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How is Mr. Cat?
Jan. 25th, 2022 07:55 pmLast week, we found out Dorian has low grade lymphoma which is causing swelling in his small intestine. We'd noticed he has been losing weight. Food Inspector Cat has never been a chonky cat, in spite of his self-professed occupation. But we were starting to really feel his spine and his flanks have sunken in. The sample they took shows some of the lymphoma cells might be turning into the more serious form of cancer. We can't know more without a biopsy. We might have a few more months. We might have a year. Seth and I quietly wept at the news, wondering as anyone in our shoes has what we could have done different. It's primarily a quirk of genetics.
It terrifies us to think of Food Inspector Cat slowly dying of starvation. The day after his ultrasound, he hid under the bed and only came out to eat when I offered him tuna juice and broth. With some good fortune, he's quickly forgotten the indignity and seems to trust us again. We and our vet are in agreement that our primary goal is to help him regain weight and retain the highest quality of life for as long as is possible. To this end, we've tried hard to minimise the shock of medication. After trying to get a tiny pill into him the first morning and failing horribly, I've taken to hiding his anti-nausea medication crushed into a teaspoon of tuna. He has an appetite increaser I rub into his ear, which he tolerates remarkably well. The vet helped us compound a chicken-flavoured steroid I mix in tuna and broth. If he takes all of these things well, we'll start him on oral chemotherapy.
What has heartened me a great deal is that he is ultimately still Dorian. Dorian is the cat who, a day after woozy tranquilisers for testing, hiding under the bed and only coming out for tuna juice, dunks his face into the tom kha gai I happen to be eating next to him. Without asking. He's the cat who starts auto-biscuiting as soon as I gently lift him onto my chest—after lying prone on the appropriate couch, wearing the appropriate bath robe and putting on my arm warmers—and spends 20 minutes marching up and down my arms (just my arms) with great determination. When he naps on me, he has to sleep on at least one hand to ensure compliance. Naps on Seth may involve burying his face in fur while perched magnificently upon his entire torso. Dorian is only a little boy because I insist on seeing him that way.
Right now I am writing on the couch, Food Inspector Cat asleep and melted over my knees. Occasionally passing Seth informs me he seems well-pleased and possessive. There has never been enough head kisses, nose boops, tummy rubs and ear rubs that this cat can be inflicted with and now there never will be enough.
It terrifies us to think of Food Inspector Cat slowly dying of starvation. The day after his ultrasound, he hid under the bed and only came out to eat when I offered him tuna juice and broth. With some good fortune, he's quickly forgotten the indignity and seems to trust us again. We and our vet are in agreement that our primary goal is to help him regain weight and retain the highest quality of life for as long as is possible. To this end, we've tried hard to minimise the shock of medication. After trying to get a tiny pill into him the first morning and failing horribly, I've taken to hiding his anti-nausea medication crushed into a teaspoon of tuna. He has an appetite increaser I rub into his ear, which he tolerates remarkably well. The vet helped us compound a chicken-flavoured steroid I mix in tuna and broth. If he takes all of these things well, we'll start him on oral chemotherapy.
What has heartened me a great deal is that he is ultimately still Dorian. Dorian is the cat who, a day after woozy tranquilisers for testing, hiding under the bed and only coming out for tuna juice, dunks his face into the tom kha gai I happen to be eating next to him. Without asking. He's the cat who starts auto-biscuiting as soon as I gently lift him onto my chest—after lying prone on the appropriate couch, wearing the appropriate bath robe and putting on my arm warmers—and spends 20 minutes marching up and down my arms (just my arms) with great determination. When he naps on me, he has to sleep on at least one hand to ensure compliance. Naps on Seth may involve burying his face in fur while perched magnificently upon his entire torso. Dorian is only a little boy because I insist on seeing him that way.
Right now I am writing on the couch, Food Inspector Cat asleep and melted over my knees. Occasionally passing Seth informs me he seems well-pleased and possessive. There has never been enough head kisses, nose boops, tummy rubs and ear rubs that this cat can be inflicted with and now there never will be enough.
