Reflections - An End to Grazing
Rills and Ande - The Fat Cats
“I’m happy to see you too.” My days always started with this cheerful greeting from Ande. He’d trained me. I bent and hefted the large tabby for our daily cuddle. Oomph. “You’ve gained a lot of weight, big fella.”
Purring, he rubbed his whiskers against my arm and snuggled as content as a baby in his mother’s arms. But Ande was no baby. The five-year-old cat was watermelon heavy.
I admit. Spence and I created Ande’s predicament.
Sleep is sacred. Our rambunctious tabbies ran crazy at night. I didn’t appreciate cat feet tramping over my face and abdomen. Not large-boned Ande’s, which ran to greet visitors. Not small feisty Rills’s, which ran to explore. Not late-bloomer Gilbert’s, which ran to hide. Neither did I want the fellas pawing me awake for food. I closed the bedroom door and left a constant supply of dry food beside the burbling cat fountain.
Spence prioritized food. If Ande gazed with pleading eyes and whimpered pathetic meows, Spence sprinkled more crunchies onto the food in the bowl saying, “He needs reassurance.” Spence also offered the cats chopped chicken and cheese bits. He set down containers for the fellas to lick—the pan from cooked chicken and the plastic blue cheese crumble cup.
After five years of prioritizing sleep and food, all three of the fellas, who had arrived at our house as handfuls of fluff, had grown into large cats. Ande grew pleasantly plump, like a thick sausage. And once tiny Rills now scampered across floors with a swaying tummy. “Spence, don’t you think we should switch them to diet food?”
“Right.” Spence ordered a scientific diet food with “Perfect” in the name.
In May, Spence called, “Rillzie, Ande, Gilbert!” He poured the new, smaller kibble into their food bowls on the tile by the sliding glass door.
The clinking of kibble brought twelve paws thudding to the great room. Noses poked into bowls, and the cats gobbled their food as if it were tastier than the old. Ta-da! The vet would weigh the cats at the end of July and frown because Ande had gained too much. But we already solved the problem. No worries.
Well . . . maybe one—driving the cats to Greenville Veterinary Clinic for their annual checkup.
Inventing a system to teleport Gilbert would be easier.
Gilbert
Wrong.
He ceased yowling to attack the cloth carrier. Scratch-scratch-scratch. His dagger-sharp claws—I would discover later—separated the Velcro straps, and he squeezed out. Desperate and terrified, Gilbert boomeranged from headrests, seat backs, and windows until Spence snagged him. Spence wrapped the frazzled feline in a tight, two arm hug.
“You’re fine, Gil,” Spence cooed. “Janet’s a safe driver.” By the end of the trip, Spence had turned into a hairy, white pillow, and Gilbert’s tongue hung dry from panting.
Over the years we experimented. A plastic and wire carrier kept Gilbert inside the entire trip, but he bloodied his nose and claws scratching in vain to escape. Not a solution. Though tranquilizers calmed him a tad, he still freed himself. Finally, I fastened the carrier so Gilbert couldn’t reach the Velcro straps.
This July 25, we scooped up the cats, stuffed them into their cloth carriers, and strapped them in the Maverick’s back seat. As Spence pulled away from the front yard parking pad, a chorus of protesting meows erupted.
So, I sang. “Meow, meow, meow. Gilbert’s a good boy, Ande’s a good boy, Rillzie’s a good boy. Meow, meow, meow.” I used a sing-songy repetitive melody. The objecting howls quieted to soft meows.
“They’re harmonizing with you.” Spence tapped his palm to the beat of my silly song against the steering wheel.
Between verses, I sipped water to soothe my scratchy throat. Howls surged. I sang again—for the interminable thirty-five minute drive. With the scenery, I varied the verses. “The clouds are passing, a truck is passing, a hawk is passing.”
“Maybe don’t use that one.” Spence steered the Maverick past the old rink with the giant roller skate on top. “Hawks eat cats.”
I frequently returned to the Gilbert, Ande, and Rills round. The fellas mewed quietest when I sang their names.
And they stopped meowing when Spence parked at the clinic—I could imagine how sore their throats must be.
Spence entertained folks by pulling his buddy out of the carrier. “This is Rills. He’s my buddy. He’s a great explorer.”
“What a beautiful cat,” an elderly woman gushed. A carrier half the size of ours nestled against her feet.
I sat on the bench between our other cats and rubbed their bodies through the canvas carrier sides until we were called to the exam room.
Petite Dr. Wheelock examined each cat then smiled sadly. “All three cats are healthy. Now.” She rested her hands on the edge of the metal exam table where Gilbert cowered. “Overweight cats can develop problems later. Heart disease. Liver disease. Diabetes. Ande has gained a pound and a half each year. He’s four pounds overweight. Rills is also overweight. Gilbert only gained a little. He doesn’t need to lose weight, but if he does, it won’t hurt him.”
Spence and I had anticipated the bad news. I took a deep yoga breath and stroked Gilbert. “We changed them to diet food in May.”
The vet shook her head and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her lab coat. “If the diet food is out all the time, Ande won’t lose weight. He’s a grazer. He’ll keep eating and gaining.”
My heart sank to my toes. Our former cat George had been overweight. A horrible vision of him whirled through my mind. Spence held George’s sides while I plucked the cat’s loose skin away from his bony spine and jabbed in a sharp needle for the subcutaneous injections. George had lost a lot of weight from kidney disease. I didn’t want our tabbies suffering like George had. Shuddering to clear the memory, I concentrated on Dr. Wheelock’s compassionate voice.
“You are the adults in charge of food. Not the cats. It’s difficult. I’m not asking you to do anything I’m not facing myself.” She reached for her phone and swiped through her photos. “These are my cats.” She stretched her arm to share the photo of a fluffy orange cat lounging on a carpet. Huge, he almost obscured a tiny black kitten—actually a normal-size adult cat. “We feed the cats three times a day. My husband takes the lunch feeding.”
And she gave us choices. “Feed them in different rooms.”
A look between Spence and me nixed that idea.
“Put food out for a while and take it away.” She tapped her pen on the weight record sheet. “Make a plan and be firm. The first two weeks will be difficult but they’ll get used to the routine.”
Spence strapped the cats into the Maverick and steered the hybrid homeward. The tabbies howled. “We’re going home, fellas.” Spence glanced at his buddies in the rear view mirror. “You’re fine.”
Would they howl for more food? Would they be difficult? Would they adjust in two weeks or, like the little elementary school boys, realize what had happened and get worse?
I didn’t sing to the cats. The trip had exhausted me physically and mentally. Besides, my throat hurt. I gazed at the green scenery flashing past the window.
Spence put his hand on my knee. “Everything will be okay.”
The chorus of howls from the back seat contradicted him. But, Dr. Wheelock had studied for years. She said the tabbies were healthy. Now. To keep the fellas healthy, I would follow her advice. And I trusted Spence to be at my side every cat-yowling moment of the journey.
End Part One
