I have three cats. One, Boo, our bedroom pantera, has cancer. This affects his mouth, obstructing his throat, causing him to drool, and naturally affecting his ability to eat. Started two weeks ago. It gets better, it gets worse.
He’s always been a cat that freaks out. Loud sounds — say a sneeze — launches a charge for the door. The vacuum cleaner being moved sends him skittering to get out of the house. Turning the vacuum on causes huge meowing fits by the door until he’s freed from the terror. Someone knocking on the door or ringing the doorbell is an incentive for a mad dash to the back door. If he can’t get out, he hides in the closet.
He barely permits us to scratch and pet his head and the back of his neck. Getting medicines into him is a ridiculous battle. We don’t know his back story of how he came to be like this. He came to us six years ago, another refugee who no one would claim. We gave him shelter and love to the best of our abilities.
He loves going outside in the morning. I permit him out, weather permitting. Although it’s in the forties today and sunny, wind gusts turned Boo back from going out. He couldn’t eat and was in pain, so he’s crying and drooling. My wife is doing her Zoom exercise class, so a voice is stridently shouting, “Heel toe! Grapevine! Four more!” This is set to blaring music. Today it’s old country and western. Of course, my wife is exercising, thumping across the floor in her shoes, which, yes, is a new stress-fear-anxiety source for Boo.
So, I’m trying to feed and comfort Boo. Also trying to feed the other cats. But they’re distracted by what’s going on with Boo, so they follow me around, trying to supervise and give advice.
Hell of a morning. All before coffee.