Radioactive Cat

John is what I would call an extreme pet lover. Me, I'm different, I hail from a place where our neighbor's farm treated their cows lovingly and then slaughtered them and labeled the meat in the freezer with their names; animals had functions. An animal that didn't have a function was a frivolous thing. People in our neighborhood had cats and dogs, but I don't remember basic veterinary care being commonplace (except for the horses and livestock).
Hence, my confusion about where to draw the line for John's aging menagerie.
Our vet is always giving us a hard time about the dog and cat's teeth. She bugs us to get dental cleanings, and when I relented and allowed it, our cat Baloney was found to have a cavity. We were given a referral to a cat dentist who could fill the tooth. That one actually crossed John's line, and he said, "why didn't they just pull the damn thing?"
Last week, poor white cat Swee'Pea stopped eating. John was going away, I told him to say goodbye just in case. She was diagnosed with diabetes, and I was asked if I could give her twice-daily injection shots. I told the vet that I would do whatever John wanted, and here I am, two weeks later, injecting the cat with insulin.
The cat is doing fantastic, by the way. I almost feel guilty for my approach to these problems. Now we have an energetic, loving-once-more, insulin-dependent cat.
Then there's Baloney, the black and white tom. Now this cat has wormed a certain place into my heart because of his total friendliness to any person who comes over. What cat is ever like that? His good-naturedness has never waned in his new illness which is hyperthyroidism, a condition that has made him terribly skinny.
The vet put him on a daily dose of pills (which he willingly ate, what a cat!) and recommended a procedure to treat him with radioactivity to quash the tumor in his thyroid gland.
We learned that upon return from the treatment, that Baloney would be radioactive for two weeks, and that his urine must be separated and bagged, and that he can't be petted or touched until his system is free of the isotope.
John and I certainly waffled back and forth on this one. Should we do it? Have we gone too far once again?
We said yes, Baloney is officially radioactive and we pick him up tomorrow. My next new job: taking care of one radioactive cat.

This is why I'll never write again

Melamine Cat Poisoning Mystery

Back in March 2007, our two cats, Swee'Pea (aged around 11) and Baloney (13?) stopped eating, and curled up into listless balls, each refusing to move. I noticed a pet food recall on a local website. Alarmed, I made an appointment with our vet. She thought I was over-reacting. "If their food isn't on the recall list, then I wouldn't worry about it."
She examined them and took samples. I said they seemed as though they had been poisoned. She suggested maybe they had eaten something bad, but I insisted that wasn't possible. These cats were so spoiled, I told her, they'd never deign to eat anything but their food. The fact they were both sick worried me the most, I told her. She said it could be a virus. I agreed that yes, the cats may have caught a virus, but the fact that thousands of cats would die in the weeks following still made me suspect there was a correlation, if only for the fact these cats had never been sick before, and were up to date on all shots, and never around other cats.
Days passed and more pet foods were added to the recall list. We had been feeding the cats Fancy Feast (with gravy) and a fancier Fancy Feast (if that's even possible) called Elegant Medleys. I went on the internet and bought some fresh raw cat food but the cats refused it. Baloney, who at one point could easily have been termed obese, turned into a former shell of himself, a long, flat cat of skin and bones that refused to eat.
The vet said the tests came back negative (I'm not sure what these tests were, just enzyme counters and such that would signify illness). She administered water shots to both cats for a week and this improved their spirits immensely. They started walking about a bit (albeit stiffly) and nibbling some dry food. The vet offered us a brand of wet cat food she sells at her clinic, and we crossed our fingers and waited.


(Baloney No Paw)

Several friends and family members lost pets in the spring of 2007. Baloney was doing better, but Swee'Pea now had a strange hunch in her back (like a permanently scared cat) and more or less started resembling a rabbit in the way she walked. But she was eating and purring so we were happy to have her alive.

Sweep's strange gait worsened, and again in August she curled up into a ball and stopped moving around and eating. One morning I saw her dragging her back two legs behind her, useless. I called the vet and took her in. Once again, the vet could find nothing, but offered to send her to a larger animal hospital for more tests. I looked at the poor Sweep, terrified as the vet held her down on the table. I said no, I would just take her home.
When I was a kid, we had a cat that apparently was hit by a car and appeared at our doorstep, dragging its back legs behind it. We happily put the cat in a box and took the box with us everywhere, and slowly the cat learned to walk again. With that in mind, I put Sweep in a pillowed basket and carted her around the house with me; brought her food and water, took her to the litterbox. She seemed surprised at first by this new system, but gradually learned to adapt. She slowly started dragging herself into the litterbox and then back into her basket, at which point she'd be thrilled to be placed next to John's computer or on Isa's bed.
Over time, she has learned to walk again, although it certainly does look more like a drunken stumbly swagger than a stealthy cat walk. She is happy, she eats (too much!) and she sleeps on top of John most nights. But she certainly has never been the same since March 2007. Neither has Baloney. He's happy too, but a thin shell of himself, no matter how much he eats, he remains gaunt. Still, we are glad to have them with us. And furious if humans are to blame for their conditions.

(also if anyone has any information they'd like to share on this feel free to contact me at berniejubilee at yahoo.com)

My Tibetan Mastiff

Momo's not so bad. He only has one bite "on his record." Notice the language. It's like saying I have no Mexicans "on my payroll."

Asian Dogs

People wonder why I put up with John's dog. "What was he thinking getting such a vicious beast?" they whisper as they hear the growls behind the bedroom door. John saw big, John saw fluff. He saw a Newfie that didn't drool. He saw a family guard dog. He'd never been to Tibet. He didn't really think about what a dog who will gleefully take on a lion might actually be like.

But I sympathize. In 1980 National Geographic World featured a shar-pei on the cover. I had to have one. When I was sixteen my long-suffering boyfriend, Joe, offered to buy me one. I was aware of the dog's noble origins, as fighting dogs from China. The wrinkles were to prevent more serious muscle injuries. I took none of this into account as I brought my puppy home. It should be of no surprise to anyone that he was aggressive. He did, however, live a decent life (in the seclusion of my mother's home), but he certainly wasn't that 'car dog' I had been picturing.

I can relate to John's desire for a pet who could easily scare away mountain lions. I can overlook the fact there is a reason this breed is largely unknown (question: Have you ever seen one of these dogs?) Since YouTube hadn't been invented yet, I can forgive John's ignorance of Chinese videos of snarling, fighting dogs (one in particular with a man and a shovel, and a TM all upset about something).

I can even excuse his lack of historical research. Alexander David Neel's books about Tibet do mention these dogs, and more than a few passages go into great detail about how no one, not a single villager would dare to try to enter an area with a bunch of these dogs scattered in the dirt, lying seemingly lifeless.

The words "primitive breed" are so much more meaningful now. Basically, the dog's just doing his job.