Sometimes Simultaneously

Nothing remains constant; things change for the better and things change for the worse, sometimes simultaneously.

The library used to be Minuet’s safe-room. She ventured from it, and probably didn’t feel endangered outside its walls. She knew she could handle the other cats, as old as she was. But, as old as she was, she simply preferred ‘her’ room. It had everything she needed.

The other cats stayed out of the library initially, even after the door was kept open and those inside were free to come out, and vice versa. Then Neville, who has an affection for the library, and Hector started returning there. Madame didn’t like their presence but, when she saw they left her alone, she tolerated it. Renn visited only to use the litter-box there.

Minuet died in August, and Neville and Hector, especially the former, used the library more; cats can be practical and unsentimental much of the time. Then Renn began going into the library again. He used the cat-tree and, interestingly, he frequented a cosy and isolated spot behind a bookcase in the corner. I initially thought it was because of illness, but it’s not. He just fancies it periodically.

Last night was movie night. For the first time in months, going on a year, my big boy joined me in the library. He didn’t watch the film with me; he never does. He slumbered through the whole thing. But he lie next to me, on the heated towel. It was very pleasant to view a Saturday-night movie with my friend again.

Minuet is gone from the library. Renn has come back to it. Things change for the better and things change for the worse, sometimes simultaneously.

Her Name Was Minuet

Minuet’s ashes came to me a week after she died on August 20th. I disliked the casket I was given; it came from the emergency veterinary hospital where she passed away. I thought the receptacle undignified for Madame, though I may have been influenced by the dislike I conceived for the setting. In any case, I determined to find a better resting-place for my very oldster’s mortal remains.

It’s taken me a while, but I discovered what I feel is perfect for her. It’s a small, well-constructed box, with a hinged lid; I don’t think any metal is used. In the shop where I found it, there was none other exactly the same; it is unique.

Similarly, there was only one photograph I could have chosen for Minuet’s place on my memorial wall. It shows her in the good health she enjoyed much of the time she was with me, despite her advanced age; high up on her custom-built cat-tree, her face toward the light. Here indeed is my Lady Sunflower.

She is at last in her place with the others of my friends who have gone on ahead. She was my friend. Her name was Minuet, and I will remember her.

Spy vs Spy and the Common Enemy

When Auric was living with me, I wrote, in a jocular vein, that he and Hector reminded me of Mad Magazine’s Spy vs Spy cartoon characters, because of their colours. Now, the comparison is much more apt, with white Horace taking the place of the golden Auric.

Furthermore, Hector likes chasing Horace. It’s not playful, nor is it fighting. He is trying to establish dominance, I think, though there doesn’t seem to be an evolution of the situation. It may be due to the fact that Horace isn’t a fighter, and doesn’t retaliate. Nor does he appear to acknowledge Hector’s superior place in the hierarchy; Little Ivory is too placid for that. We therefore seem to have reached an impasse.

Horace does follow Hector, but there is much more curiosity in his actions than hostility; there is, in fact none of the latter. On the other hand, the newcomer’s presence is often enough to make Hector want to smack him; he does not, however, chase or whap him continually. Neither cat is aggressive; if Horace started playing with the other, their pairing might turn into an agreeable association.

But sometimes they come to a concurrence. Now and then, they find common ground, and, indeed, a common enemy, though, again, the violence of what might be is dissipated by distance and personality. While watching birds, Hector stares silently; Horace gives voice to a continual series of squeaks and pips. It’s nice to see them acting together.

Little do they know I am paying the birds by scattering food for them in front of the window. For the cats, the birds, and me, the common enemy is a situation with no disadvantages.

The World at the Edge of the Bedspread

For something different, I thought I would write an entry about me, or, rather, one of my dreams. Though the subject is not typical (they are usually quite varied) the fact that it followed a reasonably lucid story-line is.

I dreamed that I was downtown in my city, at some sort of festival. The late actor Steve McQueen was there, playing a musical instrument made from a brown bottle with an extremely long neck, to which strings were tied; he was playing it like a bass in a band. Instead of a bow, he was using a saw. The festival ended and Mr McQueen departed (not for the first time, of course), leaving his instrument behind. I undertook to return it to him.

My journey carried me to an older part of my town which I don’t think exists anymore (similar to other dreams when I go food-shopping; I always go to the same grocery-store that no longer exists.) In that neighbourhood, I visited a dog-rescue shelter, where I promised to take in a dog named Cecilia, who wasn’t at the shelter just then. Afterward, I continued my search for Mr McQueen, saying to myself, “I can’t have a dog in my apartment; they’re not allowed. What was I thinking?”

I was still pondering this question when I woke. I explained the dream to Hector. He remained silent about the whole thing.

(Steve McQueen’s appearance is due, I believe, to seeing recently a picture of him from the film The Great Escape, in the scene in which he and two other Americans re-enact the Spirit of ’76 picture. Why he didn’t have a fife or drum in my dream, I don’t know. And how fostering slipped into my dream is anyone’s guess…)

Neville's Complete Picture

In response to yesterday’s entry, Roberta asked how Neville’s ‘curve’ went.

Neville is a good example of the erratic nature of diabetes. I detailed another of his ‘curves’ – and explained their meaning - in August, but have not described his diabetic history. When he first came to live with me – in fact, the reason he came to live with me – his blood-glucose numbers were in the mid-teens; certainly not a high range. He almost immediately seemed to go into remission, his numbers being in the single digits for more than half a year.

Then his diabetes returned, though, for another period of six months, it responded very well to small amounts of insulin, a typical ‘curve’ beginning in the mid-teens and dropping to about five or six: a very good response.

Then, it changed again, and he rarely began a cycle lower than the high teens or low twenties. Insulin would drop his numbers to nothing lower than ten or eleven. This has remained the pattern, despite gradually increasing doses of insulin, and it was repeated with yesterday’s curve.

I am not worried about Neville. As with Tucker, back when diabetes was the worst he had to fight, a relatively high nadir is not indicative of a poor condition. Neville is not drinking great amounts of water – less than he used to, now that I think of it - nor is he urinating often. He can jump well, insisting, rather annoyingly, on not using Tucker’s Tuffet to leap onto the library couch (even though Horace has used it right from his arrival), which demonstrates no rear-end weakness. In other words, his continued imperfect ‘curves’ are the sole source of dissatisfaction with his diabetic treatment. And as in Renn’s case, there is little point to another veterinary visit when nothing more can be added to his treatment but an adjustment in his insulin dosage - which I feel I can determine on my own – and a change in diet, which has been attempted previously with indifferent results.

So, while the Nevsky frustratingly refuses to show a laudable ‘curve’, the ‘curve’ itself does not show the complete picture. And I think, for the moment at least, that picture is the image of decent health and moderate contentment.

And That's the End of That Week

This week was an interesting one. As readers know, Horace was under the weather Thursday morning. He had thrown up and didn’t want anything to eat. He was well again that evening, and Friday morning. By then, however, Hector was ill. He had thrown up in the night, as had Horace, and was under the bed when I woke Friday, a position to which he had not before resorted at such an hour. He also declined his Fancy Feast breakfast, just as his foster-brother had the previous day, though he ate a little Recovery. When I came home Friday afternoon, though, Hec was once again fit and ready for food and fun. Horace was ill again… This did not last the whole evening, however. By bed-time, he was crying for the meal he hadn’t felt disposed to eat earlier. Even so, I did not feed him, preferring to allow his stomach to settle more before it received any more deliveries.

At last, everyone was themselves again Saturday. All ate as much as they normally do, all were behaving as usual. I have no idea why the youngsters felt poorly, or why Horace recovered only to become sick again, albeit – thankfully – briefly. Just as thankfully, my oldsters did not suffer what the others did. Renn did puke up some water Thursday night but I had the suspicion that it was not a precursor to one of his off-days; indeed, he was himself again in the morning.

So far the weekend has been salvaged and the beasts are doing well. Except that it’s time for Neville’s ‘curve’ again. I think he’d rather be ill…