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.