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My life got a little bit stranger over the weekend. When we adopted Monkey back in May, her PetFinder ad said that she was about three years old. Three was older than we had planned to adopt, but she seemed perfect for us. Her foster mother, a young and nervous teenager, confessed that the ad was old and the cat was closer to four. Okay, whatever. She had been with the rescue organization for so long, and she was still young enough that we'd have many years together. On Saturday, we took Monkey to the vet for booster shots and a general checkup. We were surprised to learn that she had dropped from a healthy seven pounds to just over six despite regular meals and treats. The vet spent a long time examining her eyes and listening to her heart. Finally, she draped her stethoscope around her neck and asked, "How old did you say she is?" Monkey is not three or four years old. She's somewhere over six years, probably closer to ten. The high heart rate and weight loss suggest hyperthyroidism, which rarely occurs in cats under six. More tellingly, the irises of her eyes have begun to atrophy. This doesn't hurt her or affect her vision, it seems, but it's a sign of an aging cat. We had no idea. I agreed to have the vet run a "senior panel," a series of blood tests appropriate for older cats, to see where we stand. We'll get the results back this week and go from there. In the meanwhile, I'm not sure what to do about the rescue organization. Someone (maybe several someones) lied to us. They did it with the best of intentions, I'm sure, but it was wrong anyway. What if we were unable or unwilling to care for an older cat? What if we had been upset enough to return her? Where would that leave Monkey? How many other cats have they adopted out under false pretenses? How is this fair to any of us? I don't have any answers. But I do have Monkey, and we're keeping her. Tags: monkey
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Boston is gray and damp. This isn't the October I signed up for. I've been sick almost the entire month. I get a few days between bouts to get my hopes up, and then I'm back to sleeping a lot and eating cold medicine. I'm coughing this time, too. Hooray. We have two hockey games later this week. I'm hoping for a sudden recovery. I miss my team. The fever has brought some bizarre dreams. Last night, Seatmate and I were in a Boston Billiard Club that doesn't exist. A couple of Chicago hockey players were using the table next to us and shooting us dirty looks for getting in their space. "The Hawks' goal song must have been in your head," said Seatmate. (Warning: clip starts with goal horn. The full song sans goal horn is here.) In truth, I'm not sure I would recognize any Chicago players off the ice. Our guys? Anywhere. The injury bug has sidelined a few of our guys with broken feet, broken fingers, and various other ailments. The upside to this is getting to see the kids called up from the minor-league affiliate. I've become a fan of a scrappy little forward named Brad Marchand. Don't send him back down! He makes opposing players so angry. Seatmate drove me out to the 'burbs last week to get an MRI on my hips. The nurses had some problems getting an IV into my difficult little veins and ended up bruising both hands. I spent some time the night before changing the music on my iPod shuffle to a good mellow mix, but the control room couldn't play it and I got an hour and a half of oldies instead. I'll get the results when I go in to see my hip surgeon in a few weeks. I'm getting really sick of my bed. At least I have a purring cat to keep me company.
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Holy failure to update. The cat has been named Monkey. You can blame me for that. It was one of my first nicknames for her and Seatmate finally gave in came around. We could have put off the naming indefinitely were it not for Monkey's anal glands. She had started scooting her butt along the floor and that flow chart almost always leads to anal glands, and anal glands = vet, thank you. I needed a name for her chart, so Monkey she is. Cricket was an unholy terror in a vet's office, but Monkey was fine. She wasn't happy, but she handled it without Cricket's screaming hostility. The vet reported that she stayed calm through the procedure, too. I'm not sure I could handle a similar situation with such aplomb. Monkey is a healthy seven pounds. In addition to missing her right canine tooth, which we knew, she is also missing a few smaller teeth. Illegible (to me) docspeak on the adoption paperwork said they were pulled under sedation because of decay. She seems fine now, but I'm probably doomed find out how much veterinary dentistry costs. I sympathize. I spent two hours and change at the dentist today getting temporaries. I can't get the licorice-y taste of dental glue out of my mouth. And tomorrow, I get to wake early for a change and go for an echocardiogram. I'm supposed to get one every year, but it's been two. Oops. It might have been longer, but the hip surgeon wants one. I am currently dedicated to the goal of making the hip surgeon happy, so off I go. Seatmate is driving me because he's awesome like that. We're hitting my doc afterward (he moved out of practical subway reach but I haven't moved on yet) for thyroid and iron levels. My life is so exciting. Tags: dysplasia, left hip, monkey
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I was reading and Seatmate dropping off to sleep when the cat discovered the shopping bag in the hall. I ignored the sounds at first. Cats like bags. I assumed that she would jump in and out a few times, knock the bag over, and flee in mock terror. But the paper crackling went on and on, and finally Seatmate started to laugh. "I'll get her," I said, amused, and got up to take the bag away. The cat met me at the bedroom door, the bag dragging behind. She didn't look amused. She looked a little panicked. Somehow, she had slipped her entire body through one of the twisted-paper handles, front paws on one side, back paws on the other, and she couldn't get away. We didn't mean to laugh in her face, but we did. I put cat and bag on the bed, and Seatmate comforted her while I cut the handle. I cuddled her for a bit when she was free, letting her know we weren't upset with her, and she settled down. Seatmate turned back over to sleep. I went back to my reading. All was quiet for a moment, and then Seatmate said, "What a putz." No, we haven't named her yet, but the nickname has stuck. Tags: new cat
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The Bruins lost last night. It's one thing to play well and lose. It's something else entirely to play badly and lose. Seatmate and I were so angry we couldn't speak. Every single Bruin (except Mark Stuart) deserves to be slapped with a fish. Manny Being Manny has been busted for two positive tests for a banned drug and suspended for fifty games. The Powers That Be have said it's not a steroid or human growth hormone. So what is it? Inquiring minds want to know. [Edit: it's hCG, a drug allegedly used to cycle off steroids.] Oh, Manny. I still wear your jersey. On a more cheerful note, this picture made me laugh until I couldn't breathe. Text is NSFW (profanity). YouTubery: Telus commercial hilarity with dancing macaws. O Canada. Tags: bruins, youtube
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