Reflections on the Tenth Week of Spring – George on My Mind (Continued)

    George’s return from the vet hospital after kidney failure presented challenges–nurse him to better health or face the quality of life, euthanasia question.

    The first challenge–medication.

    Last Sunday Tammy, our thirty-something, vet tech neighbor, walked in the door and said, “Guess who got a new kitten.” Her high pitched giggle rang through the house.

    I lifted George to the kitchen table. “Another stray?”

    “Yeah. A boy found it in his car and brought it to me. I’ve got “sucker” tattooed on my forehead.” Tammy petted George and read the release papers from the Greenville Veterinary Clinic. Opening an envelop with blister pack pills she said, “This tan pill is pepcid for his stomach. Cut it and give him half once a day.” She opened a blue vial of white pills half the diameter of a nickel. “This is his antibiotic. Give him one in the morning and one in the evening.”

    George straightened his legs and peered over the edge of the table.

    Spence held the cat’s bony sides and eased him into prone-patient position.

    I scribbled notes and added. Three pills a day for the pill-spitting champ of Western Pennsylvania? Sheesh. In past years, George had seen through the pill pocket disguise, wouldn’t eat pills in the food, and waited to spit pills out after I’d forced them into his mouth at peril to my fingers. “How?”

    “It’s easy, just tilt his head.” She lifted George’s chin until his nose pointed to the ceiling. “Put pressure on the ends of his mouth,” George’s mouth popped open, “and toss the pill to the back at his throat.” She pitched the anti-biotic overhand to the opening of his throat and closed his jaws with her fingers. “When you get it to his throat, he has to swallow it.” Her high-pitched giggles ended the pill demonstration.

    She reached for the IV equipment for the subcutaneous fluid injections. After untangling plastic tubing, she hung the fluid bag from the light fixture above the table, fastened a needle to the end of the tube, and gave me instructions. “Hold the bevel side up, pinch the skin to form a tent, stick the needle between your fingers, then turn the wheel to start the drip.”

    I scribbled more notes.

    The needle popped out. Fluid sprayed over George and my paper.

    More high-pitched giggles.“If the needle comes out, stick it in again and pinch the skin by the first insertion to close the hole.” Tammy packed the medical equipment, and said, “Call

me if you have any trouble.”

    Spence handed her a bundle of freshly picked asparagus. “You’ve got ‘angel’ tattooed on

your forehead.”

    “Thanks. We appreciate your help,” I said not relishing handling the medications.

   Monday, we followed Tammy’s techniques. Spence lifted George to the table. I hung the IV equipment and fetched a clean needle. I tugged the old needle. The cover came off, but the needle held fast to the fluid line and jabbed my thumb. Blood gushed.

    I stopped the flow with a bandage and tried again. After much fussing, I discovered the needle twisted off. Dah. With Spence holding George, I followed each of Tammy’s steps. George remained calm while 150 milliliters of fluid dripped under his skin.

    Pills weren’t that easy. Spence reached from behind George and held his front legs. I pried his jaws open and tossed in the pill. It bounced off the roof of his mouth and flew back out.

    George squirmed, Spence held tighter, and I struggled to squeeze my fingers between Spence’s large hands to get at George’s jaws.

    George merrowed.

    “Let’s call Tammy,” Spence said.

   “We can’t call Tammy every day just to help with pills.” I turned George sideways. “I’m going to get this pill in him.”

    George squirmed and merrowed.

    Spence gave me his maybe-you-don’t-understand look. “Tammy doesn’t mind.”

    I squeezed George’s jaws. He opened his mouth, and I tossed the pill to his throat. Bullseye. I clamped his mouth shut, he gulped, and the pill went down.

    The phone rang.

    Spence answered. “Oh, hi . . . I’ll let Janet give you details.” He handed me the phone.

    Tammy’s voice said, “I called to see how things are going.”

    “I got the fluids in George without spraying anyone, but I jabbed my thumb and got a gusher.”

    High-pitched titters came across the land line. “The needles are sharp.”

    “I gave George all his pills. It wasn’t easy.”

    “Let me know if you need any help,” she said.

    Over the next few days, I honed my technique for solo pill dropping. I positioned George on my lap with his feet up, waved a treat bag in front of his face, lifted his chin so the top of his head rested against my chest, and pressed his jaws. He batted his paws and squirmed, but opened his mouth. I tossed in the pill and held his jaws shut. After he gulped several times, I let him loose and set two treats in front of him. If he gobbled, he’d swallowed the pill.

    That treat test didn’t materialize, however, until halfway through the second challenge–getting George to eat.

    When George came home, we offered him the Hill’s kidney prescription wet food that the technicians had given him in the hospital. George turned his head away. I heated the food. He sniffed then walked away.

    I switched to the Hill’s kidney prescription dry food. He glanced at the baby aspirin sized kibble and drank from his water bowl. I moistened the kibble and stirred.“Oh, this looks yummy,” I lied. George yawned. I mashed a moistened piece of prescription food between my fingers, stroked his chin until he licked my hand, then held the mushed food close to his tongue. He ate it. I got him to swallow three more mashed kibbles. Not enough.

    My big sister Anita, foster mom of a passel of Tibetan Terriers including several that arrived with serious illnesses, emailed advice.

Sounds like he needs a lot of tender lovin' care and coaxing to eat. Hope he continues to eat and more than four crunchies. I have found when the dogs don't feel good, they tend to eat treats. Being a "eat whatever goes down" in those circumstances type of mom, I just give them what they will eat.

    Spence volunteered to buy the treats, mentioned previously for the pill-swallowing test. He brought home Purina’s “soft and delicious” chicken flavor treats, opened the bag, and sprinkled half a dozen treats on the floor.

    George gobbled them, licked his lips, and sniffed around for more.

    A day later, with jack-’o-lantern grins, Spence and I covertly watched George take several bites out of Emma’s Hill’s Indoor Age Defying diet, food that took weeks to get the cats to eat.  

   Because she wouldn’t touch the prescription food either, Spence got Authority kidney health food from PetSmart. I mixed the kidney food with the regular food. Emma chomped them down so George tried a few. Later, when I swept the floor after dinner, George moseyed to the food bowl and ate like he used to do. I didn’t mind his butt being in the path of the broom.

    Medicine? Check. Food? Check. The last challenge–Emma.

    At first she hissed when she ventured within twenty feet of her vet-medicine stinking brother. She napped her days away on the loft bed because George didn’t climb the steps when he first came home from the hospital. She came downstairs to eat, drink, and lay beside me in bed at night.

    The first night after I returned from the Pittsburgh writing conference, she snuggled on top of the covers, I snuggled under, and we closed our eyes. George hopped on the bed.

   Hisssss. Grrrrrr.

    “Calm down, Emma.” I petted her head. “There’s room for all of us.”

    Hisssss. Grrrrrr.

    “You’re fine, Emma.” I scratched under her chin.

    Hisssss. Grrrrrr.

    “Do I need to remove a cat?” Spence called from the great room. His computer thumped onto the table, and his feet thudded against the floor.

    The cats froze as still as the cement angel in the garden.

    I yawned. “We’re okay.”

    After three days of loft hiding, Emma jumped up on the sofa beside Spence even though George stood on the floor six feet away. Ears twitching, she glared at her brother sauntering to the extra water bowl by the side door. He put his paw in the bowl and pulled. The bowl scraped over the tiles until it was close enough for George to drink.

    Emma jumped off the sofa, head butted him away, and dipped her paw in the water. Then, tapping the sides of the bowl with her paws, she created a melody of scrapes and a fountain of splashes. George moved toward the water. She head butted him and performed her scrape-splash routine again. Having emptied half the water without taking a single sip, she pranced off holding her tail high.

    The next day, when she sashayed past George, he licked her butt.

    No hiss, no growl, no paw-whack to the licker’s head. Progress.

    Friday afternoon in the vet’s waiting room, George cowered in his cage, and the technician told Spence and me, “George’s blood tests are better. They’re moving in the right direction.” She paused to look Spence then me in the eye. “How is his quality of life?”

    “Good,” Spence said immediately.

    My mind replayed visions of George during the last two days–plodding downstairs to explore the basement, following Spence around the kitchen, purring on my lap while I watched Anne with an E, and wailing with his hairy snake. I nodded. “He’s got quality of life.”

    “Fine,” the technician said. “Make an appointment for a blood test in two weeks. I’ll get you three more bags of IV fluid, additional pepcid pills, and the Purina ProPlan Kidney Function prescription diet. George needs prescription food, nothing over the counter.”

    So, we’re coaxing George into eating yet another kind of food. Sibling rivalry helps. Emma gulps the new kidney function kibble. George watches, then swipes and nibbles a few of hers. With “tender lovin' care and coaxing” he’ll adjust–again.

Reflections on the Ninth Week of Spring – George On My Mind 

    Last Monday Charlie said, “George slowed down since I was here six months ago.”

    George has always functioned in his own time zone–that delay after I’ve hoisted him over my head before he merrowed a protest. Spence and I hadn’t noticed a change in George’s behavior. He still jumped onto the sofa, waited by the door for an opportunity to escape and lap puddled rain, and licked his sister Emma’s head. Spence and I attributed George’s slower steps, like ours, to arthritis and aging.

    George staring at the food bowl and walking away without taking a bite didn’t bother me either. I’d switched his prescription diet to over-the-counter food. George preferred Spence’s offerings of chicken and chipped ham. When George stopped eating the off-diet treats and an ingrown claw irritated his left front toe, I made an appointment with the Greenville Veterinary Clinic for Wednesday.

    Wednesday afternoon Charlie, in bare feet and shorts, lugged George in his small-dog sized cage across the gravel driveway and set him on the back seat of the Subaru. “Take it easy, George,” Charlie said and clicked the fully extended seatbelt around the cage. Spence slipped onto the passenger seat, and I drove to Greenville.

    Whines floated to the front seat.

    “He sounds like Emma complaining,” I said shifting gears. “He’s usually resigned and quiet.”

    “He must not feel well,” Spence said.

    “Do you think they’ll keep him overnight?”

    “Probably not─”

    More whines.

    Spence turned and patted the cage. “─ well, maybe.”

    At the vet’s, George curled as small as possible in the waiting room while five dogs barked. Doctor Heather, a petite young woman with a row of delicate silver earrings on her left ear, finally called us. “Do you mind coming into the euthanasia room? It’s the only space I have open right now, and I didn’t want to make you wait any longer.”

    We stepped into a powder blue room trimmed with hand painted flowers. A high shelf held boxes for ashes and figures of angels holding cats. George curled in the back of his cage. I tugged him out and onto the exam table. While I petted his head, Dr. Heather examined his paw and probed his abdomen. “He has some hard stools in there. He might only need an enema, but I’ll do blood tests to be sure.” She cradled George in her arms and carried him away to the treatment room for his blood work.

    Might only? In silence, Spence and I stared at each other. He leaned against the wall. I sat on the love seat across from the exam table and read poems painted on the wall . . . a joy forever . . . part of my heart . . . loving friend.

    After what seemed like hours, a technician barged in gripping George under the shoulders and holding him away from her body with outstretched arms. “He’s really angry. He might bite you. Do you want me to put him in the cage?”

    Spence lunged to the table and George. “No! Let us calm him down.” Spence petted George then cradled him. No merrows. No whines.

    I reached out my arms. Spence brought George to me, and I held him against my chest. “Good boy,” I crooned. “You’re my handsome boy.”

    Dr. Heather entered and sat beside me.

    I put my face against George’s fur and listened.

    “...lost three pounds...kidney failure...no cure...hospital for IV...special diet...owner decides quality of life...”

    OMG. What a message to receive in the euthanasia room.

    My arms wobbled. “Yes, give him the IV and keep him overnight in the hospital."

    Spence lifted George to the table.

    I stood, and we petted George until a technician brought in a big blue towel, wrapped George inside, and carried him away.

    With a heavy but hopeful heart, we took the empty cage home and left it by the side door to bring George home later.

    The commotion of our entering and setting down the empty cage woke Emma from a nap in the Adirondack chair. She glared at the cage.

    Concerned she’d be as sad as us about George not coming home, I picked her up and held her close to my chest.

    She sniffed. Smelling George, the alcohol from his blood test site, and the odor of the vet’s, she hissed.

    Thursday afternoon I drove back to the vet’s. A technician led me through back halls to George, dragged a stool over to his hospital cage, and opened the door. On the cage door hung an orange sign that read “BITES.” The tech said, “Be sure he knows it’s you instead of one of us, and try to get him to eat.”

    Beside a litter box a fourth his size, George slept, curled into a ball. An IV tube stuck in his left front leg, dirt smeared his face, and hair stuck out at odd angles.

    “George,” I whispered. “How’s my big boy?”

    His ears twitched. Head down and slower than a drowsy turtle, he turned toward me. His eyes opened a slit.

    I fondled his ears.

    He leaned into my hand and purred.

    Murmuring, “Good boy” and “Love you George,” I combed him.

    He stood on wobbly legs and licked my hand.

    Licking? I picked up the dish of kidney-diet food resembling gray goop and held it below his tongue.

    He sniffed, ate an eighth of the food, and lay down.

    “Good boy!” More petting, more leaning, more purring.

    “Where’s your snake? Spence brought it on his way to Cleveland. Did the technician give you your hairy snake? ”

    Again in slower than turtle mode, he stood, took three steps toward the back of the cage, and turned towards me.

    On the floor where he’d lain was his hairy snake toy. Even in his weakened condition he’d guarded it from the poking, jabbing, deserving-a-bite strangers.

    I picked up the comb.

    George wobbled back to me.

    I combed and chatted. When he licked my hand, I dipped my finger into the gray goop and stuck it under his nose to lick.

    Comb, lick. Fingertip-of-food, lick.

    A half hour after I’d arrived, he hobbled to the back of the cage, curled his tail around himself, and closed his eyes. Guessing he wanted to rest, I untangled the IV and closed his door.

    He looked up.

    “I have to go to a writing conference in Pittsburgh, George, but I’ll call to check on you. Eat and get strong so you can come home. I’ll meet you there Sunday afternoon.”

    George closed his eyes.

    I took a deep yoga breath, said, “Hang in there, big boy,” and left to pack for the three day Thirtieth Annual Pennwriters Conference.

    Friday morning, several hours after I’d headed south, Spence sent an email.

Stopped to pet George in his jail cell for 45 minutes. Groggy at first, he quickly glommed who it was and decided it was a jail break. I had to keep pushing him (and his IV) back into the cell. He finally settled down to just petting, licking and head butting. The vet tech said George was still not eating, but I got him into the bowl a little, and he also took some water. The only way I was able to get away was that he finally, worn out from being petted, curled up in the corner of his cell with the hairy snake.

    In Pittsburgh Friday afternoon, I called the Greenville Veterinary Clinic. The answering tech said, “George is resting quietly, but he hasn’t eaten. The doctor will do blood tests in the morning to see if he can go home.”

    Friday night, I crawled under the Marriott sheets. Was George sleeping with his snake? The toilet in my hotel room voluntarily belched every fifteen or twenty minutes. Would George put his paws on the toilet seat and watch the baseball sized bubble of air pop and splash, or would he hide under the computer desk away from the bathroom monster?

    Saturday morning Spence emailed.

News on George: bad and good

Vet says that his blood tests don't show any improvement, in fact worse than when we brought him in, but he's feeling pretty good and wants to come home. She will release him with the proviso that we give him subcutaneous fluid injections once daily. Tammy Graham [our vet tech neighbor] has agreed to do this. If we see new symptoms, we should bring him back. Otherwise another blood test in a week.

    Saturday night in Pittsburgh, I dressed like a pirate and sipped cranberry juice in a party room blasting sea chanteys. I talked with Pennwriters about costumes and writing projects, but my mind drifted to George. Was he eating?

    Sunday, after participating in Writer’s Meditation and three workshops, I rushed to the car and zoomed north. I burst in the front door to find Charlie on the floor petting George.

   “Good to see you, George,” I said.

    He didn’t walk over to greet me like usual, but gazing at me with wide green eyes, he merrowed.

    To be continued