Wise Words from A Local Cat Star

 Getting Old Sucks 

By Nemo Holabird, Reno, NV 

My Boomer era people grouse about aging, and I’m beginning to understand what they mean.  Considering that my 16 years put me into the 84-year old human range, I’m doing better than my far younger people, who can’t jump a 6-foot fence into the neighbor’s yard the way I do.  

But…and I hate admitting this…sometimes that fence is way too high. I stare up at the top, issue some Siamese yowls, wiggle my hind quarters but only hit the ¾ mark.   My dog chasing speed seems slower too, and sometimes rather than force Libby the neighbor’s Evil Yellow Lab out of My Yard, I duck under the deck. But overall, I complain less about aging than my Boomers—except for one thing: the needle. 

It started when The Dreaded Vet sampled my blood, discovering my kidneys imitating a downhill skier. CRF (chronic renal failure), he called it. 

So my fur looks scruffy and I drink water all the time, jumping in the litter box quickly afterward. My people have bad hair and don’t want me to tell anyone the number of times they make late night restroom trips. 

None of my meows convinced them to just let me be.  They started by taking me off my favorite tasting high-protein tuna (which they frequently grumbled about cleaning off the carpet after I threw it up). They switched me to KD (kidney diet). Talk about sawdust. 

“The woman at the vet’s said cats find this ‘very palatable,’” my Number One Person told me. 

“Right,” I pantomimed to her. “You try eating it.”  She didn’t. 

 I emphasized my opinion by ignoring the dish for 24-hours straight and watching the food harden into a ball suitable for a golf game; eating strikes forced my people to alternate with more flavorful wet chicken dishes. The specially formulated KD kibbles taste all right, so I deign to eat those on occasion.  

Tampering with my menu was bad enough, but the people made it worse by researching my condition. Despite my efforts to shut down the computer and tear out phone service, my people found vets and others who called “Subcutaneous Hydration (Sub-Q)” the best thing ever for renal failure. 

Right—shove a foot-long needle (human interruption here: one-inch) in my back (human interruption again: loose folds of skin) and run fluid through me for hours (human interruption: about 5 minutes).   

This is good? (Human interruption: that bit about jumping the 6-foot fence didn’t happen before the hydration process. Plus all the blood chemistry numbers improved. So did the fur. And…). 

((Cat interruption:  It hurts!)) 

Back to the point—the needle.  It’s pain, so I do my best to hide under the bed or in dark corners when the people act like they’re looking for my drip bag.  I try to discourage them.  I quake. I run the Antonio Banderas/Puss ‘n Boots sad-eyed kitty routine. But my people repeatedly demonstrate hard hearts. They keep finding me and hydrating me, despite my sadly non-macho meltdowns. 

They pretend to understand. 

“I’m a blood doner. I give regularly,” says my Number One Person. “I know the needle hurts going in, but it helps in the long run.” 

She does that human-teeth baring thing they think makes them look friendly. 

I’m not buying it and slit my eyes. 

“Oh come on,” she says. “They take blood out of me which is far more invasive. At least with you it’s just some fluid going in your skin.” 

I growl a little. She may be like a reverse vampire by forcing fluids in, but what she does sucks. 

“Come on, Nemo,” she repeats.  “You’re always so tough.” 

True. 

“So man up, don’t be a pussy.” 

But… 

…but I am a pussy.