Fantasy Author

Journal

That Darn Cat

Wow… I haven’t thought of that movie in ages. Who was that — Christina Ricci?

I remember my grandfather used to have The Movie Network, and he would record movies he thought I would like in the good old VHS days. I remember for that one, he wrote the title on the label as “The Damn Cat.” Still cracks me up.

Anyway, random digression down Memory Lane, there, but that being said “The Damn Cat” is a pretty good title for my week last week.

If you follow my Instagram or Facebook pages (or know me), you know I have a cat.

Her name is Kiri. She’s black with a beautiful auburn undercoat that really shows red, almost purple, in the sunlight. She’s 16 years old, and I’ve had her since she was a kitten. Got her for free from a pet store that was in the process of closing—that very morning we happened by, in fact. My mother did not want another cat, but “c’mooooon mooooom. She’s freeeeeee.” So 14-year-old me got her way.

Now Kiri, well, she’s a bitch. Anyone who knows her knows this. I respect that now, though I enjoyed it less when she was a 12-week old kitten who decided to start every day by actively trying to kill me with her sharp little dagger claws and teeth.

As she’s gotten older, she’s mellowed. Now she has to be everywhere I am. If I am sitting, she is sitting on me (or, as right now as you can see, right beside me).

 Kiri: The Cat Who Actually Likes Her Cat Bed. Until She Doesn’t.

Kiri: The Cat Who Actually Likes Her Cat Bed. Until She Doesn’t.

So you can imagine my concern when last Wednesday, she stopped eating. Wouldn’t even let me pick her up without squeaking in pain. Not her usual “What the hell are you doing, put me down!” but a pathetic little whimper.

Off we go to the vet. Blood work done, anti-nausea injection given.

We come home, she eats a bit, enough to alleviate some concern, but still doesn’t move like she usually does.

Now, she was diagnosed with Irritable Bowel a while ago, so we kind of figured it might be related to that. But the bloodwork came back on Thursday saying she has hyperthyroidism. She lost 25% of her body weight since January. I knew she’d lost weight, but because of her fur and the fact that she’s always been a fairly tiny cat (runt of the litter), I didn’t realize how much.

So yeah. I was pretty much a wreck all day Friday. My poor 16-year-old little girl with all these troubles and still not eating or using her littler box (an issue that had been going on for at least a week, that we had flagged to the vet as a semi-often occurrence and likely reason for the lack of appetite).

Finally on Saturday, we saw a vet who treated the constipation, and the results were almost immediate. I went from Friday being in tears because I was worried about how she would respond to hyperthyroid treatment and how the hell I was going to get her to eat in the meantime to having a cat who is right back up to the energy and appetite levels of a few weeks ago.

THE RELIEF!

Now I can curse her for the stress she caused, and we can move on to treating the hyperthyroidism.

So yeah, the damn cat.

The things we do for our furbabies, am I right?