Winds of change

Today is another of those blustery days straight out of Winnie the Pooh - the wind is blowing branches and autumn's fallen leaves all about, and the air is crackling with dry energy. The weather seems to inspire Fig, who has had "whack attacks" the past two mornings, in which he bounds through the house from stem to stern like a demented rabbit. After his intense activity he finds a warm, comfortable spot to sleep, and within seconds he is lost to his dreams.

I have been keeping him inside the last few nights due to the cold nighttime temperatures, so I was surprised to see him eager to nap inside the house today, rather than in his favored crate on the front porch. Perhaps he senses that our days in this house are limited, and he wants to make the most of it. Cats can be incredibly sensitive to change, and as I've been packing boxes in anticipation of a move to a new house, he's been investigating each box carefully.

Fig is one of the few cats I've known who is possessive about his "stuff." Yes, cats can be territorial, but that usually applies to a favorite spot on the rug, the backyard, or the neighborhood, not to a scratching pad or a cat toy. Yet I have observed Fig to be noticeably relieved - that's the only word for it - after a move to a new house when he sees his stuff - scratching pad, favorite toys, bed, etc. - being carried inside the new place. After it is placed, he always runs over to use it, checking it out to make sure it was returned to him in good condition. I've joked that because he spent so many weekends before I adopted him on display at the local pet store adoption fair he had time to peruse and become a connoisseur of cat merchandise, but he definitely has a sense of what is his "stuff."

I hope that he will take to the new place with as much equanimity as he has exhibited in my last few moves. I had thought that my current house would be his last address, and I had even thought about burying him in the backyard, but happily he has lived long enough to make at least one more move. Now to designing his new space to keep us both happy!

Rain, rain, go away

It has been raining off and on for more than 24 hours, and it is driving Fig crazy. The thought of leaving Fig out in a cold storm is more than I can bear, so last night he slept inside like a civilized cat, despite his protestations to the contrary. Early this morning he pleaded to go out. It was only raining lightly, so I opened the door and he ran onto the porch. When he reached the unprotected section of the porch and the rain drops hit him, he turned around and gave me a disgusted look, as if to say "What is this? Make it go away!"


Sometimes I think Fig believes that people have power over the weather, just as we have mysterious power over lights, running water, and other functions within the house. We are both demigods and animated can-openers, the machinery behind the cat universe. I control the flow of water in the sink when I bathe him, so there is some logic, I suppose, in his thinking that I have equal control over the waterworks outside.

It is a strange relationship we share with cats. To them, I think, we are at once both gods and servants. But then, don't we do the same with those in positions of authority over us? We stand in line for hours in all kinds of weather just for a glimpse of a favorite celebrity, or proudly frame a letter from the White House, yet when our icons are caught in the midst of human frailties we are quick to condemn them, or rail against them when their opinions run counter to our own. And how we demand they serve us! One more concert, film, book, or the favor of an intercession with a government agency, a bit of pork for our industry, our city. Somehow, though, the feline approach seems more elegant, less disingenuous. "Yes," they seem to say, "you can indeed make food magically appear each day. So how about putting that skill to good use and opening up a can for me right now?" Ah, the honesty of living in the moment!

Whether to laugh or cry?

Fig's kidneys are slowly failing him. As their function deteriorates, they seem to be working overtime, for Fig has become a prodigious - and unpredictable - urinator. Sometimes I feel as though I am singlehandedly keeping the manufacturers of clumping catbox litter afloat, as I scoop out enormous clumps from his boxes on a daily basis. Along with an increase in volume has come a decrease in control, especially when Fig is picked up.

Recently a friend picked up Fig while we were in the kitchen, holding him under his front legs and supporting his back with the other hand. I glanced over and was dismayed to see a stream of urine spouting up and across the kitchen. "He's peeing!" I shouted, and my friend, caught by surprise, turned to face me, not knowing that Fig was hosing down the decks. The two of them had the effect of a fire hose. I jumped back as the stream narrowly missed me, and Fig was quickly carried over to the sink to finish his business. A good deal of mopping, scouring, and disinfecting followed, during which time I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. His incontinence will only get worse as his disease progresses. On one level, it is only urine, heavily diluted at that, and can be cleaned. On another level, though, it is a reminder that the day is coming when other systems will fail, and I will have to make a difficult decision. And, to be honest, it is sad to think that I cannot freely pick Fig up and hold him on my lap. At least not unless I am prepared for a warm, wet lap that instantly turns cold.

Hmm...do they make Depends for cats? What do other people do when their sick pets are constantly urinating, defecating, or vomiting?

Morning Becomes Fig

Fig is definitely a morning person. If I am not out of bed by 6:30am he will begin scratching at the door, sometimes pushing it open and trotting into the room with his plume of a tail held high. He then looks at me with big round eyes and gently chastises me with a series of faint "hahs." He is at his friskiest and most affectionate in the morning, excited to greet the new day and take up his sentry post on the front porch. Even though the mornings have been chilly of late, Fig is eager to partake of them, seemingly impervious to the cold that sends me running for warmer clothing.



He is certainly a different creature by night - much less affectionate, more fearful, and drowsy. Night is something to be endured - preferably slept through - until it is time to get up and go outside again. Of course, on those evenings when the temperature is mild enough for him to sleep in his crate on the porch he is rarely in it; I have observed him watching the nocturnal activities of our local fauna with great intensity. In those instances I suppose that the stimulation of being outside supercedes his morning orientation.



I wonder if people and animals take on each other's orientation to morning or evening. I am a morning person by nature, and delight in the sight of Fig happily chasing a bug around the porch in the cool sunshine. In those moments, we are one in the joy of a new day.

Grateful for today

Fig has been having a spate of good days, and I am thankful to be able to share them with him. He has been affectionate, wanting to be around me, and quite frisky. He pushed the bedroom door open the last two mornings and jumped on the bed to remind me that there is more to life than lolling in bed. He seems to relish being outside on his deck, and scampered about this morning. I even thought he might make a leap for the railing, but he drew short of doing that. It is wonderful to see him so full of life, to feel his warmth against my skin. Life is precious.

Consumer Beware?

This week Fig is due to have his meds - the chemo capsule and the steroid injection, both of which are administered at home. Last month, at the vet's recommendation, I took him in for a full blood panel before they gave me the medication to take home. It was a stressful experience for both Fig and me, and what we learned was that the cancer is continuing to interfere with his kidney function and that the treatment is not damaging his liver and white cell count, at least not enough to discontinue treatment. The vet told me then that she would probably only need a single blood test, rather than the full panel, next month. She also thought that Fig had another 4 months at the outside.

So I called the office to see what I needed to do before getting his meds, and was directed to the vet's voicemail. She left me voicemail in return later that evening, telling me that I should bring in Fig for another full blood panel, and that maybe next month we could do just one blood test. My hackles went on full alert - this was sounding suspiciously like a sales job to me. If the vet thinks my cat is dying within a short timeframe anyway, why encourage me to stress the poor animal and incur even more expense for more blood tests? And why didn't she ask me how Fig is doing before deciding he needed yet another full panel when she had told me the previous month that he would only need a single blood test?

In truth, Fig seems to be doing fine. The slight gait irregularities, hints of palsy, and occasional remote/strange behavior I observed shortly after his diagnois have all disappeared, and he walks and acts quite normally. His appetite can fluctuate, but overall is fine. He has normal bowel movements, and his eyes are bright and clear. This morning he was full of energy and bounded all over the house like a rabbit. So why does he need to be tested again?

I think that this vet just wants to squeeze as much money out of me as possible while Fig is still alive. After all, I won't be a source of revenue for that animal hospital once my pet is dead. It doesn't appear that she cares one whit about my cat, or how stressful it is for him to be hauled to her office to be poked and prodded. When I originally discussed treatment options with her and another vet at this hospital, the emphasis was on treatments that could be administered at home, to eliminate that stress.

When your pet has a terminal diagnosis, I think one can be more susceptible to guilt and pressure to spend money on tests and treatments, as if cash will chase the specter of death from your doorstep. I've decided not to buy into it, but rather will let Fig's appearance and behavior tell me if the treatment is harming him. So far, things look good.

Appetite and the great outdoors

Fig's appetite has been a bit off since yesterday. The weather turned cold suddenly, after several days of unseasonable heat, and I brought him in off the porch at night, worried that he might be more susceptible to illness since he is being treated with a steroid. I know he prefers to be outside as much as possible, so I wonder if being denied unlimited access to his outdoor sanctuary has diminished his food lust. We often speak of being in the great outdoors as giving us an appetite; perhaps the same is true for cats. They are, after all, wild creatures at heart, even though they enjoy their warm spots to nap and favored treats to eat. A normal appetite is but one outward signal of a healthy, balanced state. When a domestic cat or a human being connects with nature, it is possible we connect with our true inner nature - the artifice of forced domesticity fades into the background and we are awakened to our appetite for life. And to live, we must eat.

But today, even bacon and his treasured bonito flakes have not tempted Fig. He seems interested in food, but won't eat. He is restless, and paces back and forth between the house and the porch, as if he isn't sure which world he wants to be in. As I write this, he has chosen to settle behind me on the back of the sofa. Hopefully he'll dream of bounding through tall grasses in his beloved outdoors, and wake up ready to devour his prey.