Stalking Casey

Casey is my other cat. The one you don’t hear too much about. The innocent bystander. The civilian. The one with normal blood sugar.

Normal blood sugar. Oh, how I wonder what normal blood glucose looks like in a normal cat. Lately, I’ve been wondering that a lot.

I guess things with Isabella aren’t exciting enough, so I’ve been looking at Casey’s tender, un-poked little ears with longing. Would he let me? Could I get blood out of those? His ears are always so warm… The blood flows out of warm ears so easily…

The problem, I feared, was that Casey was an eyewitness to the early, gut-wrenching efforts to test Isabella. Those were, uh, dramatic, times, and poor little Casey would make himself scarce whenever the meter and lancet appeared. Nowadays, they both come running when they hear the snap! of the test strip vial (can you say bonito flakes?) but Casey, like an elephant, never forgets.

Nonetheless, this past weekend I decided to give it a go. I knew he’d never just sit in place like Isabella, so I planned to poke, then scrape the blood droplet onto my fingernail and set him free. Piece of cake.

On Saturday I told him what I had in mind, picked him up, and carried him to the couch where I test Isabella. He squirmed; I lightly restrained. He feinted left; I talked sweet to him. He ducked under my arm, hopped to the floor and looked back at me as if to say “you’ve got to be kidding.” That was that.

Alrighty then, I’d have to come up with another approach. On Sunday, I saw my chance. The little guy was taking his midday snooze on a chair. He was relaxed and warm. I grabbed the lancet pen, crouched down, and grasped his as-yet-unmolested right ear. Poke! Casey flinched, but wasn’t distressed. Alas… no blood. Again: poke! Bigger flinch this time (and now I’ve got his full attention) but still no blood. I figured I could get maybe one more poke done before he’d flee the scene so I quickly cocked the pen and pressed it to his ear. I was right: now I had no blood and no cat. (Along with a much greater appreciation for how easily Isabella’s ears bleed.)

Undaunted, I tried again tonight. Same scene: Casey snoozing in the chair. Different reaction: as soon as I leaned over him and touched his ear, he flattened them and gave me the stink eye. I determinedly unfurled an ear and whipped out the lancet pen, and Casey, just as determinedly, shot off that chair and out of the room.

But he paused long enough to look back at me: you’ve got to be kidding.

Score: Casey -3; Me – 0

And that, I think, is that.

How Diabetes Changed My Cat

Diabetes has imposed subtle changes in my life and lifestyle, and it's also left its mark on Isabella. A few observations on how she's changed since her pancreas went on strike:

1) She doesn’t smell as nice any more. I used to call Isabella my “good-smelling cat.” I’d bury my nose in her fur and take a big whiff -- she just had a nice scent about her. Sort of like fresh laundry, only more cat-ish. Then, six months or so before she was diagnosed, I noticed she didn’t smell as nice. She didn’t smell bad, just not good like before. I even teased her: Casey's gonna be the good-smelling cat. (Unlikely- his scent is rather musty). Being on insulin has not restored her good smell status, which is sort of sad.

2) She’s not a fatty. Isabella lost some of her rotundiness before diagnosis. OK – I admit it: she got downright boney. Insulin therapy plumped her up and her weight went back to normal. Not fat, not skinny, just normal. She looks good (though she still has that hangy skin flap on her tummy).

3) Her coat is silkier than ever. This, I’m sure, is a direct result of changing her diet from dry kibble to canned. Both cats have gorgeous, soft fur.

4) She has vague issues with her hind legs. I suppose it’s a minor case diabetic neuropathy. She walks a little low in the back, not all the way down on her hocks, but not up on her toes, either. Some days are worse than others. I’ve been dosing her with 5mg of methyl-B12 for about six months and have seen some improvement. My yardstick is not how she walks, but how she jumps – and darn it she’s started getting on the kitchen counter again lately. I sure didn’t miss that habit!

5) She responds to new sounds: The beep-beep of the microwave when I heat her ear-warming rice bag. The clinking sound of the syringes, kept in a mug in the cupboard. The sound of lid the coming off the box that stores her testing supplies. The snap of the test strip vial. Any of these will bring Isabella trotting – because she knows that treat can’t be far behind. For the record, Casey comes trotting too, since he gets also treats.

Except for the change in her weight, no one else notices these subtle shifts in her condition and her habits. To the outside observer, Isabella looks like a healthy – though cranky – little cat. And that’s a good thing.

But, it's what cats do!

Did you just buy a brand new SUV? Are you bothered by that pesky "new car smell?" Well, here's a quick way to eliminate all traces of that odor and replace it with a scent that is unique to your car (and save gas too!):

Step one: Wait for a hot day, then pull into the garage, but leave at least one car window open.
Step two: Go into the house and forget about car (and window).
Step three: Insert one cat, preferably male.
Step four: Allow the cat to roam throughout the car and spray urine on whatever surface he needs to claim as his very own.
Step five: Let car sit overnight

By morning that new car smell be gone forever. And you'll get the added bonus of never being asked to drive a group of people anywhere, ever again - which adds up to gas savings as long as you own the car!

Meet the kitties

This blog is to be about my experiences caring for Isabella, my diabetic cat. But before diving into that, I'll introduce both of my cats and their considerable quirks.

Isabella

Oh, so aptly named, for she is the Queen. I adopted Isabella from the Humane Society as a wee kitten. She was so cute – a tiny little black and white fur bundle with a perfectly symmetrical mask-like marking on her face. I now know that it’s probably the mark of the devil. Forget 666. Meet my cat.

Our first night together set the stage. I set up a cozy little cat bed in my room, upon which I deposited young Isabella and turned out the lights. Within minutes that eight-inch-tall kitten clawed up the bed skirt and comforter to re-deposit herself next to me. I moved her back to her bed. And then I did it again. And again, many more times. I finally recognized that Isabella would outlast me in this battle, and so it has been that she chooses her sleeping arrangements, and everything else, ever since.

Isabella is my cat (or perhaps it is that I am her person). She follows me everywhere. Where I sit, she sits. Everything would be perfectly fine in the Land Of Isabella if it was just the two of us. Other people be damned – if you come to visit, she wants you out. If you won’t leave, she wants a piece of you. Bottom line, my cat is never nice to other people and is frequently not that nice to me. Her teeth are her weapon of choice. Claws come next.

Casey

Isabella was about 1 ½ when Casey joined our happy band. He was a wee kitten found in the bushes near my office. Separated from his mother and siblings, my feral baby used his considerable lung power to announce his distress. His mother was too slow to the rescue – instead he was snatched up, boxed up and taken home by me.

I deposited that terrified little guy in my downstairs bathroom with a litter box, food and water, and shut the door. Isabella’s expression clearly said “what the f*** did you put in there?” Her world was shattered. It was no longer just the two of us.

After a few days of isolation (and a trip to the vet for shots and deworming) Casey was allowed out of his bathroom to meet his new sis. Love at first sight. He adores Isabella. She disdains him. She grooms him, then bites. She knocks him off my lap, off her favorite chair, off the bed at night. Even after ten years, Casey is so far down the cat-ranking totem pole, that Isabella sometimes won’t allow him in the same room. She’s such a bitch. And he loves her to pieces.

Alas, I didn’t introduce Casey to enough people when he was young. He’s never overcome his feral roots and is wary of strangers. Many of my friends and family members think I’m lying about having two cats. They’ve never seen him. Too bad, since Casey’s as sweet and nice as they come. He never bites, even when he’s scared.* His sister makes up for that just fine.

*Maybe he does bite. As a kitten, Casey spent a day at the vet’s office for a deworming procedure. When I picked him up, the vet tech brought Casey in his carrier from the back. “This isn’t a kitten. This is fur with teeth.” I had warned them that he was feral. They believed me now.