Good-bye, old friend

You may not have met Doonesbury, the most senior resident of our house. When Stoney and I joined as "fosters" he greeted us warmly (trans: He didn't hiss and swat like Gretchen did.). Even in my shell-shocked state, I recognized what a great companion he would be.

Marlene met Doonsey when he was a wee little thing, a puff-ball with blue eyes. He roamed the wilds of New Hampshire, chasing frogs and bringing home birds. He trekked across country with Marlene, to woody Northern California, sunny Santa Barbara, and back east to NH. He even got lost for a few months! By the time she found him, he was matted, dirty, and living on scraps. But one look and she knew it was him: those eyes, that perfect mask.

Then they made the move to DC. He went from roaming the Wide World to exploring a 2nd floor apartment. Yawn. OK, so he put on a few pounds. OK, 18 pounds. Big and beautiful, until he wants to sit on your chest at night while you're trying to read (his nightly ritual with Jess) or you happen to have a full bladder (it's a talent to pick just the right moment to pounce). As big as he was, he still found a way to scurry under the futon, a mere 4" off the floor, when a thunderstorm hit!

But a weight management diet, and access to the back yard, helped him drop to a Maine-Coon-healthy 12 pounds. Playing with Sam helped, too. He was 8 when she joined the house and insisted on chasing him up and down the hall! In frustration at her kitten antics, he sat on her once: Big, furry cat; little kitten legs squirming underneath!

The Doons-man was just about the most amiable, agreeable cat you've ever met. He always greeted new guests, feline or human. He even put up with Beyonce! Whenever the girls fostered a new litter of kittens, they'd introduce them to Doonesbury first. He never hissed, never swatted, just said "Hi, howyadoin?" and went on exploring.

Dr. Katz described Doonsey as a real gentleman. He never acted out when she was poking and prodding him. Even through dental surgery, he was a trooper. As he started to lose weight and energy a few years ago, she started him on thyroid medication. "He was always game, whatever we were trying," she said. As we added a new pill or liquid, he would rally. He'd put on weight, be more active, and get back to his old Doonsey self.

These last two weeks, though, he wouldn't rally. He'd sleep, drink water, pee water, then go back to sleep. He showed less and less interest in food and no interest in grooming. Jess even gave him a bath (not nearly as funny as my "spa day") so he'd smell a little better. Finally, on Tuesday, he wouldn't eat. Wednesday he ate a little. Thursday, not even real tuna. So on Friday afternoon, the girls brought him back to Dr. Katz. He was a gentleman then, too. As the first shot went in, he bowed his head and went to sleep. The girls stroked him and kissed him as the second shot went in. Quietly and quickly, he left. No fuss.

Doonesbury
May 1991-June 2009

If you would like to honor Doonesbury's memory, consider making a donation to AdvoCATs, Inc. or the Julie Fund at Union Vet Clinic. I would, but Jess won't give me the credit card anymore.

Massage me, baby

I loooooove being massaged. Seriously, I demand it. I look straight at Jess and squawk at her until she caves! Then she gets down on the floor, puts me between her thighs, and rubs. She starts on my back, rubbing little circles along my spine, loosening up the tight muscles. Then she hits the spot between my shoulder blades. aaaahhhhh. Next, it's my neck and head, here she really digs in.

Then something happens and I end up on my back, legs in the air. She scratches my chest and armpits until I freak out and start chewing my arms. Then (and this is my favorite part), she runs her hands under my head and massages my neck and head again. ooooooohhhh. No, no, don't stop. Wait, get my cheeks, yesyesyes.

sssssssssnnnnnnnzzzzzzz

Wait! Where are you going? You're not done!

SQUAWK!

About my toes

Hello readers, this is Stoney, Mosby's brother. I'm not nearly as Rubensesque as he is, but I'm still a big guy.

I'm not here to talk about me, per se, but to talk about a certain change in municipal policy I heard about. As you know, Mosby and I are declawed. This means that, early in our feline careers, a veterinarian put us under, sliced open our pads, removed the nailbed and first knuckle bone (they're attached), and sewed us back up. We had no say in the matter. None.

Most rescue groups (including the one we were adopted from) abhor this procedure and make you sign a contract saying you won't do it to any cat you adopt from them. Many municipal shelters have the same policy. Well, it seems that Frederick County, MD, may be changing their policy to allow potential adopters to declaw the cats and kittens they adopt from the shelter operated by Frederick County Animal Control.

There are plenty of articles out there that describe the horrors of declawing. I know Mosby's talked about them. I won't dwell on them here. Instead I'll ask you to take a moment and vote "Pro Paw." Save the next generation of cats and kittens from the pain and humiliation of declawing. Visit this petition: http://www.petitiononline.com/mc6984/petition.html. Add your voice. If you live in Frederick County, call your county supervisor. Better yet, call the shelter and tell them you are opposed to declawing and ask that they keep the current wording of their contract.

Thank you!

ps: The little vermin next to me is Beyonce the rat. We've come to an understanding: I won't eat her if she'll just leave me alone. We're working on it.

I did promise, didn't I

Jess held me to my promise. On a cool June evening, she trussed me up and took my picture. I am not happy about this, people. Look at me. And the lead is pink, fercryinoutloud!

I'm a cat, and a declawed one at that. What makes her think I want to "explore" the alley. That's what she keeps saying: "C'mon, Mosby, don't you want to explore?" No, I want to sit on my fat ass and watch Oprah.

So she picked me up and carried me out into the alley. As soon as she put me down, I bolted back in. As far in as that hell-pink tether would let me.

Jess seems to think that if she can get my brother Stoney to go, I'll be more confident or something. You know what, Stoney's a great guy, but he's the active, outdoorsey type. You know, the guy who's always inviting you to go kayaking or rock climbing or antiquing (if he could a) drive, b) talk, and c) go out without human supervision). He's all about this "going for a walk" thing. He even likes the alley cats.

Well, once Jess carried me out for the second time, I took the opportunity to eat some grass, walk about 15 feet, and pee in a wildly inappropriate place. Stoney chatted up the black cat for a while, rolled in the gravel, then took in the sun. I was more than ready to go in after about 15 minutes, so I headed back to the gate.

I will give Jess credit for trying. Each trip out like this lasts a little longer. I did check out more of the grassy area by the Reverend's car, so I guess I accomplished something.

I'll also give Jess that she takes the harness off before she lets me back in the house. I just don't think I could take the other cats seeing me like this.

mmmmm carbs, oooohhhhhhhh

When I first moved into my new house, I was introduced to something called "weight management" food. I gathered that one of my new roommates had packed on the pounds in his earlier years, so now everyone was eating this stuff.

This is quality food, don't worry. They use good ingredients, for the most part. But they also use corn, wheat, soy, and rice. Have you ever seen a cat eat corn? Ever wondered if he should make the switch to whole grain? Would you offer a cat tofu?

Let's be honest, here. I have sharp little teeth designed to rend flesh from bone. Open a cow's mouth or, heck, open your own. See those big, flat molars? Those are designed for grinding grain. Now look in my mouth (ok, that's not my mouth). Pointy, vicious little renders!

I need meat. Meat, meat, meat. And sometimes grass. But mostly meat. And bone. And fat. I don't need chips, bread, or pasta.

But I do love them so. That's my problem. I love carbs. Jess has this big tub of food she gives to the stray cats outside. It looks like kids cereal! Everytime she opens it, I can smell all the corn. I stare at the tub, hoping a nugget or two will bounce to the floor. Oh, sweet temptation!

Everyone in the house now eats a high protein dry food that contains no grain at all. It's good and crunchy, but not nearly as satisfying. I like it and I ask for it as much as possible (I don't always get it, but I ask).

Fat. Healthy, but Fat

I'm huffing my way up the stairs to the litterbox. I have to stop half way and rest. Then I have to stop at the top of the stair and rest. Then I have to rest at the litterbox. This is a dream? Right?

Nope. I thought there had to be something wrong with me (besides my prodigious belly) so I had them take me to the Vet. I admit it, I hate getting in the carrier. It scares the shit out of me. I'm sure I'll never get out or, when I do, I won't know where I am and they'll leave me again. I know, I know. I'm safe and the girls have promised never to leave me. I still squawk in the carrier.

Jess complained the whole time about carrying me in the carrier. "Geez, Mosby! I hope I can make it to the car!" ha ha. I'm not self-conscious enough yet.

The trip was mercifully short but as soon as the carrier was open, I was in a weird place with people poking me. Without so much as dinner first! Everyone kept popping in to stare at me. Truthfully, I was so freaked out about being at the Vet, that the attention was the least of it. It bothered Marlene a lot, though.

The Vet prodded, massaged, felt, and listened. She drew blood (three tries, thank you. I've got three bald spots now!). I tried to maintain some dignity in all of this: I refused to give them a urine sample. Ha! Of course, two days later I found Jess holding a little dustpan under my ass while I peed in the box. At least I made her work for it.

But guess what kids: I'm fine. My thyroid levels aren't low. My red and white cells are fine. There was no sugar in my urine. I'm fat. But I'm not sick.

Now I'm on Atkins. I kid you not.

Hi, my name is Mosby, and I'm a carb addict.

My name is Mosby. I'm 8 years old and I've always been a big guy. Even when I was young and fit I was tall and hefty. I didn't have to work at it, I just played with my brother and did the stuff you do when you're young. And I ate whatever they put in front of me!

I was comfortable and happy in my home, even when they had me and my brother declawed (I'll get to that in another post). Then, seven years into what I thought was a great relationship, my world turned upside down.

My people, the ones who raised us and loved us, abandoned us. We found ourselves homeless and living in rescue (better than the shelter, yes, but still not home). By then, I was up to 18 pounds. I was hefty, but I could still play and get around easily. But this, this upheaval, left me shattered. Like many of you, I turned to food.

Food made me happy. Food made me feel better. Food didn't go away. So I ate.

We went into a foster home with loving people and interesting roommates. There was always food there, too. This time it was "weight management" food. Great! I thought. It's light! I can eat as much as I want! So I ate. A lot.

Before my foster family knew it, I'd packed on nine pounds! They moved the wonderful food so I had to climb to get it. I climbed. I ate. I ate a lot more.

The nice foster people adopted me and my brother after a year. They're wonderful, kind, gentle, and really care about us. They're very worried about me. I don't move around well. I breathe heavy. I'm constipated. They tried other foods, but what I really want is kibble. They're nice, they give me a few pieces with every bowl of moist food. But my wonderful food, my constant companion, is out of reach.

I'm on a diet, kids. I'm not happy about it. But I really have no say. We went to the doctor, ran all kinds of tests. More on that in the next post.