HopelesslyJoan

I have a beautiful bedroom complete with ensuite that I have spent two years making just perfectly “mine” after my partner moved out.

It took awhile to adjust to the expanse of lonely bed, but when I realized it was all my call, I painted the walls in soft colours of blues and greys and then I accented with pale pinks. I bought a floral duvet covered with beautifully scattered spring flowers.I also left the bedroom door open so that the cat could visit when the mood struck.

It is now officially “girly” and I have no one to make me feel guilty about it. There is a stuffy on the bed (white teddy complete with red ribbon) and perfume bottles, candles, bras and scarves on most surfaces.

Mine, mine, mine!

Well… mine and Innka’s. Innka is my 18-year-old cat. At that age, he’s the equivalent of a one hundred year old human gent. A recent $300 trip to the vet confirmed that he is very healthy, all organs just hunkey dorey.

He does have a few medical problems which we have learned to manage, through modern medicine and the miracle of VISA. He is a mostly blind, toothless diabetic with a thyroid condition that causes him to howl for no apparent reason. He is a black domestic shorthair, but I think there must be Siamese lurking (ever heard THEM complain?) in his genealogy.

When Innka lets go with one of his louder musings, it sounds very much like the demons of Hell are nipping at his heels. He usually saves this blood-curdling yowling until the lights go out, and I am comfy in the arms of Morpheus. Maybe he’s scared of the dark but doesn’t remember until I start snoring. Based on that assumption, I moved his food and water dishes into the bedroom, hoping to create a comfortable environment for him.

Soon afterwards, I moved the kitty litter pan into the ensuite, too. It just made sense…after filling up on a $70 bag of Diabetic Kibble all night long, he would need a nearby place to relieve himself. The bathroom adjoins the bedroom, just steps away from the food dish and my (our) bed.

That long walk through the darkened, sleeping house and out through the kitty door to the garage - it just seemed to be asking a great deal from an old, confused and frightened cat. No wonder he often howled blue murder when he ventured out the bedroom door and into the hallway, where his cries bounced from floor to ceiling like strident ping pong balls.

I tried three different sizes of litter pans after realizing that Innka, sadly, has very poor sanitation habits. He goes into an epileptic fury upon defecating, and spews dirty litter into the air. It coats walls like Spackle. A hefty twenty pound cat also leaves a very large deposit behind. Somehow, when all this was happening in the garage instead of the bedroom, it was less intrusive on my sleep.

Ignorance really IS bliss. It sure smells better!

One of these days, Innka won’t be a warm, furry lump on the bed next to me, purring softly or slurping delicately at leftover runa wedged between pink toes. I won’t wake up with black cat hair glued to my eyelids or stray grains of kitty litter stuck to my legs or the bottom of my feet. There won’t be a yellowish-grey fairball on the Mexican rug next to my bed.

One of these days it will be quiet all night long, and Innka will be gone. There will be no “surprises” between the sheets or on the floor.

I hope and pray he will be my bedmate for a few more years. How did that old joke go… something like “I wouldn’t kick him/her out for eating crackers in bed?” Innka’s tuna and litter debris fall into this lovely, sentimental view of sharing one’s bed with a less than perfect creature. On the positive side, he does not hog the covers or complain if I want to keep the light on while I read in bed, and he hardly ever snores. Execellent qualities, all in all!

When I think about it, Innka’s going to be a very hard act to follow for a human bed partner to follow.

Well, except for the litter box part…

There is an old gag that has gone around for years, entitled “How to Give a Cat a Pill”. The advice starts off very enthusiastically, and optimistically. Simply slip a little butter onto the pill and pop it in the cat’s mouth. It ends very badly, of course, with advice on how to address wounds spurting blood ( in humans).

I have the good fortune to live with the world’s most placid and gentle of cats, Innka. He is also the one of the most ill but happy cats .So I keep forking out major money for all his ailments and he, in his lovely docile manner, endures each new indignity with grace and a certain air of detachment. He has eaten a lot of cat-nip, in his life so maybe that influences his out-look!

Anyway, here is what I now know NOT to do, to a sick cat, courtesy of dear , sweet, patient Innka. A cat who would never disembowel a beloved owner, no matter how tipsy or near-sighted that owner might be….

Innka has diabetes and requires a needle every morning. It used to be twice a day, so we have come a long way in recovery. There really is no good advice here, except to say that it does get easier! The first year I gave him shots, I managed to poke myself almost as often. I consider us “blood brothers”. I learned that bubbles in the liquid do not cause immediate death (for either of us).

Innka has a thyroid problem which requires medicine twice a day. It comes in a pen much like a magic marker, or liquid lipstick. You simply rotate it a couple of turns to get the proper dose, and apply to inner ear of (docile) cat. This stuff is TOXIC to humans, though and requires the wearing of gloves while applying. HONESTLY! You will drip it, at some point in time.

I got very cocky and being thrifty, decided I could skip the gloves. I was doing well till the day he flicked an ear and the goo went flying at my face. After that, it dripped down onto my fingers. I just stared in horror at it. I do not want to know what it has done to MY thyroid, but I wear gloves all the time now. ( Hint: your doctor always has an opened box in her office…)

Then there was the night I tried to put flea killer, “Advantage” on him. There is a spot just low enough down the back of the neck where they cannot lick it off, and poison themselves. I had had a couple of relaxing glasses of wine and felt up to this task, although I usually get a second person to help. The cat’s fur must be moved aside, so bare skin is exposed….have you got the visual? Well, even a bored cat like Innka does not like to be splayed out flat by a human arm, and poked with a smelly wet substance on his back.

He turned his head at an unnatural angle and licked furiously at the wet spot. I grabbed a wet face-cloth and rubbed equally furiously. This spread the poison all over his back, as the water seeped through the fur. Quickly.
In horror, I filled the sink and chased him down ( he had figured out that I was up to no good by then) . As he is eighteen, mostly blind and has only one tooth, he put up a very weak fight. I jammed his rear quarters into the sink water and prayed. I love this cat!

Once he was washed and dried off, I called my vet to confess and to see when he was going to convulse and die.
She was very reassurring, though. She comforted me by saying that I, at least, had put the Advantage on his exterior. Apparently, some REALLY stupid types have actually given it to their cats orally….and they survived!

Innka is an amazing cat. He is hanging on to Life by a thread. But he seems cheerful, always happy to see me, to get a pat or a treat and even a nasty poke with a needle .I don’t think he knows it, and maybe that is the secret to a happy old age. He takes the days as they come, trusts me to manhandle him as I see fit and is there in bed with me, night after night, purring and content and full of forgiveness.

I love my cat.