Unprecedented

I’ve never had all of my cats on the bed at once and been able to photograph it. They have, recently, been on there at night, but I had no proof. And, of course, I haven’t had as few cats for a long time. But, considering their diverse characters, and that they all would prefer to be only-cats, I think this picture is rather gratifying.

An Unexpected Visit to the Doctor

Josie gave me a scare this week. Thursday morning, I woke to find her out of sorts. She usually starts moving when I do each morning; takes a long drink of water from the bowl on the window ledge, sometimes follows me out to the kitchen for breakfast, sometimes awaits it on the bed, but in general has an active routine she follows. This day, she continued to lie, not in the saddle of Cammie’s cat-tree, but on a lower platform of the one next to it, which is abnormal. She ate, but without enthusiasm, and drank some water later.

The unusual behaviour continued in a similar vein when I returned from work that afternoon, and did not change by Friday morning. I made an appointment for Josie with a veterinary. It was not with her usual doctor, however. That hospital was booked solid for more than a week, except for a few times in the middle of days. I had taken a day off here and there recently to attend to other matters, and my department is still flying at half-staff, so a mid-day appointment was not practical. Another hospital, however, was available; moreover, it was one whose doctor I trust, as the rescue-group to which I belong uses her services. And they could take Josie late Friday afternoon.

My Chubs had a physical examination, and a sample of her blood was stolen. It had been more than a year since she had last suffered a full exam, so I wanted everything tested, including urine. What I was afraid of was a worsened kidney condition, perhaps even final failure. What was transpiring was a urinary tract infection.

This came as a surprise. I am normally attendant to the number of times my cats visit the litter-boxes, and I am certain the Great White had not resorted to them much more than usual. I had noticed that, instead of the very occasional missed box – a relic of Josie’s over-weight days when her bum would overshoot the interior – she was wetting outside the box more often than not. I had considered arthritis or other joint-pain to be causing discomfort in climbing into the box; I had not considered an infection was deflecting her aim.

But this malady is preferable to kidney shut-down, of course. Josie was started on anti-biotics as soon as she arrived home. It is to continue (a milliliter of medicine twice a day) for a fortnight. The first dose caused a great improvement in her condition by that night; Josie has not had recourse to such a drug in years, so it had a tremendous effect. She was eating – and, as important, asking for food – by snack-time, and was behaving more as she should. But we will hammer the infection for two weeks; then my Chubs will go to the doctor to see how things stand.

Otherwise, Josie is, as I had hoped and suspected, in good shape for a sixteen year old. Her heart and lungs sound good, she is an adequate weight and – a pleasant surprise – her kidneys are actually functioning a little better than they were a year ago. She may need some extra fluids in the near future, but the veterinary did not think it necessary right now. Josie might indeed be suffering some arthritis; I asked the doctor about giving joint-medicine, to which she agreed. I have a bottle of that coming to me early next week.

The doctor’s visit, perhaps overdue, relieved my mind on a number of points. Josie ate well today, and her behaviour is nearly back to normal. My old lady will get well, and back on track to become even older.

The Gull of Some People

Ironically, though the Café Cosy has a discriminating clientele, the café itself does not discriminate. Big or small; black or white, brown or grey; avian, mammalian or reptilian; we are happy to serve them all. It was, then, with a certain pleasure that we welcomed a new patron to the restaurant.

He approached his table hesitantly; perhaps he has been more accustomed to the rougher establishments of the waterfront. Not to worry, though; we at the Café Cosy cater to all tastes and backgrounds. Our new customer ate hurriedly at first, but returned for a further meal, evidently as glad to have come as we were to have him. He favoured the salmon paté.

There were, we regretted to note, certain members of the staff who rather rudely stared at the first-time patron. The latter did not let the impoliteness put him off, fortunately. Even so, we will have a word with our employee. We’ll take into account the fact that he’s new.

Knowing One's Place

When Neville first came to stay at the cosy apartment, Tucker’s reaction was that of low-grade hostility. This is how he has behaved toward all new cats. The roly poly one spent a long time being squished on the bottom of the totem pole by those senior to or stronger than he, and he has never fancied the idea of having a later arrival climb over him to the penultimate spot while he was still stuck at the end. So he would make sure that the newcomers realised the position: Tucker moved up a slot, while the stranger took his old place.

He would eventually relate to each addition with less antagonism. Parker was assisted by the advent of Raleigh, who became the object of Tucker’s mild animosity. This was lucky, as the sturdy-boy didn’t seem willing to take over Tucker’s low position. Then, it was Neville’s turn.

There comes a point at which each new cat ceases to be a threat to Tucker’s standing. If that new cat accepts the order of things, the roly poly will agree to live and let live. Such has it been with the Nevsky. Tucker doesn’t bother much hissing or grumbling at him, as he previously did. He will, now and then, whap at him, in the lazy way he does - it’s more a matter of charging  (the way a watermelon rumbles down a gentle incline) and placing his paw against another’s body - but he is liable to do that with any cat. Its offensive power was demonstrated when he tried it with Raleigh; Peachy was so easy-going that he didn’t react; the paw stayed in place for a second or two and then was withdrawn.

Neville has not yet understood that he need not fear Tucker’s anger any more. He still will wait out the sausage-cat, if the latter is blocking a route Nev wants to take. And when the former Thin Man does pass close to Tucker, it is in a hurry, and with a series of throaty “er…er…” sounds that constitute the variety of his vocabulary.

As I have described over the past few weeks, in connection with Cammie and Raleigh’s passing, the interaction of cats is fascinating. This is another example of their continuing evolution, though it, in fact, has little to do with the deaths in the family. The cats’ relationships can be complex, but that is to be expected from such complex creatures.

In Their Evenings

Once again, all my cats are middle-aged or older. I thought I would have Raleigh for a long time, he being barely two when he came to live with me. But now that he has left me, I have oldsters.

I like the idea of having old pets, of giving them a refuge in their latter days. Younger cats have their appeal, too, of course. There’s nothing more adorable than kittens. And juveniles and young adults have almost as much energy as kittens but combine it with some experience and a more mature appreciation of things. And if a young cat needed shelter, I would offer it.

Not as many people want older cats as pets. These animals will cost money as their health deteriorates; they will require special efforts; they will die sooner and leave their human-friend alone. But, if one keeps a pet for its life-time, as one should, then one will be faced with the same difficulties anyway, at some point. Even the young grow old and pass away.

Though Neville is estimated to be about ten years old, Renn is thirteen, Tucker is fifteen and my old lady, Josie, is sixteen. Except for Nevsky, they probably don’t have more than five or six years each, at the most.

But ‘the most’ is what I can give them. An old and tired cat doesn’t ask for much. A soft bed to ease aching bones, warmth to keep away the growing cold, decent food (and really, not much of it, as appetites naturally diminish) to fill the tummy, and a human they can depend upon to keep providing all of that. It’s not much to ask of a world with so much plenty in it.

Last evening, Josie lie down on the bed near me as I was at my desk in the bedroom. I rubbed her head for a few minutes, then she rested in the thick yellow light of the westering sun, coming through the window. Her eyes were closed but she was purring. She was purring at nothing in particular, except perhaps her own contentment. Life for her was quite good at that moment; snack-time was coming, so it would get better - but for the moment, it was good.

I think if I can give an older cat a decent retirement like this, then I am serving a useful purpose. If a cat has not known anything but a good life, then it’s right that her latter years should continue that way. If she has known hardship, then ease and comfort is her due. I wish all could be given this, and maybe one day they will. But for now, I will do what I can with those I have. And perhaps someone will do the same for me in my own time.

Silver Whiskers

Neville is a handsome fellow. His fur is slowly growing back from where it was severely trimmed during his veterinary visit. He allows me to pet him and purrs during it; he sometimes sits on my lap. But he won’t suffer my attentions for long. And he is often afraid that I am coming to stick a needle in him, for his insulin.

Even so, he is progressing in his interactions with his resident human. I can certainly get physically close to him. This is how I noticed that while some of his whiskers are white, others are a lustrous grey; a silver, if you will. I think this merely adds to his handsomeness.

Bang and Boom

We had quite the storm last night. The clouds gathered in the afternoon, then dispersed, only to reassemble in the early evening. About eight o’clock, the sky was gloomy and grim, and lightning flashed constantly. We were sent a tornado warning by Environment Canada; while such warnings occur in the summer in my part of the world, they are not common. This was, however, the first time I thought the weather directly overhead justified such a precaution.

The warning included the advice to take shelter in a basement. I have no basement. I do have cats, however, and, though fewer than priorly, I have enough under which to bury myself and have them absorb the shock from any destructive force. They are also good for use against concussion grenades and tactical nuclear weapons…

On the subject of the cats, they behaved well. None was much concerned with the storm except Tucker. He, my most sensitive roommate, retreated to the closeness of the nylon tunnel when the first thunder rolled. I certainly don’t blame him; it must be frightening for an animal not to understand the causes of such noises and illuminations. There was one particular lightning bolt that brightened the heavens, and which was followed by a very loud crack. I thought that might move some of the other beasts, but they were unperturbed.

The storm passed, and Tucker emerged. The violent weather had begun at snack-time, but only he had allowed it to disturb his eating. Perhaps as a consequence of that disturbance, the roly poly one had a better than average appetite afterward, and ate well from his soft-food servings.

The light-show introduced a downpour. This, despite – or because of – its intensity, did not last long, and the storm soon broke up. The night was cool, refreshed by the precipitation and released of its tension by the lightning. Though I could do without the threat of a tornado and its possible damage and injuries, I do, in the words of Mr Rabbit’s song, “love a rainy night, I love a rainy night; I love to hear the thunder, watch the lightning as it lights up the sky.” After the storm, I and the cats – Tucker, too – “woke up to a sunny day.”