Sully

Friday catblogging is SO 2004...but since we've gotten a new kitty, I think it's fitting today.

Meet Sully:






We got him before new years. Some friends of one of our nieces had seen him wandering her neighborhood and took him in, but couldn't keep him. We had planned to take a longer break from pets after losing Pavlov, but with this guy on the verge of being sent to Animal Control, we couldn't resist. He spent most of his first week hiding in the basement and has warmed to us slowly. Given that now he has no problem jumping into our bed at 3 am and begging for food (sorry dude, no dice), I'd say he's settled in.

He's not a cuddly cat like Pavlov, but he is very playful. It'll be fun having him.

He Stopped Purring Today

Apologies to George Jones for the title of this, but it's as apt a phrase as I can think of to sum up the death and life of my cat, Pavlov. He was as affectionate a cat as I've ever seen, and sometimes I thought he spent his entire waking life purring. Not so much over the last week when he rarely left the couch, and a cyst that had grown on his side since last winter began to abscess. But we squeezed one more out of him as we held him in the vet's office this morning before we gave him the shot. About an hour ago we buried him between the pines in our backyard, wrapped up with a small St. Francis icon and a sprig of catnip to make the journey pleasant. He was 19.

I won't give a protracted elegy here, and I won't rehearse the difficulty of making the decision, which we actually went to the vet's this morning not assuming we'd have to make, even though I knew it was a possibility. It was awful to have to decide, but unquestionably the right thing. He'd been declining for months, and had almost nothing left to give. He could hardly walk from the couch to his food bowl without stumbling, though he often made the attempt, as his appetite remained excellent right to the end.

It is a sad day, though given his age and his relatively good health until the last, not a tragic one.

I really couldn't ask for more from a pet, though Pavlov had his faults, among them that he photographed poorly. His gray/black coloration didn't show up well against most backdrops, at least not with the lighting in our house. I had trouble choosing among at least slightly disappointing likenesses of him for this memorial post. Ultimately I chose this one, taken just a couple of weeks ago, when for once he seemed to be lit up well. We took almost thirty pictures of him that day, most of which we snapped just as he was moving. So they're generally blurry, or have a little glare, but this I thought was one of the best, taken on one of the last days he was at his.



Farewell, Pavlov (AKA the Pea, the Peanut). Thanks for 17 fine years.

Spring Break(?); Starving Cat Chronicles #6

The trip last weekend was very good, as you might have gathered from the Twitters. The rain stayed away until after we left, giving us a nice last ski on Sunday morning. I didn't take any pics. The trails (to be precise, the Corsair trail system near Tawas, MI) ran through unbroken pine woods, mostly red pine plantations, so not much of scenic interest presented itself. You could say that the straight rows of trees made the place something of an artificial environment, and you'd be right--but what landscape isn't the product of some artifice these days? The cold air, the twilight on snow, the gurgling of a small creek made this a far cry from running on a track.

I'm in the middle of my university's spring break, though it's not at all a vacation. I'm catching up on work I let go earlier. I was hoping to do my taxes too, but that isn't looking likely.

But a lack of spare time is the least of my sorrows this week. My cat, Pavlov, all but stopped eating this Monday, and he was almost skeletal to begin with. That, plus the foulness of his breath, suggests his failing kidneys may be all but exhausted. I'm taking him to the vet this morning, and I know he'll tell me it's time to put him to sleep. While I've known this day was coming for a while, I am still not ready for it. Kristine and I got Pavlov just after we were married, so as long as we've lived together he's been part of the household.

I will confess I've found caring for him increasingly difficult of late. Until Monday, he needed to eat constantly, he had become quite casual about his bathroom habits, and his runny poops tended to stick to his fur, making him unwelcome on our laps despite his insistence on climbing on them. Frankly, he's been aggravating. But a few more weeks of his problems would be easier to take than putting him down.

There is the question of how much he's been suffering (he's actually had many more good hours than bad ones), and whether sparing our emotions a bit longer merits prolonging his life in its pitiful state. I'm hoping the vet can give an accurate assessment of where he stands, and possibly take some measures that will give him some more quality time with us--peritoneal dialysis, perhaps, and another round of antibiotics for his intestinal problems.

This sounds foolishly hopeful. But I'm afraid that's about as far as I can go emotionally at the moment.

Enough self pity. Hope you regulars are doing OK, and I hope this outburst of pathos doesn't scare off anyone who's newly happened by.

STARVING CAT UPDATE:

The vet gave didn't seem overly concerned. He gave Pavlov another peritoneal dialysis treatment (basically shooting lots of water into his abdomen) and said he should be fine for a bit. Plus, Pavlov has recovered some of his appetite today.

Starving Cat Update; Flowing Together?

Pavlov's tests came back with some encouraging results. While his blood toxin levels are elevated, they are nowhere near crisis levels, and his level of phosphorous, an especially important indicator, remains normal. So we're not done with him yet. He continues to have an insatiable appetite for Gerber strained chicken--he scarfed 4 1/2 jars yesterday and probably could have eaten more. Since his weight loss remains a more serious problem at this point than his failing kidneys, we'll give him all the pureed fowl he can handle. The vet says we can't possibly overfeed him.

If you're looking for an investment, I'd reccomend a short position in Gerber.



Yesterday, the NYT ran a neat little profile of water. Yes, water, that common, precious, and imperiled fluid we drink, wash with, and fish in. Rich in fact yet playful in tone, the article examined its chemical properties and the roles it plays in maintaning life. In the midst of information about solvency, viscosity, and molecular bonds, one passage set me thinking about the bond that many anglers feel toward favorite waters and their environs.

“Water acts as the contact between biological molecules, not just separating them, but imparting information among them,” said Martin Chaplin, a professor of applied science who studies the structure of water at London South Bank University. “In an aqueous environment, all the molecules are able to feel the structure of all the other molecules that are present, so they can work as whole rather than as individuals.”

Could this explain some anglers' feelings of "oneness" with rivers, trout, mayflies, and the riparian realm in general?

Starving Cat Chronicles #4

Yesterday we got some bad news that wasn't unexpected but was still hard to hear. Our vet told us that our cat Pavlov's kidneys were failing. Short of giving him a transplant, he won't get better. We can give him peritoneal dialysis treatments (meaning the vet injects water into his belly), but these will only prolong the inevitable.

This afternoon, we'll get some test results back that will indicate how much kidney function he still has and, consequently, how much longer he'll live. At the moment, things don't look too bad. He still walks around, is energetic enough to jump on the kitchen table when we're not looking, wants to eat. When he is too weak to get up, he's at the end of the line.

Like I said, I'm not surprised. Though I didn't suspect his kidneys were failing, he does have some pretty serious digestive problems--he's had them to some degree since the day after we brought him home. Over the last four years, he's dropped from 11 to 6 pounds, and is more or less a walking skeleton, despite our trying numerous treatments and diet regimens. He's a bit wobbly on his feet now, though, as I said, he still puts on an occasional acrobatic display. While he's declined visibly for the last few years, he's worsened rapidly since the beginning of this summer--much weaker, more lethargic, less able to digest food, his affectionate disposition turned sour. He also seems confused at times. Last night, to keep him out of the kitchen while Kristine mopped the floor, we brought his FULL food dish into the living room, and though he had been crying for food, he just sniffed at it and tried to run back in the kitchen. Once we did return the food to its usual spot, he sucked it down immediately.

Lately we've discovered that he tolerates Gerber strained chicken pretty well. I guess his old age really is a second childhood.

I want to keep him around as long as possible, though I'm concerned about his quality of life too, and right now that seems questionable. He spends most of his day either sitting in front of his food bowl begging (i.e., meowing sharply and glaring at us) or sleeping behind shoes stacked around our back door. He doesn't like to be handled--this from a cat that couldn't seem to stay off us if we were sitting down--and he doesn't purr much anymore. I would like to pamper him (more) during the time he has left, but I'm not sure whether he's capable of appreciating it.

Like I said, we'll know more today about where he stands. I think I will need at least a few weeks to say goodbye. At 17, he's had a pretty good run. And when it's over, I pray that he'll go in his sleep.

Big D Walleye Report (& a literary catblog)

Met my dad at the Wyandotte public boat ramp yesterday at 8am and motored out for 11 hours of fishing the Detroit River. Yes, 11 hours. I don't think we've ever spent that much time on the water at one stretch, though as little as my dad gets out anymore, I suppose he needs to make the most of it.

Judging from the amount of time we spent out, you can probably guess the walleye didn't exactly throw themselves at us. We did catch a bunch of silver bass though we only kept a couple. I've heard contradictory reports about whether they're edible. There's only one way to find out, though I'm leaving that adventure up to my dad.

He caught the day's lone walleye a little after 5.



It's a female, loaded with eggs, though most walleye spawned a long time ago. It's also the largest walleye he's caught.

The fish put up a decent tussle, though most walleye won't until they get at least that large. Later in the evening, after hooking another fish, my father offered the day's most memorable utterance with this tribute to the walleye's fighting prowess: "Maybe this one's another walleye...no, it's fighting, it must be a bass." Spot on, pops.

Though it wasn't as productive as our DR trip last year, it still was a nice day. Hot as it was, a steady breeze off the river made it tolerable to be out through the heat of the day. Of course, when the wind shifted and blew from shore, it instantly felt about five degrees hotter.

I wish we'd gotten out earlier in the season, when the walleye bite would have been better, but the point of the day was to spend some time with my father. We've been hitting the water together for damn near 40 years, and I'm not sure how many more of those there will be. I give thanks for every one.



I know Friday catblogging has gone out of fashion, but here's a shot too good to pass up. I mentioned last week I was reading Wild: An Elemental Journey by Jay Griffiths, and when I left it lying open on the sofa Tuesday night, my cat decided to check it out too.



That's his review. I'll have mine up sometime over the weekend. Happy Friday, all.