Peachy Consults His Doctor

Raleigh visited his doctor today. The results of his examination were a bit disappointing to me. After more than a month on the increased dosage of Prednisolone, his stomatitis is only marginally better.

It is still showing itself around his canines at the front of his mouth, but also at the back, where there are no teeth. It is because of this that the doctor is hesitant to remove Raleigh’s remaining teeth: while it may help some, it probably won’t do away with the stomatitis, and will merely add to his stress and discomfort.

Right now, the veterinary wants to consider the matter. For myself, I am against further surgery, as I don’t think its benefits are greater than its disadvantages. Raleigh remains on his previously prescribed amount of Prednisolone.

As you can see, his time at the hospital was very stressful for Raleigh, causing his eye to run with the usual goop that oozes when he is frightened. Afterward, however, he seemed not to have been bothered by the interruption in his routine, and merely reminded me that I was late with dinner. Following a satisfying meal, he settled down into a cat-bed for a well-deserved snooze. Disappointing or not, the examination was forgotten; Peachy was home again.

Then Again, Josie...

While I looked askance at Josie last week for drinking from the little water-bowl that I had set up especially for Cammie, my Chubs does much more that is endearing than annoying. One of the things that she has learned is not to throw up on rugs or carpets.

After years of hurrying to carry or push her into the bathroom, where there is no floor covering, whenever I hear the tell-tale signs of impending vomit, my senior cat has learned to go there herself. This weekend, I heard the ‘woo-woo-woo’ of Josie feeling the chuck upping; hastening to the bedroom, where I knew she was, I observed Josie trotting down the staircase beside the bed. She walked out of the bedroom and into the bathroom and there deposited her refuse. I spoke warmly to her about her actions. Going to the bathroom, not vomiting, I mean.

I have noticed several times upon coming home that someone, undoubtedly the Great White, had puked in the bathroom (or in the storeroom, which is similarly uncarpetted). There is now and then a small spot on the rugs, but its size means that it was a final surge, probably unexpected, after the first two or three projections. For the most part, Josie makes it to the floor that is easiest to clean.

She is a smart cat. She may not know why I prefer her to throw up in the bathroom, but she knows that it is preferred, and so she tries her best to accommodate me. She has done this for some years now. It's hard not to love such a considerate cat.

The Fight Over Water Rights

Josie is my oldest cat. For a fifteen year old, she’s doing well. She had all but three of her teeth removed not long ago; aside from the deteriorating teeth, now gone, and the beginnings of kidney disease (due to age), Josie is in good health. She still likes to jump from the bed to the cat-tree by the window and she is eating decently.

My Chubs has, however, started doing something annoying. She has discovered the little water-bowl I keep in the corner of the bedroom for Cammie. I placed it there for the blind princess to have easy access to water when she is lying on her towel in that part of the room. Cammie is spending more time in the sitting room, now that she has gained increased confidence in her sightless navigation of the apartment, but she still often comes into the bedroom for a drink of water. To find Josie already in position at the water-bowl is not only a rude shock for a blind cat, but it also deters her from drinking at all, as she then turns away with growls and hisses, and doesn’t bother to go to another bowl. As Cammie too is at the start of kidney failure (stage one, at this point), she needs water as much as Josie.

The other evening, I had to tell Josie to stay on the bed while Cammie drank her fill at the disputed bowl. She stayed, but she was not happy about it, and stared at me the whole time. I, for my part, had to remain in place to make sure the Great White did the same. It was a battle of wills between two old and cranky creatures, with neither one moving. Only after the princess had drunk what she wanted did I release Josie, who also drank.

It may seem unfair to favour Cammie - I’m sure Josie believes so - but my little Siamese can’t see, so her trek from the sitting room to the farthest water-bowl is long and wearying. She does lap from other bowls, but if she goes all the way to her preferred supply, I don’t want her to be disappointed. Having a drink is much easier for Josie. She of course thinks otherwise.

I made up for my intransigence later with extra attention to my Chubs. But such are the joys of a multi-cat household.

Cammie Knows Best

In July, Cammie became sick, having one of her continual-vomiting episodes. The only cause of it that I could determine was a possibly contaminated tin of the Z/D soft-food that she eats. I have been watchful since then for any further tins with unusual textures.

Yesterday, I opened a new tin of Z/D and gave some of its contents to the princess for dinner. She refused to eat. I had warmed her meal and added a little water to it, as she prefers, but she still didn’t want it. The food looked no different than that which she did not hesitate to consume. But, considering her recent illness, I didn’t want to take any chances, and threw out that portion of food; in fact, I disposed of the whole tin. I opened a new one, and Cammie ate without reluctance. By this morning, half the new tin had been finished.

Though I couldn’t discern any difference between the refused food and that that was eaten, there was clearly something about the former that Cammie disliked. It wasn’t a matter of adding more water or warming it or waiting a minute until she had changed her mind. There was a quality in the serving that was unpleasant to her. With her stomach’s extreme sensitivity to ingredients that it finds harmful, I bowed to her judgement. In this case, Cammie knew best.

This Week's Worry

Tucker is the next cat on my worry list. In this case, it is his nose. It looks like a small scab has formed under one of his nostrils. At one point, it disappeared, as if it healed and fell off, but then it returned almost the next day. It may be nothing more than a scrape. He may have started whapping at someone and they whapped back.

But his eye on the same side looks like it is a little troublesome, though he is not physically bothered by it, that I can tell. I will take him in to the doctor to see about it, but not yet. Raleigh’s check-up is coming, probably next week, and that will occupy my funds for the time being.

When one has several cats, there is always something to be concerned about. And when there isn’t, I’m concerned that I am missing something.

The View Down There

Lately, Renn has taken to spending time half under the bed, as if watching something there. I have looked but see nothing. It may be a loose thread of rug waving back and forth in slightly stirred air, a scent of something unusual; it may be a nest of vipers hatching from eggs laid while I was at work. That last would be bad.

My big boy doesn’t do this all the time, and he has just started it. He doesn’t try to lie under the bed. He is content to observe. When I talk to him, he comes out readily enough, as if to say, ‘Nope, nothing there; I didn’t see anything that could kill you in the night. Is dinner ready?’

I know numerous people have noticed cats staring at blank walls with intent interest, as if they see some diabolical entity materializing, or maybe uneven colouring in the paint, which can be worse to some people. Cats sometimes do this late at night, when their human is alone. Feline humour is not always appreciated by bipeds.

But Renn spends his nights on the bed with me, so, until he suddenly checks under the frame and then bolts from the room, I will assume I am safe. When he does flee the scene, however, I won’t be far behind him.

The Fault of a Dog

Neville went back to his regular foster-home on Friday. I will miss him, but then I tend to miss any cat who is with me for more than a few hours. He is a sweet-natured fellow, at least with people. I had to put him in the bathroom at one point, in order to vacuum the library, where he was staying, and, as I was carrying him back, he caught sight of Renn. This produced gentle hisses.

Neville will be returning in about a fortnight. His foster-guardian must travel again and will drop him off here for a week. During that time, I will let him out of the library, and have him meet the others – under strict supervision, of course. I don’t want to keep him in one room for as long as seven days. We will see how things go.

His foster-guardian arrived to collect Neville Friday evening, bringing Snowy with her. Snowy is a happy little poodle, fifteen years old, pampered and well-loved. He lives with the cats in their foster-home and, as is often the case in feline / canine relations, no cat dislikes him. He is in fact very good friends with a couple of them. Snowy is growing deaf, but is still spry – so much so that he barely sat still enough for a photograph - and loves people. He had just had a professional washing so, aside from being thirsty, wanted to roll about a bit to get back his dog-smell.

This isn’t the first time a dog has visited the cosy apartment. My beasts usually watch the newcomer with great curiosity, but evince no animosity. Like most cats, they would probably find a canine roommate to be little trouble, certainly much less than a new cat. (And no, I won’t be getting a dog; the apartment building’s rules forbid it. Besides, with me being gone all day working, it wouldn’t be fair on the dog. That is, I believe, why I chose a cat in the first place, ‘way back when…)