Further Evidence to My Theory that Fancy is Actually Slowly Becoming a Human

“All the time we spend anthropomorphizing our animals – do you ever get the the feeling that they’re just animorphizing us?” – Angelina Jolie in “Playing By Heart”

So Fancy decided this evening that she’s ready to eat.

She was ready to eat my crescent roll. I sat down at the table for dinner, up she came, and began sniffing it. I didn’t think anything of it, given that this cat has not TOUCHED not ONE single MORSEL of human food in TWELVE years of life. But then she started licking it. Under normal circumstances I would have stopped her with a gentle “No, no, baby, that’s for mere mortals,” but seeing as how she hasn’t eaten in a WEEK, I figured I’d see what happened. She licked the thing to death, put a good silver dollar-sized hole in it. Then sat back and licked her lips, cleaned her paw, as if she were quite pleased with herself.

Color me confused.

A crescent roll? Seriously? After a week-long fast, that’s what you want to go with?

So, call it divine inspiration, whatever, but I got an idea. I took a can of tuna out of the pantry, opened it, and sat it down in front of her on the table. A sniff. A tentative itty-bitty taste test on the tongue, and then she dug in. She nommed a good tablespoon or so before I pulled it back due to mercury/diarrhea/possibility of cutting her tongue on the edge of the can concerns, but I let her drink all the juice out of it since she needs all the fluids she can get.

She’s happy as a little clam now.

I just simply don’t fricking get it.

She’s still going to have her liver ultrasound and stomach scope tomorrow. Hope she doesn’t think this new, warped cooperation is going to get her out of that.

UPDATE – 10:16pm

We have eatage! After giving her some space and going to swim for a while, I came home with a new can of tuna, the watery contents of which I poured over Fancy’s regular cat food. Immediate nommage. That was around 9:00; just now she came out and had some more, plus a hefty helping of water.

I wouldn’t say she’s out of the woods yet, seeing as how she still has to keep all of this down and still needs lots more water to be adequately hydrated, but it’s a start. I’ve pulled up her food bowl for the night, pending stomach scope-age tomorrow morning.

*fingers crossed*

Update

Tomorrow will mark one full week since Fancy has eaten anything of any substance and not upchucked it. She’s not even interested in canned food, which is usually her favorite treat. I put a plate of it in front of her and she moves away from it quickly. I finally shoved it under the bed with her. Must remember to pick that up before bedtime, otherwise, I’m going to reek of Tuna Seafood Feast in the morning.

Today’s small victory – on the third try, finally got a Periactin tablet down her without her tossing it, spitting it out, or stashing it in her cheek until I’m not looking (seriously, this cat is half human). At least, I think I did. I watched her for a while to make sure she wasn’t holding on to it.

She hates me with a murderous passion right now. If she had opposable thumbs, I’d be sleeping with one eye open. I’d hate me, too. I shoved a syringe full of water down her after the Periactin. It won’t do much for her; she’s so dehydrated. But every little bit will help, I suppose. The earliest I can get her to the doctor is Thursday. God, I hope she makes it until Thursday.

I’m preparing myself. Going over the scenario in my head. Imagining every possible different way the vet might say the words, every possible different reaction I might have, every possible next step I could take upon hearing them. Preparing myself to come home to an empty apartment, with no big blue eyes staring up at me lovingly. No one telling me how horribly busy her sunbeam-sleeping day has been. I’m preparing myself to sleep alone every night, not to hear her soft purring from the other side of the bed or feel her making biscuits on my pillow. Not to wake up from a paw to the cheek and a soft meow. Something just seems so final about this time, so different. Something intangible, a certainty with which I’ve only ever felt one other emotion.

I’ve been Fancy’s catmom over half my life. Before I could vote or drive or even cross the street without holding someone’s hand, she’s been my constant companion. I’ve never taken her for granted. Every day, especially for the past few years since we’ve been on our own, I’ve reminded myself that I’m so lucky to have her, and that it’s going to end sometime. But not now! She’s not ready. I’m not ready.

Being a Catmom

Fancy has been sick for a week now. This all started 13 months ago and has been on and off ever since. This time is different. Usually she’s vomiting but otherwise okay. This time, she’s not eating, drinking, pooping, grooming or stretching. She’s not fighting me when I try to give her medicine. Terms like “renal failure,” “pancreatitis,” and “liver disease” float around in my brain.

As the vet examines her, as I ask my parents for their advice, as I comfort her when she’s in pain, I hear what nobody has had the courage to say yet, too. That, if she doesn’t get better this time, it may be time to make the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make. I cry just thinking about it. In the meantime, I pray, and I do all the research I can do.

And I wake up at night when she wakes up, and I hold her when she’s sick and I clean her when it’s over and I keep her favorite napping corner clean and supplied with the fluffiest blanket. I give her the prednisone every other day, the Periactin when she hasn’t eaten in over 24 hours, a syringe of water every two hours to keep her hydrated, the Cat Lax to help her digestive system.

She never leaves my side when I’m sick or hurting. She’s been with me for well over half my life. I literally don’t remember a time, don’t have a memory of which she’s not a part. If it comes time to make this decision, I don’t think I can do it.

God, please help her.