Reflections - Weighing In
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| Gilbert Catching His Breath |
Behind him, Gilbert slashed the inside of his cat carrier with his claws. He poked his paw out.
I extended my hand from the passenger seat and pushed Gilbert’s paw back inside the carrier.
Gilbert stuck his nose through the gap.
I shoved his nose back in. Grabbing the top and side of the canvass carrier, I clamped them shut with my hand.
Like a buzz saw, Gilbert wielded his paws, clawing the canvas and me.
Though his claws pierced my thumb, I held the gap closed. I figured my elbow would snap.
We were on the way to Greenville Veterinary Clinic for the tabby brothers’ annual checkup, shots, and weigh-in. This weigh-in held significance. Last year Dr. Wheellock put the cats on a diet. Would the cats pass their weight tests?
None liked moving vehicles—especially Gilbert. He meowed. He scratched. He paced in his carrier.
In an attempt to make the ride easier for Gilbert, we’d followed the vet tech’s advice and bought gabapentin which was supposed to make Gilbert sleepy. I gave the first 100 mg capsule the previous night to calm him for the drive. I’d held Gilbert on my lap, wrapped an arm around him and forced his jaw open with my hand. I dropped the capsule into his mouth with my other hand.
“He raced about the whole night,” said Spence, yawning the next morning. Gilbert had run into Spence many times during his cat-chase escapades throughout the wee hours.
The capsule I needed to administer two hours before the drive didn’t go down easily. Spence held Gilbert. I used both hands to pry open his jaws and drop the capsule. Gilbert spit it back. In, out. In, out. In, out. Gilbert spit it back so often only part of the contents entered his system.
But in the moving Maverick, he meowed softer than last year.
Rills meowed pathetic protests from the carrier in the middle of the back seat.
Behind me, where I couldn’t see him, Ande wailed occasionally.
“It’s okay, fellas.” Spence inserted a flash drive into the truck’s USB port and jazz floated out of the speakers.
“Jazz will make them more nervous.” I winced because Gilbert dug his claw through the carrier and into my thumb. But he didn’t escape.
Spence punched buttons, and Billie Holiday’s soft crooning voice wafted from the speakers.
“Listen, Gil. Billie’s singing you a lullaby.”
My man don't love me
Treats me, oh, so mean
Gilbert scratched his carrier front.
I held the carrier closed. “Ande, Rills. It’s Billie. She wants you to relax.”
They meowed softly before quieting.
“Billie likes you, Gil. Listen.” I purred.
Love's just like a faucet
It turns off and on
Gilbert stopped scratching. He laid down and mewed quietly—for two minutes. Then he clawed through the canvas and into my hand. I kept gripping to keep his carrier closed.
After my half-hour of arm-extending at the awkward angle, Spence finally pulled into the parking lot.
My elbow hadn’t snapped. I didn’t need a tourniquet for my hand. And Gilbert made the trip a little calmer than usual thanks to his medication and Billie’s crooning.
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| Gilbert Rills and Ande Chowing Down |
Next hurdle—the scale. The cats no longer grazed all day. Our son Charlie set their bowls out at 4:30 in the morning and 4:30 in the afternoon. Spence or I took the bowls away two hours later. The time extended longer if we forgot to pick up their bowls. Would our efforts for Dr. Wheelock’s diet suggestions be good enough or would we fail and have to enforce more draconian meal routines?
From daily morning cuddles, I figured Rills lost weight. When he let me, I swung him off the wood floor and into my arms as if he were made of feathers not muscles, bones, fur, and chicken pieces that Spence slipped to the little beggar.
Gilbert, who didn’t have to diet, definitely put on weight. He pranced over when I called. I hoisted him to my shoulder with an oomph. The new two-hours serving time made him nervous, though not as nervous as riding in vehicles. He gulped the diet food while crunchies were available and his stomach had space.
Ande puzzled me. His face looked slimmer, but I didn’t notice a change in weight when he jumped onto my lap.
The vet tech led us into the room and weighed Gilbert first. Digital numbers bounced randomly before settling at 15.40 pounds. Gulp. He’d gained almost a pound and a half. So much for diet food. Would we have to put the cats in separate rooms and measure amounts? I dreaded petite Dr. Wheelock’s conclusion.
She didn’t appear.
Dr. Wolf entered, flashed a friendly smile at Spence and me, then gently stroked Gilbert’ s head. She gazed into his gold-green eyes and said in a soft voice, “You can call me Doctor Vanessa.”
Gilbert melted into a furry pillow on the exam table.
Dr. Vanessa pulled back his ears—something that made him wiggle when I did it. He remained still for her. She kneaded his belly. “Does he eat and drink alright?”
“Definitely. The other vet wanted us to put his brothers on a diet. We feed the three cats at the same time twice a day. They get a scientific diet food.” I heard myself blathering but I kept going. “He used to eat calmly. Now he gobbles. Perhaps he’s nervous because he knows we will take the bowls away.”
Do you feed them in the same bowl?” Dr. Vanessa kept stroking Gilbert.
“No,” Spence said. “Our son bought them their own saucers. But they eat out of each other’s bowls.”
Dr. Vanessa put Gilbert in his carrier.
I pulled out Ande, the big boned, long cat. He walked back and forth on the scale like a tiger pacing inside a circus cage. After a few moments of staring at fluctuating numbers, Dr. Vanessa said, "We'll just call it eighteen.” With that number, he’d lost almost a pound. And she lifted Ande onto the table. “Do the cats get any snacks?”
“I give them treats once a month when I clip their nails and clean their ears.” I glanced at Spence. “Spence feeds them chicken.”
Dr. Vanessa kneaded Ande’s tummy. “I’m fine with chicken. As long as it's in moderate amounts, about the size of a quarter.”
And she returned Ande to his carrier.
Rills’s turn. He only weighed 13.58. He’d lost a pound. “And after all the chicken he eats.” I raised my eyebrows at Spence.
“I don’t give him much. He just eats the other cats’ portions along with his.”
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| Gilbert Being Convinced to Share by Rills |
Spence had a point. Rills does convince his brothers they want to share their portions with him.
“Rills is healthy too. They all are,” said Dr. Vanessa, “I’m not going to suggest you put them in separate rooms or measure out amounts of food for each cat. Just go along as you have been doing.”
Relief—if a four digit vet bill (including a year’s supply of flea and tick medicine) and the ride home with my arm stretched to keep Gilbert’s carrier shut can be called a relief. Though the trip was easier than last year, Spence and I aren’t looking forward to the cats’ next check up.
