So the computer I was using seems to be terminally destructo - hopefully a repair shop can recover my files and re-install Windows for me! But I've dug out an ancient desktop that was in storage and am trying my best to get it running. A bit of blogging is back in the picture, though the damn thing moves so slow - "slow as a Romero Zombie" - that I may have to avail myself of the local public library for more serious pieces.
Mostly, today, I want to write about my cat. Actually Erika's cat. There was a period where she and I broke up, when she was living in Victoria and I was living in Maple Ridge, taking care of my ailing Mom, when it just seemed highly unlikely that the relationship would work - long distance relationships are challenging. Somewhere in there, having lost a boyfriend - me, that is - she went to a shelter and picked up a cat. I think he was about five years old at the time. That was about thirteen years ago. We ended up getting back together when she moved back here for work, because neither of us really had WANTED to break up; it just didn't seem to make sense to have a relationship where we could only see each other once a month or so. But now she had a cat with her - Tybalt, a name from Shakespeare, which he had when she picked him up (I have always thought he looked more like a Nietzsche, myself).
Truth is, I have allergies and no great love for cats - I was always more of a dog person - but I've come to be very fond of the little guy.
We think he's dying. It's been a long, slow decline. He's been experiencing kidney failure, which required Erika (or myself, but I'm far less skilled) give him an IV drip of saline solution (the same lactated ringer they'll give you in hospital when you are dehydrated). Erika pinches the loose skin at the scruff of his neck, sticks a needle in, and we give him a cup or so of fluid every couple of days (tip to people who have to do this: you can get it cheaper in bulk from midwifery supply companies than from vets). He's had multiple dental issues, losing one fang last year and having to have several back teeth surgically removed. Infection was also an issue, though we think that's been treated. He also probably has a bit of kitty dimentia, which sometimes manifests in confused/ scared behaviour, excessive meowing, and "bathroom errors" that have seen me warning overnight visitors to our apartment to watch where they step; and he's been having trouble with his back legs, possibly a bit of arthritis. The last couple of years have seen an increasing number of failed leaps, where his back legs give way as he tries to pull himself up onto the footstool, as well as various twitches and wobbles.
Oh, and his eyes are a bit cloudy, so he's probably developing cataracts (which you can't see in the top photo, taken a few years ago - his eyes are quite a bit cloudier, now).
But he's kept going okay, all things considered; the IV fluids have helped him a lot, even seeming to roll back his kidney failure a bit, and we've tried to be pretty patient (me moreso than Erika, because my life experiences include sometimes cleaning up after an incontinent mother) when he's left an "accident" in our bed, or his, or somewhere we walk (Bev Davies, also a cat person, has observed that cats stop being as mindful of where they poop if they are secure that there are no other animals around to detect it, which may explain why, after trips to the island where Tybalt has had brief encounters with her parents' dogs, he's tended to be more, uh, "circumspect," sometimes for months on end). And we've tried to compensate where we can: when he's had tooth problems, I was even crushing up Temptations to make them easier for him to chew, informed by my own recovery from tongue cancer surgery. And occasionally we've given him a little boost up when we can see trepidation in making a leap that once would have been no problem. In any case, there has been no question in our minds that his quality of life has been fine; there's never been talk of euthanasia. One of Erika's friends had a cat that lived to 23 or 24, so we've hoped he'd be around for a little while longer.
Things took a turn for the worst this past week. We were on Vancouver Island, visiting Erika's family, and brought the cat with us, since we can't very well ask our neighbours to give him IV fluids (and don't want to leave him with a vet - expensive, but also not very fun for him). He travels okay - as long as he has a litterbox in the backseat with him, so he can go if he needs to - but we try to keep the basement door shut so that the dogs (upstairs) cannot come down. There WAS an episode a few days ago where the door was left open, and the cat may have had a doggie encounter - Maeve, their mama pooch, is very friendly and curious and has past experience of a very friendly cat, used to dogs, which is not how we might describe Tybalt (sadly, I have no photos on my phone of them interacting, and no way to access the ones on my trapped drive; we have tried to introduce them occasionally). Maeve will sometimes try to get into Tyb's food bowl, too, which has occasionally led to hissing fits on the cat's part. Best to just keep them apart!
But from the outset, this visit was different. The cat was less resistant to being put in his carrier - he usually makes a bit of a fuss about it, once upon a time even hiding under the bed, but he just assented without a meow. He sat silently in his carrier, not using the litterbox - which is often his preference when riding in the backseat; he even fouled his carrier a little bit, indifferent to climbing between them (the carrier and litterbox sit face to face in the backseat - handy travelling tip for cat owners, much easier on the cat than just having him or her in a carrier, with nowhere to cleanly pee or poo). He usually enthusiastically explores my in-laws' basement, but this time he mostly just stayed on the bed, or occasionally found a quiet, dark spot in the bedroom closet. He will often be restless at night, sometimes even seeming to do laps of the room, stepping on us repeatedly as we sleep. This time, he stayed very still, and mostly seemed to sleep quietly at the top of our heads (a sweet feeling, like having a warm cat-hat perched on your noggin). He seemed less interested in treats than ever before, and again, quietly and submissively assented to being bundled back in his carrier when we left, whereas on past visits, he has sometimes hid rather enthusiastically.
The really concerning behaviours began upon our return home. He pretty much stopped eating. He had a few licks of tuna juice, which I documented here, last night, and a few Temptations, but has not, that we've seen, visited his food bowls - not for wet food, not for his medicated dry food, and not even for water. We bring food to him, and he turns his head away. He's listless and mostly motionless - he comes out two or three times in a day to use the litterbox or to visit us in the living room, if we are watching a show - we're working through The Walking Dead Season 8 for the second time, marvelling at all the details we've forgotten - but 85% of the day he's lying limp on the bed (or in his special seat, on his favourite blanket), often in the "Blair cat pose," hiding his face from the light, tucking it into the pillow. Granted - HE'S A CAT, and cats are champs at resting, but his listlessness seems vastly increased now. And he did something he almost never does: while we were napping together, he pooped a bit in the bed, and then JUST CONTINUED TO LAY THERE. Usually he's at least a bit shamefaced about it, sometimes even hides, fearing possible wrath (especially from the more hygiene-conscious Erika). But not this time - I was lying on my side, back to the cat (after an hour of facing and petting him), and suddenly smelled something poopy. "No, he would poop right beside me in the bed!" But I rolled over, and sure enough...
If such behaviours, as we have sometimes theorized, are a sign that something is wrong, an attempt to communicate an issue to us - well, he can rest assured: we're both aware of it. He now seems so weak and listless - wobbling more, staying in the same place more - that Erika watered him two days in a row, which she never does. He does have his bright-eyed moments, which give us brief hope: he really perked up when I rattled the Temptations box earlier today, ears up, looking directly at me - but then didn't come when I threw him a couple, and when I decided that maybe that was about his weak hind legs and brought them over to his blanket, he DIDN'T EAT THEM.
That's kind of unheard of. As far as I've seen, he's had a few laps of tuna juice, about six temptations, and pretty much nothing else in four days. We have a whole smorgasbord of treats lined up for him - his medicated kibble, some almond milk with wet Special K - which he usually likes! - a bowl of tuna juice with actual flakes of tuna in it, and water in a couple of places, but he hasn't even looked at his food. He's always been fussy, but...
Anyhow, we're kind of of the feeling that, having just had him to the vet a few months ago, there's probably not a lot else the vet can do, and we're reluctant to spend upwards of $800 - what his last visit cost - when he may well be dying regardless. We'll do our best to keep him comfortable, and Erika can keep him hydrated with the IV drip, but we're fearing that our little buddy may be on the way out.
It's strange how fond I've grown of this cat. Tybs is the first cat I've actually lived with. He's an odd little fella, a very polite cat, mostly, unassuming - he never steals food or knocks things over (though our footrest is clawed to tatters; he's always preferred furniture to scratching post). He'll snub food other cats would kill for, like salmon. He loves the odd silverfish snack - "floor prawns," we call'em - so much so that I've considered bringing him one on the bed, but Erika would not appreciate that. It's not gonna make 2022 any easier for either of us if he dies.
We love you, Tybalt! Hope you feel better soon...
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