These last few hot days got me thinking.
I swear, that cat must be on about life #26.
Every time we think he’s about to cross the Bridge, he rallies and starts acting like a cat again. He spent two days hiding in the back bedroom and coming out only occasionally to lick at the food in his bowl and drink prodigious amounts of water (which he then proceeded to pee out on the bed back there…c’est la vie, we’re going to get rid of that bed and replace it with either a hide-a-bed sofa or one of those storable air beds, anyway, but damn). Poor kitty. We were starting to think it was time to take him on that last ride to the vet.
Well, we started him on that vitamin regimen I mentioned in a previous post, and bought some Iams canned food (salmon and chicken, in a pâté form), and for the last day or two he has been really going to town on it. He chewed my butt twice this morning after the lady wife left, wanting me to put more in his bowl. The second time I think it was just to see if I’d do it, because he then toyed with it and went back to bed. Sometimes I think his brain doesn’t actually catch up to his tummy.
So it’s been kind of up and down emotionally here at Curmudgeon Flats for the past few weeks. The problem with the upswings is that we know he’s only got a few weeks left, if that. And the downswings are just abysmal.
Which is otherwise known as “freezing out.”
Well, the sun is past solar maximum (Cycle 24 is one of the weakest solar maxima in a century; any ham knows that) and appears to be shutting down for a very deep solar minimum, so that means less heat makes it to the planets, resulting in colder surface temperatures, and yeah, at Pluto, some gases likely freezing out and becoming solids that drop to the surface.*
But to hear the warmerongers bleat, the sun doesn’t have anything to do with climate.
(By the way — the presenter is a lovely young lady, but she has the same problem nearly all of her contemporaries have — she talks too fast, and with tonal qualities that sound like scraping fingernails across a chalkboard. The information is good, the presentation is just annoying.)
* Doesn’t anyone read science fiction anymore? Try Fritz Leiber, “A Pail of Air”.
Tiggr may have turned a corner. He barely ate for two days, then the vet gave him a vitamin B12 shot yesterday. Today he called back with the blood work results and told us that they indicated a low red blood cell count, among other things. (His creat level, interestingly, went from over 6 to just over 3.) So he made up some stuff called Calcitriol solution, which I guess contains vitamin D3 and calcium, which we picked up last night and started Tiggr on. The vet also told us to get some multivitamin paste from the pet store for him.
All of this was in aid of getting Tiggr to eat again. The Calcitriol and the multivitamins were for the anemia and general support. The vet also said, feed him whatever he will eat, tuna, chicken, even red meat if that’s what it takes.
Yesterday he picked at some canned chicken. Today he ate a little more of that, but his motor really started running when I tried him on tuna. He’s been a little eating machine since then, and he’s drinking more water than I’ve seen him drink in a long time.
Hopefully this is good news.
(Edited 7/24 to fix time frames and clarify some things…I posted this from my iPad last night and my mind was muzzy.)
We took Tiggr to the vet yesterday for another subcutaneous fluid treatment, but also to have the vet look at him to see if there was anything else we could do. The vet gave him a B12 shot and drew some blood for a test, and we should find out what the results of that were today. He said that the vitamin shot might prompt Tiggr to eat.
I think we are pretty much at the end of the rope, but he did hop up on the bed this morning and climb on my chest and let me pet him. He’s just not big on eating right now. And none of us want him to just waste away to the point where he has no quality of life.
I hate making this decision, just like I hated making it when Snoopy went. Now I know how my dad felt when he took our other cats on their last trips to the vet. It smacks of playing God. Yet at the same time, I think of animals in the wild who don’t even have a warm, soft place to lay their heads when they decide the time has come (if they manage to live long enough to die naturally). Is it better for a human caretaker to decide, God-like, that a sweet little cat’s time on Earth has come to an end? I suppose it is, but in the nature of things, I will always have my doubts.
I’ve known since I was a kid that animals don’t live as long as we do. That doesn’t make me any happier about it.
ETA: Tiggr, when he was feeling better, back in February.
Back in March, we brought Tiggr home from the vet after he’d spent a few days there getting rehydrated. That’s when we found out that he had fairly advanced renal failure.
We’ve been taking him twice a week for subcutaneous fluids, and, other than being painfully thin — he’s under 7 pounds, and has been for awhile — he’s been doing pretty well.
But now, for the past 24 hours anyway, he’s pretty much stopped eating. He just looks at his food and plays with the snacks we give him, and sleeps a lot. And he did not jump up on the bed with us last night, except once (the wife says he was up there at 3:30AM, but I was dead to the world, according to my Fitbit). Normally he’s up there several times and ends up sleeping in between us.
While he’s still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, jumping up on things and climbing on his people, I think today when we take him for fluids again, the verdict is going to be fairly obvious.
I’m certainly upset about this, but I don’t think I’m as upset as I was with Snoopy. This is a cat, after all, who nearly died when he was 3 from ingesting the better part of a bobbin of thread from my wife’s sewing machine. We’ve had 12 years with him that we came very close to not having.
But it’s still hard.
Really, gay people, you sound just like toddlers who keep whining even after they get their lolly.
Jerk just HAD to sound off at the guy in the wheelchair…who just happened to be the Governor of Texas.
TSA should have frog-marched him off and thrown him in the pokey to rot for awhile.
When you win, you really shouldn’t gloat. You never know, what goes around, often comes back around. And next time, the folks who were either for you or didn’t care one way or the other (I fit into the latter group, at least partly because I deny that the government has the right to regulate, license, or tax marriage) may not be so supportive.
Act like jerks, be prepared to be treated like jerks. After all, you wanted to be just like the rest of us.
Eugene Pulliam is generating electricity from the grave.
I happened to glance* at the Gannett Star last Sunday (it’s still sitting on the kitchen table, which jogged my memory) and had to do a double-take. First, at how physically small the paper has become. Second, at how little actual content there is, even on the front page. And third, at how large the typeface is, which whittles the amount of actual content down even more.
By comparison, I take the Wall Street Journal, and I can barely get through it every day. (And I admit, many days I read the front (news) section and trash the rest only because I run out of time.) The Journal is, physically, at least an inch larger in each direction, and while it uses a font that is similar in pitch to that used by the Star, the font used by the Journal (Exchange) is not as “massive” as that used by the Star (which I haven’t been able to identify, but it looks a lot like Palatino, except wider).
The Star is well past the point of being the perfect newspaper for the low-information voter with a fourth-grade reading level. Tastes great, less filling.
* Even though we actually do buy one each week, I make a point of not reading anything but the comics. We get it primarily so the lady wife can get the coupons, use of which easily pays for the mass of polluted newsprint that we throw away mostly unread every Friday.
I’ve misplaced my CRKT pocketknife. It’s here somewhere (I know I had it on Saturday) but I can’t find it.
I suppose I’ll find it in the last place I look.
EDIT TO ADD, 17 JULY: Found it right where the cat knocked it off the dresser and into a pile of clothes next to my closet door. &#$^! cat.
Well, this is day 16 of my 16 day break from work, my good colleagues, and my asshole boss. I haven’t taken a holiday like this since my honeymoon, and that was only 11 days. Amazing how short half a month is.
I really wish I didn’t have to go back to work tomorrow. Damn it all to hell. Still six and a half years to early retirement. 11 years to full. I have to find another line of work.