My Cyborg

Tucker is the subject of an experiment. Yesterday, he went to the veterinary hospital and had a device implanted in his body. He now has the power of ten cats, can crush bricks with his bare paws, can run faster than a cheetah. He has been rebuilt. He is better than he was before. Better...stronger...faster.

Well, not quite (though I think I may have spent that much on him by now.) Tucker has had a very slender needle put into his skin, with a cap glued to the shaved surface of a bit of his shoulder. This cap keeps the needle in place and contains a miniature recording device and transmitter. This device will record his glucose blood level every fifteen minutes. In addition, I have a glucometer which, along with operating by sampling blood on test-strips inserted into a slot in its bottom, can read the blood-sugar amounts that the recorder is storing as information. I need only hold the glucometer over the cap. The results will be an immense ‘curve’, similar to those I must perform every month on Tucker, but reading the amounts every quarter-hour, instead of hourly, and without drawing blood. These readings will be saved and retrieved later on for a comprehensive study of Tucker’s numbers.

I must use the glucometer to read his levels at least once every six hours to keep the numbers in the device recorded; otherwise, they will be lost. Therefore, I must do it at some point in the night (I almost always wake about an hour and a half after going to bed, so that isn’t a problem) and go home during my lunch break while the experiment continues. (Fortunately, the weekend begins tomorrow and lasts three days this time, due to a statutory holiday.)

Tucker seems not to be overly bothered by the implant. He licks at the cap now and then, but had not pulled or scratched at it. It is meant to remain in place for five to ten days, but they usually fall out (or are removed by feline activity) prior to that. If it is still in after a week, I can remove it myself or have the doctor do it.

This process will provide much more information on Tucker’s blood-glucose numbers, which is especially important now, as they seemed lately to be inconstant. The veterinary thinks my boy’s new kidney issues may be influencing his diabetes, so the wider range of recorded numbers will give us a bigger picture from which to judge his next step of treatment. Our veterinary hospital has not attempted to use this device before, so the staff there are learning about it as I am, and much of its future may depend on its success or failure with Tucker. The device is of course merely a tool; it is a recorder. But how it affects the cat while implanted, how easy it is read and maintain, all need to be considered. So far, Tucker is a cooperative subject. (And the doctor says that my boy has gained a fifth of a kilogram since his last visit, which is also good.)

On Saturday, I will have a day off and will then read his numbers hourly, for my own ‘curve’ on the roly poly. For now, I am reading them just a few times a day. I will also then be able to observe Tucker more fully over several hours.

The experiment continues…

Two for the Hospital

Renn and Tucker visited the doctor this morning. I had called yesterday to try to append Renn on to Tucker’s appointment and was told initially that there wouldn’t be time. When I called back to make an appointment for my big boy, I was informed that I would indeed be able to bring him with the roly poly but, when I arrived, it turned out that there had been a misunderstanding – not on my part, as I had made sure of my comprehension in the case – and there would not be time for Renn. However, my usual veterinary arranged it so that she could examine Renn anyway. My cats’ hospital staff try to be accommodating that way.

Firstly, I will state that the report on Tucker will be given tomorrow. It is pretty interesting and, so far, things are progressing well with the experiment of which he is the subject.

In the meantime, Renn is still struggling with his cold and cough. As is always the case, he improved considerably the day of his medical appointment. The doctor checked his heart and lungs – the former strong, the latter clear – but based on my description felt that Renn was suffering a recurring viral infection. Anti-biotics would do nothing against that, of course, but Lysine was prescribed to inhibit the viral cycle. I will be attempting to give my big boy that substance later today.

The doctor heard Renn coughing and was a little concerned about asthma. She stated that a symptom of it could be frequent coughing in such a manner. Renn has been doing just that, so I will keep my ear on the frequency of it, and report back to the doctor. She said that only an x-ray would confirm asthma.

For now, though, Renn is in good condition, with some medicine to help him get over the repetition of his cold. I am not worried that it could, at this point, worsen into pneumonia or something equally dangerous. But I will keep vigilant.

Under the Weather Again

Renn is the cat in my household who is the least affected by ill health. This year has, though, been an exception to his norm. The second week of January saw him fighting a cold, the most noticeable effects of which were sneezes. He seemed to get better not long afterward.

Now, however, the cold has returned, and seems much stronger than it was. Last night, I noticed that my big boy was having trouble breathing at times, as if through a clogged nose. He had been eating acceptably until yesterday, when he refused all soft-food. That is not too worrisome, for he does that on the best of days. But it is an added worry with his cold. I hope to see him eating from the hard-food bowl, at least.

I had wanted to take him to the veterinary with Tucker tomorrow, but they have no opening. I don’t want to leave this long, but it may have to wait until Friday. But if the situation doesn’t improve on its own, I would rather be safe than sorry.

The Guinea Pig

Tucker has long had health problems. Each has been defeated or, at the least, beaten into a stalemate. The continual trouble has been his diabetes. For quite a while, it was under control, his numbers representing a satisfactory armistice in the war, rather than a victory. Lately, however, they have been erratic and, while the roly poly has not exhibited any overt signs of diabetic advancement, they are symptomatic of a disappointing turn in the fight. This may be due to a new development, the onset of kidney failure. Whether or not this is complicating his diabetes, and the struggle against it, the fact remains his blood-sugar levels are unstable.

In an effort to understand them better, a new weapon is being prepared. This coming Thursday, Tucker will be taken to the veterinary hospital where a new sensor will be applied to his body. A patch of his fur, between the shoulder blades, will be shaved off, and a very thin needle inserted into the skin, and glued in place. This needle is actually a glucometer of sorts, and will record continual readings of my cat’s blood-sugar levels, taken every fifteen minutes. I will have a device, rented from a pharmacy, that will allow me to read the numbers; I need only pass the device over the needle. This must be done at least four times a day to keep everything active.

This device in itself will do nothing to control Tucker’s diabetes, of course. But it will give a much greater series of readings than would even a conscientiously performed ‘curve’, which usually samples the blood-sugar every two hours, hourly at the day’s most critical period. Furthermore, the numbers will be recorded over several days, giving a comprehensive record.

The machine is something new to our veterinary hospital, though a doctor, recently hired there, is familiar with it. Tucker will be the first of its patients to be fitted with it. It stays in until it falls off of its own accord; when and where it does that cannot be predicted, and so will require some vigilance on my part. I don’t know how Tucker will react to the implanting of the needle which, to other cats who have been so fitted, gives almost no clue to its presence. Much will depend upon Tucker’s attitude to the whole thing, so I hope my little sausage-cat will coöperate. If he does not, it won’t be his fault; having an implant, however slender, between his shoulder blades will not be the most natural experience he could have.

I will write about the events when they occur on Thursday, providing more details on this device, its workings and its effect on my much prodded little guinea pig.

Introducing the Rare Siamese Ground Sloth

The Siamese ground sloth is a rarity, and is found only in domestic households. Her natural habitat is a suburban bedroom, with occasional forays to sitting rooms and store-rooms. She makes her nest in heated cat-beds, but likes to sleep form time to time on human beds.

The Siamese ground sloth can find her own food, munching throughout the day on Z/D nuggets that grow in glass bowls, but also enjoys soft Z/D, a kind of disgusting paste found in tins. This the ground sloth likes to have placed before her on clean dishes.

Though blind, the Siamese ground sloth uses her whiskers, sense of smell and the blunt force of bumping into objects to find her way about, and intimidates other animals in her environment by hissing and growling. Few of her fellow creatures dare stand in her way.

While not for the faint of commitment, a Siamese ground sloth makes an excellent companion, becoming attached to her particular human after several years of acquaintance. Requiring a high degree of care, due to her sightlessness and often contrary nature, the ground sloth rewards affection with affection, and demonstrates this by purring contentedly while lying on a human’s chest.

For more information on the Siamese ground sloth, contact the Idylland Wildlife Foundation.

The Case of the Smelly Deposit

“Good day, Constable. How may I help you?”

“I’m afraid we’ve received a complaint, sir.”

“A complaint? Good Heavens! About me?”

“Perhaps, sir. We’ve received a complaint about the excessively strong smell of poop in the Cosy Apartment.”

“Not about me.”

“No sir. We believe it emanated from one of your cats. May I come in?”

“Certainly, Constable. Who made the complain, may I ask?”

“I should qualify, sir, that it was not a complaint as you may term it; we call all such reports to us complaints.”

“An observation, then?”

“Just so, sir. It came from your resident manager.”

“It didn’t emanate from him?”

“Sir?”

“The resident manager, you say?”

“Yes sir. He was in your kitchen with the plumber, repairing the clog in your sink, when there arose a very strong odour.”

“Not from the sink?”

“No sir, from the store-room where the litter-boxes are kept. Someone had taken a crap, the smell of which was of epic proportions.”

“Put that way, I would have complained myself.”

“Very understanding of you, sir. The smell was so noxious that the manager was constrained to scoop the litter-box himself, just so the plumber would not be overcome and pass out.”

“Since a plumber may be used to noxious fumes, may I assume this to be hyperbole?”

“You may, sir. But the manager did have to scoop the litter-box for his and the plumber’s olfactory safety.”

“Thus arose not only the smell but the complaint.”

“Just so, sir. I should point out that the manager was not really offended. Indeed, he seemed to find the episode amusing.”

“Well, he is a cat-person himself, and very compassionate toward our feline friends.”

“Yes sir. The plumber’s opinion on the matter is, alas, unknown.”

“That’s probably just as well. If there is no complaint, as such, why are you here, Constable?”

“Well, sir, each complaint, even if they are mere observations, must be investigated. May I meet your cats, sir?”

“Of course. This is my oldest, Josefina von Chubs.”

“Alias ‘Josie’?”

“That’s one way of putting it. Josie, there’s been a complaint. Josie. JOSIE! There’s been complaint!”

“Please don’t yell. I’m hard of hearing, not deaf. What’s this about corn plants?

“Someone left a very smelly load of poop in the litter-box the other day!”

“Otter Day? Do you mean Ground-hog Day? You missed it, you know.”

“Did you leave—?”

“Julie? Julie? No, Josie! You’d think you’d know that by now.”

“Perhaps we could move on, sir?

“Er, yes, all right. This is Renfrew Foster. He generally goes by ‘Renn’.”

“Hi! That’s a neat uniform. Do you have a gun?”

“Well, yes…”

“And mace? Do you have mace? I’d like to have one of them, swinging that around, the big ball on a chain… Do you have one?”

“Uh, Renn, the constable is investigating a big, stinky poop in the litter-box.”

“Oh. Well, it can’t be mine. I mean, mine are big, sure, and they stink, but only for a bit, then they stop. I have very considerate poop.”

“That’s true, Constable. His poop is quite, er, considerate.”

“Considerate poop. Yes sir. Not that this is connected to our investigation, sir - not at all -  but have you thought about counselling, sir?”

“I have six cats in a cosy apartment, Constable. I’m beyond counselling.”

“As you say, sir. Who is this?”

“This is Tucker R Poly.”

“I haf no teef.”

“I see, sir.”

“I haf no mancat bits, eever.”

“Yes sir.”

“I haf die-a-beeteez.”

“Right, sir. About—”

“I haf kitnee failure…”

“Yes sir. I understand you have royalty staying with you, sir.”

“Nobility, yes. Princess Camarouska Albigensia.”

“I’ll attend to her in her chamber, if that’s acceptable, sir.”

“Very proper of you, Constable. Thank you.”

“Your Serene Highness, we are investigating a matter of smelly poop.”

“And you think I can point out the culprit to you? I am sure I can. I am blind, but my sense of smell is superb.”

“Well, actually—”

“There are any number of them. There is the fat white one, and the big goofy one, and the baby with no teeth, and the two new ones…”

“We were thinking of—”

“I hope you won’t suggest that I am to blame, Constable. I have poop that practically floats on the breeze.”

“Well, in a manner of speaking, Cammie, that’s true…”

“You see? The other human agrees with me. My poop is of a nature as sweet as I am.”

“I can attest to that, Constable…”

“All right. We’ll, uh, leave you for now, Your Highness.”

“You have leave to depart.”

“And this peach-coloured one here?”

“That’s Raleigh. He’s very shy.”

“I’m very shy.”

“Raleigh, the constable is investigating stinky poop.”

“Oh. I don’t know about that. If I did, I’d be too shy to tell you. But when I go to the box, I make sure everything is covered. I cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, and then I scratch at the walls of the box. I scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch. Then I leave and sometimes turn around and cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover, cover some more. Sometimes I tell this human here that I am done. He tells me I’m a good boy.”

“You are a good boy, Raleigh.”

“I’m very shy.”

“And finally, this fellow.”

“This is Neville Nevsky. He’s new.”

“Oh, yes, ’The Thin Man’. I’ve read about him.”

“Well, he’s filled out quite a bit since he’s been here. His fur is now much longer and luxuriant. He looks a completely different cat than he did when he came.”

“Changing his appearance, is he, sir?”

“Well, I didn’t mean that.”

“Has a big appetite, does he, sir? A lot to get rid of?”

“I haven’t really gone into that with him…”

“Rushes out of the box afterward, trying to get away from what he produces?”

“I don’t think that’s the reason…”

“Thank you, sir. I believe I have all I came for.”

“Er, does this mean…?”

“We’ll be in touch, sir. Until then…”

“Yes?”

“Do you recall the four bars of the famous Dragnet theme, sir?”

“Yes…”

“I think you can hum them now, sir.”