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Passive resistance and the Mahatma kitty

I’ve had pets my whole life and my current roster is two dogs, one cat and one goldfish.

Due to poor planning (or more honestly, no planning), we’re all roughly the same equivalent age. One dog is 10, the other is 11; the cat is 12, and the goldfish is 18. This means, to use my nephew’s less-than-poetic words, we’re all in the last quarter. And to be downright brutal about it, we’re in the last half of the last quarter.

At least that’s the case with the mammals. Since the oldest domestic goldfish on record lived to be 43, my boy Rocky may outlive us all.

The thing with geriatric beings is as we decline, we require more care. I take my share of meds; I see my dermatologist more often than my immediate family. Likewise, my pets see their vets a lot more now than just a few years ago.

Of my four charges, the one taking up more of my time, energy and spare change is my cat, Purrsia.

Last August she started to lose weight. Granted, she’d always been on the full-figured side and now looked better rockin’ her new lean and mean look, I was worried. Let’s get real: When Golden Agers start to lose weight for no apparent reason, it’s almost never good news. So off to High Peaks Animal Hospital we went.

After the pokes, prods and tests, the verdict came back: She had kidney disease.

What to do?

Well, there’s only one thing that can be done — switch to a diet low in protein. And there’s only one way to do that — get cat food formulated for moggies, which I did.

Now a quick note about my cat. Although she’s 12, I’ve had her only three years. She was the Amazon Queen’s cat, and when the AQ went to Gotham for a year, I inherited her. The plan of course was when the AQ returned, the cat would be as well. But as Bobby Burns pointed out, plans — even the best-laid ones — gang aft agley.

After the year was up, we realized Purrsia would be much happier with me. She doesn’t like being alone (which she would be most of the day while the AQ worked), plus she loves dogs. So Purrsia became a full-fledged member of The Dope Mishpucha. That was fine with me, since I’d always had cats, plus she was no trouble to deal with.

At least, she was no trouble till she got put on her special diet. Because when that happened, she became the incatnation of Mahatma Gandhi.

A war of wills

Quite simply, she hated the new food and refused to eat it. I called the vet and was told there was another kidney care food that tasted better (though I hope the vet knew that through observation rather than personal tasting). So I got the new food. At first, the cat gobbled it; a few days later, she turned her tiny pink nose up at it. It was Passive Purrsia Resistance at its worst.

So then what?

Then I tried negotiation. I mixed the kidney food with other cat food. Again, Purrsia scarfed it for a few days, and after that ate it as the mood hit her — which too often it didn’t.

I became less a modern cat owner than a medieval alchemist. Except instead of trying to turn base metals into gold, I was trying to find which foods she liked and then mixing them in precise proportions so she’d actually deign to eat them. My success was erratic; my frustration constant.

After six months I took her back to the vet for her follow-up visit. On the plus side, her numbers hadn’t changed; on the minus side, she’d lost another pound.

Now I was in a quandary. If I tried to feed her as much kidney food as she needed, she’d refuse to eat it. Then it’d get thrown out, and she’d lose more weight. If I just surrendered and gave her nothing but her preferred diet of the glop that was bad for her, she might gain weight, but would lose kidney function. I had no idea how to proceed. In fact, I knew only one thing, namely Purrsia’s Law, which is: The cheaper, greasier, and smellier the cat food, the more she loves it.

Ultimately, the issue was what was best for the cat … and I couldn’t decide what that was. My indecision was driving me nuts. Weeks went by, my internal conflict got worse and worse till it was resolved as internal conflicts often can be — in a dream.

Peace at last

In the dream I was at my annual physical. The setting was the traditional doctor’s office — big desk with family pictures and humidor on it; diplomas on wall, smell of alcohol permeating the air. And the doctor was typical — suit and tie, gold framed glasses, kindly look on face. Only one thing was different — he was a man-sized cat. The name on the diplomas was, unsurprisingly, Dr. Katz.

“Your test results just came back,” he said.

“Yeah?” I said. “How’d they look?”

The stripes on his forehead bunched into a frown.

“Well, there’s bad news,” he said, “… and there’s good news.”

“OK,” I said. “First, the bad news.”

“You’ve got Shmendricksky Syndrome.”

“What the hell is that?” I said.

“It’s an extremely rare age-related disorder that results in general organ failure,” he said.

“So what’s the good news?”

“The good news is you’re in its earliest stage,” he said. “And while the decline can’t be stopped, it can be slowed considerably by a change in diet.”

“Oh?” I said. “What kinda diet?”

“A strict one,” he said. “The only milk products you can have are cottage cheese and yogurt. No sweets, no caffeine. But unlimited beans, whole wheat items, cabbage, onions, garlic and Brussels sprouts.”

“How about beverages?” I asked.

“No caffeine or fruit juices,” he said, “but as much sauerkraut juice as you want.”

In shock, I tried to process the enormity of this life change. I couldn’t.

Finally, I found my voice.

“So if I follow this diet, how long can I expect to stay healthy?’ I said.

“Who knows?” he said. “There are no guarantees in medicine.”

“Except that anything can go wrong with anyone at any time,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “There is that.”

“So while I might never be the oldest guy in town, I’m guaranteed to be the fartingest?”

He just shrugged.

A long moment passed, with neither of us speaking.

He looked at his watch, I thought signaling the appointment was over.

“Sun’s over the yardarm,” he said, opening the humidor and taking out a pinch of some green herb. “Care for a nip?”

“Uh, no thanks,” I said. “I gotta go anyway.”

He nodded, licked some of the herb and rolled his eyes.

I was taken aback, sure he was violating some AMA rule, but before I could mention it, I snapped awake.

It was pitch-dark, in the middle of the night. I checked the clock — 3:45. The only noise was a soft purring on my right side. I patted Purrsia a couple of times, she looked at me.

“All right,” I said. “From now on, just eat whatever you want, and leave over the rest.”

And the issue was resolved. Or if you want to put it in sports terms, She won and I lost.

According to Genesis, humankind has dominion over the animals. There’s a lot of debate about who wrote that passage, and the argument’s never been resolved.

Be that as it may, I know one thing for sure about its author: Whoever they were, they never had a cat.

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