Margotlog: Maggie-May, aka Calico Short-Hair
I know, to an outsider, a sick cat is simply a sick cat, a being of lesser importance, a pleasant companion but not one to whom we humans extend equal rights. In my younger days, I might have agreed, holding Archie of the red fur and persistent need to be on the other side of the door, in my lap the afternoon just before Fran took him to the vet for the fatal injection. True, Archie had been diagnosed with something truly malignant, maybe cancer. Yet, what shocks me now is that I sat there, saying a casual good-bye to him, sitting in the sun on our front porch. There was no agony to remember. No angst about losing him. Maybe because what was wrong was either incurable or so costly as to be prohibitive. We buried him in the backyard with his pals Fluffy and Justa. I've forgotten exactly where.
Then we replaced him.
For the past month, I've been in dithery shock. Maggie, after eating more helpings of a new Fancy Feast variety than I could count, suddenly fell off a cliff. Constant watery poop. Lethargy like there would be no tomorrow because she was going to die today. Her face became sunken. She shambled and tilted. She forgot how to drink, how to eat. I wasn't much better, vacillating between pell-mell attempts to entice one kind of food or another into her mouth and a kind of "she'll snap out of it" confidence. She didn't. Snap. Out. Of It.
We took her to the vet. Three months before, she'd weighted 7.5 pounds. Now, she weighed 5.2. She was never a long burly cat, but looking back over reports from the last decade, I found that at one point she'd weighed 13 pounds, heftier than either Tilly or Julia, each at 10. The vet couldn't find much wrong, that initial visit, though palpitating her intestines, the vet found they were bigger and thicker than normal. This could mean either an intestinal "condition" or cancer. That visit I didn't ask the vet to draw blood to test for parisites. Three days later I brought Maggie back for the test. No parasites. But we gave her a "water treatment," meaning I held lethargic Maggie while the vet tech with true kindness and humility administered the subcutaneous fluids. Maggie didn't move. Once at home, she seemed a bit more energetic. She ate a tiny bit more of the presription "kibble" for cats with disgestive troubles.
Another week of dithery fear and hope and effort. In my daze I left a half-full, movie-size container of buttered popcorn on the floor. Maggie ate at it. Her watery poop didn't improve though she had more spunk. We started the water treatment at home. Though normally placid and undemanding, she hissed and yowled. Good thing Fran held her, while I administered the fluids. It dawned on me that popcorn wasn't a good snack for a troubled digestive system. I sent it to the composting. Gradually, Maggie showed more zip. She walked up and down stairs from the second floor where it's warmer, to the first floor. She seemed simply to want to be with us.
Now, she even walks around the house, not a lot, but taking an ambling peregrination. Some days I've been so exhausted, I've forgotten her medication. We had a breaktrough when I realized in my fear about intestinal trouble that I'd stopped giving her the anti-hyper-throid medication. The vet said start it up again, at a slightly lower dose. Within 3 days of having that remedied, she was walking more normally, not tilting or stumbling. Somewhere inside myself, a gong beat: OMG how could it not have occurred to me sooner? Taking her abruptly off such a medication was probably like withdrawing alcohol or a mind-bending drug.
Now I can leave the room where she's resting on the bed, or in Fran's office chair turned toward the sun. I don't always have the electric blanket turned on. But the bond we forged remains strong. She comes to get me if she wants her water glass refilled. I refill it even if it doesn't need it. Then I stand with my hand on her warm back as she begins to drink.
I no longer have a daily period of "blur," when I race up and down stairs, bringing her water, food, patting her, asking her. But I hold my hand on her back while she drinks and eats her special kibble. The sound of her tongue lapping sooths and comforts. Tears came to my eyes. I love her so much. I had forgotten how much, I'd forgotten how we first met. Fran had adopted her when he had to rush back from the North Shore to take a flight for Tennessee where his mother was dying. When he bought cat food at Pet Smart for our other critters, he discovered calico cat Maggie, sitting primly with white paws and a serious plea in her eyes. Her name was "Maryland." He brought her home.
A day later I walked into an empty house, knowing that newcover Maggie was there. Something about my sorrow, my fear that she'd be hiding and I wouldn't find her, my round after round of calling, "Maggie, Maggie, Maggie," came back to me. A bond I'd forgotten had been forged then, a bond of need, fear, and relief. She finally appeared and let me stroke her. She ate the usual way cats at our house eat: from dishes on the floor. She had a drink from a bowl of water. Until now, she'd been the middle cat, somewhat outshone by smart and sassy Julia and skittish but beautiful, green-eyed Tilly.
Oh, Maggie mine. I am so glad you're better. I know we all msut die,
but please not now. Please be with us longer, sitting upright and regal,
looking at us with green eyes, with your caution and step-by-step climb
up the stairs. Be with us, Maggie-Mine, more days through sadness
and joy.
