you wonder how she ended up in the cosy apartment) and I myself did not think anything except a dental procedure would be necessary. I hope that is indeed the case. If so, a surgery will be scheduled for her.

This will make three cats (along with Cammie and Renn) of mine who require dental work. This is to be expected at their ages. It nonetheless will entail a considerable financial outlay on my part - it’s no use asking them to contribute anything - and I think that I should own at least a modest portion of the veterinary practice by now.

Still, if my beasts will be comfortable and, hopefully, set for the rest of their days, it will be worth it. It may provide them with greater enjoyment during their meals, which in turn will mean more food consumed, and more money spent on nutrition, and… Hey, wait a minute…

Getting to Know Our New Customer

Firstly, I want to thank everyone for their support of Parker and me during his illness. I know most who read this blog have previously experienced the loss of a pet, as I have. It’s never easy, but Parker is a popular fellow. We always meet admirers of his when we take our walks, and he of course has his friends on the internet.

But in addition to the bad, there is good in the cosy apartment, or, in this instance, just outside. I have been becoming better acquainted with Hugo, my new outsider-cat pal. He has let me come quite close, and, Wednesday evening, allowed me to pet him. At first, he brushed against me and veered away, but then presented his head for a rub. He even purred.

I think he would very easily take to the indoor life, though, in fact, I don’t know that he isn’t partially an indoor feline already. My next task is to watch or perhaps follow him when he leaves my location, to determine if he has a home. Following him, of course, is tricky, as it might cause him to deviate from his routine or plan. From the look of him, he is likely neutered if male, though he may be female. His coat is coarse but not matted, as may be seen in the photographs. It is a little dirty, but no more than a long-haired cat would become if he rolled in the dirt once while outside. I have not touched him enough to know well if he is thin under that thick coat of his.

Hugo’s shyness suggests that he is homeless, while his readiness to permit me to touch him shows that he knew (or knows) affectionate human contact. Trying to follow him to his home (whether that is with a human family, or simply a rude shelter of his own choosing) may take a while, so I thought I would advertise him on Facebook or some such venue and see if anyone knows him, being careful not to divulge too much and even more careful of replies.

I believe Hugo is lost or, more probably, abandoned. Fortunately, whether he has another source of food or not, he won’t starve, so long as he continues to patronise Café Cosy. And doesn’t mind being stared at by the staff.

Glad He is With Me

It may be repetitious, and is certainly disheartening, to chronicle the diminution of my friend, Parker. But, for both him and myself, I think I need to record his last weeks. And, indeed, I feel that his last weeks have come.

Two or three times now, I have felt that he has taken a definite step downward in his fight against his cancer. Though difficult to describe, I could tell each time that something had occurred to change his abilities, both to resist his illness and his means of dealing with it. Another descent was made this past weekend.

Parker is moving very slowly now, and there is a brittleness to his actions. He is eating less, though still more than I would have expected a cat in his condition to eat. He has been eating Hounds and Gatos pork for some time. It is, I believe, a good food, and he still appears to like it. However, he has twice since Saturday turned away from it. I have substituted Fancy Feast chicken-and-liver, and this he accepted at those times. I have a wide variety of brands and flavours with which to tempt him when he finally discards these favourites. Since his illness became known, he has rejected several varieties of food, and not gone back to them. I dread the day that he refuses everything. But this morning, he consumed a third of a 5.5 ounce tin of food; not bad, considering his situation.

Strangely, his nutrition does not seem to be effected by his periodic and violent vomiting. He throws up so much that if it contained as much food as other debris, he would have starved to death by now. His wretching is so fierce that it leaves him panting. I was lucky last night to note the signs of an approaching episode, and was able to put him in front of a box lid, one of several I keep around the apartment for the cats’ amusement and comfort, and for such emergencies. Though he is eating and the food is doing him good, Parker is losing weight, and his body is sinking, due to the weight and size of the tumour.

On the advice of a knowledgeable friend, I have increased Puck’s Prednisolone dosage from a quarter-tablet a day to a half. I hope this will have a positive effect on any discomfort he may be feeling. So far, he has eaten his food with the crushed pill hidden inside it. The medicine, fortunately, has little or no taste.

He has been asking for attention a little more lately, and when I cook or wash the dishes, he often lies against my feet. I try to spend time with him when he asks for it, sitting on the floor with him, talking to him and petting him. Then, he will decide that he’s had enough and move away. He’s never been an overly sentimental fellow.

But I am glad that he is with me at such a time. It is discouraging and frustrating, maddening and tiring, and always sad, but I am glad he is with me. Because some day, probably soon, he won’t be.