Well, Rat Turds.

I put off vet visits for all 3 of my cats until this week. My two British Shorthairs are big, burly critters. Typical for the breed. Their oversize carrier is known as the Horse Trailer around here. After my last surgery it was too heavy for me to tote. Just routine vet stuff. Shots. Exams. The oldest cat goes every six months since he is an ancient geezer. No big deal to let this chore slip behind a month, but I could have taken the old guy sooner. He is roughly half the size of the other beasties, although he is the alpha cat and clearly in charge of us all.

I did not want to go see the vet. Why? Because I knew she would tell me our old cat is near the end of his life.

Count Catula as a youngster.

The breeder named him Adonis. Poor cat. The Greek god of beauty and desire was a bit much for the little old man who bought the wiry, talkative Burmese at a cat show in 1997. The old fellow was my father-in-law, Chuck. Adonis promptly became Donny. Or as some of the elderly ladies who lived in his retirement home called him: THAT DONNY. Chuck was fond of letting Donny escape and then making a show of chasing him up and down the building’s long hallways.

Donny was the apple of Chuck’s eye and they were inseperable until Chuck passed away last Christmas. By that time Donny had already lived with my husband and me for a year. Even as his body and mind failed, Chuck still believed Donny was with him in the hospital bed he was unable to leave. “Watch the cat,” he would caution his caregivers in as stern a voice as he could muster. They always did.

How did Donny become Count Catula? See the evidence below. Not only does he have enormous long fangs, he bears a strange resemblance to the great Bela Lugosi. Once removed from Chuck’s tiny overheated apartment, Donny became more active and playful, enjoyed being the boss of our two larger, younger cats and learned some new tricks. Like not getting on the counters and tables. Not scratching the carpet. Not shooting out the door.

Donny becomes Count Catula.

Now at age 15, Count Catula is a senior citizen with a bit of arthritis, some neurological issues and a penchant for barfing. Nothing new there. What is new is an obvious decline in his weight, a lack of grooming, increase in appetite and more weakness in the caboose.

Tomorrow the vet will tell us the results of $227 in tests to determine which crappy disease he has. Might even be two or three. The results almost do not matter. Count Catula will be scarfing up treats in kitty heaven soon.

Right now I’m just sad and angry that we have to deal with yet another loss in what has been a difficult year. I’m pretty resilient, but not today. Good thing there is plenty of chocolate in the house. I need it.

Count Catula figured out how to open the only door in the house that is always kept shut. The wine cellar!


4 comments on “Well, Rat Turds.

  1. Gosh. Goshy. (Goshy is what I first typed.) I’m sure sorry. Both my babies were 18 (T.C.) and 17 (Tabitha)…and they were the best.cats. EVER. I know it’s SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO hard.

  2. decisionsformyfamily says:

    I will send positive thoughts for the results from the vet! I also have a 15 year old cat who never leaves the basement at this point. She hisses at my youngest because she moves too fast but she is still an important member of the family. It is never easy.

  3. Lee Asbell says:

    You are so right, Christine although your little one is so dang cute I don’t know how any creature could fuss at her.

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