My Ickle Puddy Tat
Ug. What is it about pets that reduce us into stupid, pink fluffy idiots? 'Tis true. My cat Jessie is - as I gibber - with the vet, being force fed. She's ten years old, and we've had her that long. We also had her brother, Benny, who kicked the proverbial bucket after a heart attack a few years ago, when Husband and I were away narrow boating, and son was cat sitting. Son had to bury him, poor lad (son, not cat...).
Jessie's surprised us by outliving him (Benny, not son) this long. But now she's got suspected kidney failure, poor mite. She's skinny as the proverbial rake and hasn't been eating much. Now we're facing her demise. When Benny died I was a wreck, bearing in mind I was suffering with depression and anxiety anyway. I wept buckets. Terrible. Also it came as a horrible shock. This time, we're aware of what's possibly facing us. We're prepared. Sort of.
We've always been cat persons. I was born into a cat household. Mickey was a fluffy (that word again) black persian belonging to my older brother. Mickey was run down by a car while we were away on holiday (why when we're on holiday ...?). I was twelve. I vowed that when I grew up, I would have a cat.
Our first was Moppet, just after we married. Husband brought him to me in his dressing gown pocket on my birthday. Sweet. We thought he was a she until a friend popped 'her' onto his lap. 'Ooh, Moppet's a boy!' We had Moppet until he was into his 90s, in cat years. A long time. Humphrey followed. A cat with half a tail. Probably run over because he was found routing in a bin for food in a Fareham car park. Humphrey was adorable and loved us. He was put to sleep. Cancer got him. Last was Jessie and Benny, brother and sister kittens. Very shy They fought together a lot, and after she was spayed she became aloof. But I loved her and she'd jump onto my lap most evenings.
Yes - why do we put ourselves through it? Because we love them. They're one of the family. Warm, fuzzy individuals padding around, popping in and out of the house and exploring the garden, and, in Jessie's case, sleeping in the shade under her favourite bush during the summer's heat (yes, we Brits do get them...). So where are we with Jessie? As I type, she's back with the vet waiting for further tests. We couldn't let her stay at home because her bodily functions had failed, to put it mildly. Oh, I hope she's going to be okay. I'm steeling myself...
She's got cancer, we think. Long chat with vet while Jessie wandered around the floor, got petted, tried to open the door... The big i? Hardly. Vet injected her twice, one to hydrate her. Told us she doesn't have much longer, but we decided if she's gonna go, we'd rather she was comfortable at home than with an anonymous vet, no matter how nice they are. We brought her home. She hasn't disgraced herself once. We've pussy-proofed all chairs and floors. Bowls of water and tempting food which she's partaken of. She's being treated like a fluffy princess. Being fed Sheba (posh cat grub) and my salmon. 'Gosh...' she's thinking, '...if this is what it's like being ill, I'll carry on...' All she needs now is a purple satin cushion with Jessie embroidered onto it in gold. What is it about cats?
Yesterday, before we ventured to the vet to find out what we were faced with, the postman arrived. Being an amiable sort, he asked how we were. 'Not too good,' Husband responded, 'our cat's ill. Might die.' Postie laughed, nervously, then chatted inconsequentals. Obviously not a pet person.
As I type, Lady Muck's somewhere in the house, possibly watching the garden for birds from a window sill, or snoozing gently on one of her purple cushions. How could we possibly big i that?
She's alive and kicking and doing well! What was all that about? Maybe a bug. Who knows? Some cat thing. We've had plastic sheeting and towels on chairs and settee just in case she did a whoopsit, but she's done doing all that. She's eating reasonably well and being a normal cat. Goodoh.