When I last wrote about the tuxedo love of my life, Hello Newman, he was in terrible shape.  Old, but as a stray, who knows how old, he's definitely past his prime.  He's to the point where even the smallest sign of illness carries, in my mind at least, the harbinger of death.  So a couple of weeks ago, his drunken gait spelled to me the worst.  Even when I had a diagnoses and brought him home, I struggled with whether I'd made the right choice.

We bring animals into our lives for many reasons.   But the gut-wrenching truth remains, that for most of us, we will love them as unconditionally as they love us, even as we know that we'll probably outlive them.  In this, we have to make crucial decisions for them, whilst only guessing what their voice would be.  While we have the ability to write Advance Directives, to help our loved ones handle our dying hour, our animals remain mute on this final step.

For the caring pet owner, the fact of dealing with an animal in pain brings up so many issues.  For some, the cost of care is beyond their ability.  For others who have the luxury of choice, the quality of life concept rears it's horrible head.  The tightrope of balancing a beloved pet's needs with one's own is truly a high wire act.

Today, I saw a miracle, for sure.  I'd gone into the temporary kitchen, (the real one is under construction), where Newman knows that he'll get his wet food.  He actually ran in front of me, his movement only hinting at his diagnoses.  I swear to god that it must be the meds that I got from Girard Veterinary, that have made that old boy spry!  Even though I'd been giving him Glucosimine Chondritine before, they gave me a feline specific pill, which he happily slurps up with his wet food, and has been on since I took him in.

I had pondered whether or not to put Newman down.  As he staggered around, my concern was that he'd fall and seriously hurt himself.  This had a very real basis in fact as my beloved cat Hobbes died suddenly in a freak accident;  he slipped between my bedside table and my bed, breaking, I believe, his neck.  I wanted to spare Hello Newman any needless suffering, and what with his pained walking that had him close to collapse every few steps, this was a very real fear.


For me, the answer came slowly.  I brought him home, ostensibly to medicate and accept his fate.  But truly, I wanted to watch how he lived his life.  Newman is a cat of dignity who has won over the minds and hearts of all who have had the pleasure of his company, serious dog lovers included.   I did not want his life reduced to meaningless movement, just so that he'd be alive for my sake.  But he seemed to take it all in stride, even using the litter box once I'd removed the lid:  a sure sign of improvement!

This morning, when he almost galloped toward his food plate, hair glossy, thinner than he'd been in years, I took hope and held it for a while.  Hello Newman might be able to live into his dotage, along with his presence and pride, but most important;  pain-free.

So I got up at six this morning to take Hello Newman to Girard Veterinary Clinic. The mornings are on a first come, first served basis. They open around eight-thirty, but if you don't get there by seven to join the swelling line outside, you're shit out of luck. Cynthia Balzer, D.V.M. has a Best of Philly Award. No mean feat in this town, which feels quite comfortable booing their own sports teams, should they have a bad, um, day? What's cool about Cyndy, is that she is one of the few vets who will handle feral cats,  staying in a neighbourhood that has seen better days, while also keeping her office visits wonderfully affordable. For this, I can get up at a time when I used to go to bed. (Just in case you're wondering, she takes appointments in the afternoon, which are booked and walk-in emergencies).

So, I was second in line at seven in the morning.  There were a couple of emergencies, but Newman and I saw her by nine-ish.  (The meters don't have to be fed until ten and even then, a quarter gets you half an hour).  Cyndy is caring and compassionate.  She's put up with my crying jags, calmly handled the, as she puts it, "fiesty"Henrietta as she's scratched and clawed her way through an exam, as well as retaining a devoted, over-worked and friendly staff.  There are of course, people who've had experiences there which they say were not so good. It goes with the territory. But enough. Here's what happened with Newman.

His weight, pulses and temperature were fine. No sign of the ear infection I'd hoped for. I knew that he was having problems seeing the water in his bowl, as he bats at it to gauge where the level is. She was concerned that he seemed out of it, as he Stagger-Lee'd his way around the exam room. She turned off the lights, checking his follow response to a small light. Not so much. I suggested that if it were one of those red L.E.D.s, he might be moving. Did he crash into a wall at 40 mph chasing one? she asked. Nope.

She offered the options for me to take him home and watch him, or for him to stay for an X-Ray. I took door number two. I left, having seen a young man bring in a badly wounded cat that he'd just found on the street leave. He'd been told that the cat was positive for the feline version of AIDs, a test that takes only ten minutes (!), but he chose to opt to have it taken care of, bless him. My neighbour "Elanor" down the street, a long time friend of Junior's had rushed her cat in. She's waiting on blood tests, (as of this post, because they get sent out) as he's walking like a drunkard. A bit like Newman. A bit like how I used to....

At the end of the day, I went to pick Hello Newman up. The slides showed that between the L8 and the Sacrum, there is complete ventral osteophyte. Basically, and don't shoot me if I'm wrong, it means that where there should be a nice gap in the Lumbar 8 and his hip, there isn't. This is causing his over-compensating gait and probably some pain with his nerves. (Oh and he was full of poop)! The eyesight? She's really concerned.

I know that I didn't ask the right questions, because I couldn't answer Cricket's, later. This is why you should bring a friend, if possible, when you bring your pet to a vet for anything more than, say, you can't clip their claws yourself. But I digress.

For Newman, I have a diagnoses for his "Drunkie wants a drinkie" (I owe that li'l gem to my friend Greta) lurch. Cyn gave me the number of a, well I can't spell it: Chiropractor? Oh, that may be right! She said he's not great, but that he's good. I've dated far worse men in my life!

In the meantime, I have a lot of books on holistic medicine for animals. I plan on attending the Northwestern School of Animal Massage to get my certificate, hopefully by the end of the year. I'd been following the books guide as to massaging an older cat's joint issues, but I'd focused mostly on the front legs. We'd already been giving him Glucosimine Chondritine for his joints, but I bought a kitty-specific formular today from the vet.

I'm leaving him in a couple of rooms with Henrietta for the night. He likes lying in the open window. Which is a foot above the roof below, for those of you worried about Falling Cat Syndrome, a very real problem with city cats. They both get company and I spend some time with Nigel Nancyboy and Zebedee, both of whom, well at least Nigel, thought that I'd packed up and left with Hello Newman for a fun jaunt.

Pep Boys? I bloody despise them. But that's for another day. Because I'd like to give my opinions about them the kind of care, consideration and time that they don't seem to be able to give to their customers, well me at least. Do I spend time figuring out a poll link for y'all (six readers, or was that sick readers)? Or do I just rant to "Go Angry"? Who's link I'd show, but I'm a bit delayed at this time of night...

As to ifreen, who doesn't know me or mine, but expressed an almost instant message of concern, check out the link, please.

My oldest cat, "Hello Newman" has been with me for at least ten years. A handsome tuxedo male, he came to me via my late, dear friend, Dave Shiels. Dave already had a cat, Vinnie, who was violently protective of Dave. So, I went into his back yard to take a look at this cat whom he'd found on the street and was begging for me to take. It was dark, so I couldn't see much, but I agreed.

Hello Newman is a beautiful, loving, dignified cat.  He's probably about fourteen at this point, and has dropped from his prime weight of 16 pounds to a mere 11 pounds.  To help him keep his weight up, I feed him cans of Fancy Feast as often as he asks for it, to supplement his Science Diet.  He's also on supplements to help his joints.

The other evening, he was on my bed, sitting in what can only be described as a downright silly position.  He had most of his weight on his lower back, so that his hind legs were splayed out in front, with his front paws in between.  It was the first time I'd seen him do this.   I didn't give it much thought though.  Until this Saturday, when I found him in the kitchen having trouble with his back legs.

He had tried to jump onto the table from the bench and almost didn't make it.  At first I thought he'd slipped on a magazine, but to my horror, I realized that something was wrong with him.  He was staggering, every few steps, like a drunk.  In a panic, I called Cricket, who was away for the week-end.  I thought that I should take him to the Vet E.R. at the University of Pennsylvania, which is expensive, so I needed to borrow her credit card.  She agreed, but as I was such a tearful wreck, she suggested I take a few to gather myself and that she'd call me when she got off the road.

I took the time to re-assess the situation.  Newman didn't appear to be in any pain, he was just a little wobbly as he climbed up the stairs to my room with me.  I looked up his symptoms in some animal books I had.  His condition could be caused by any number of things, but the one that gave me hope, was that an ear-infection could be the cause.  Of course, brain trauma, chemical poisoning and a bunch of other nasty options were also possibilities.

By the time that Cricket called back, I had decided to take him to our regular vet, first thing Monday morning.  Whilst this may seem callous, I actually believe it's the best choice.  Our vet knows us.  She will be more able to help me make the right decisions for Newman.  Penn's Vet E.R. is a teaching hospital, so, while being an enourmous asset when it comes to life-threatening emergancies, they can lose sight of the quality of life issue.

When Cricket's last dog Nimrod, who was quite old, was brought in because he was bleeding internally, they were offering her the option of prolonging his life.  Turns out, that when asked for a prognosis, even if they did all the operations that they were suggesting, he would only gain a couple of months, if  that.  I was there with her when she made the heart-wrenching decision to let him die, to be put to sleep.  It is the greatest gift that we humans have; to be able to let our animals live and die with dignity, sparing them needless suffering at the end.

For now, Hello Newman is purring beside me on my bed.  Which is where I hope he'll be for countless tomorrows.  In the morning, we'll see what we can do to help him live a happy life.

Just at the moment in time where cutting myself seemed like a good idea, I stepped out of my room to apply a salve of aloe vera to Henrietta.  She is angry and violent.  I have an inflatable neck collar on her, to curb her self-mutilation, but she finds ways to hurt herself.  And me.  She stuck me in my fore-arm, bitching the whole way about what a wanker I am, in general.  She may be right.  But her making me bleed for a moment brought me back to the fact that I shouldn't do it to myself.