Golden Meows
Sunday night we had a "wee bit of a scare" to put it mildly. It had been a strange weekend already, full of unexpected bumps in the road, and by the time Dean & Per got back from the inlaws, I was more than ready to just chill out with a glass of wine. As I sat down on the couch, next to the Lord of the Manor, aka Pongo, he suddenly cried out in extreme pain. Dean thought I'd sat on him, but I knew I'd just gently brushed against his back end. I tried to pet him, and he began howling and biting at me, so I gave him a little space. He tried jumping down, and it was clear that he could barely walk--something was dreadfully wrong with his rear hindquarters.
I followed him for a moment, and when our fluffy cat came over to say "Dude, what's wrong?!" Pongo hissed and howled at him as well. I could see that he was in so much pain that he didn't know who to blame, so he figured he needed to yell at all of us. At that point, I had Dean get a towel, and I carefully wrapped him up in the towel (as he tried to bite me). I began petting his head, and he calmed down a little, but I could feel him shuddering underneath the towel. Pongo is over 15 years old at this point, and given the symptoms we were seeing, it seemed a foregone conclusion that he was experiencing either a stroke or a heart attack. We talked it over, and decided that we weren't going to take him 45 minutes away to go see the emergency vet. We would keep him comfortable in his familiar surroundings, and then we would take him to our local vet who is only 5 minutes away in the morning. Of course, I make this decision sound calm and rational, but most of the discussion involved me crying nonstop as I continued to pet him.
After about 7 minutes or so, he wanted to move around a bit, so I let him. He seemed to be moving really slowly, but he was moving. He went over and got himself a drink of water, then he began walking around a bit. At this point, I was sitting off to one side, still in tears. Per came and sat next to me, crying as well. "When I was little..." he said haltingly, "Pongo was the only cat that would let me pet him!" We hugged and talked for a little bit about how we loved Pongo, but how he's an old cat, and things can happen really quickly with older pets. By bedtime, Pongo had perked up quite a bit--in fact he very clearly did NOT want to be a part of the pile of concerned boy children and other cats on the bed, so he and I spent the night on the couch, nestled together. By Monday morning, he was moving a little slower than normal, but otherwise appearing fine--to the point that we decided it must have been a twinge of arthritis, rather than a heart attack. By Wednesday, you would never know that anything had been wrong with him. He's back to ruling the household, demanding his vittles, and clearly letting you know whether or not he'll tolerate your devotions.
The other night, as Pongo was meowing to demand food, Per said to me "Every meow is golden!" After thinking I was never going to see Pongo again, I definitely have to agree with Per!!
I followed him for a moment, and when our fluffy cat came over to say "Dude, what's wrong?!" Pongo hissed and howled at him as well. I could see that he was in so much pain that he didn't know who to blame, so he figured he needed to yell at all of us. At that point, I had Dean get a towel, and I carefully wrapped him up in the towel (as he tried to bite me). I began petting his head, and he calmed down a little, but I could feel him shuddering underneath the towel. Pongo is over 15 years old at this point, and given the symptoms we were seeing, it seemed a foregone conclusion that he was experiencing either a stroke or a heart attack. We talked it over, and decided that we weren't going to take him 45 minutes away to go see the emergency vet. We would keep him comfortable in his familiar surroundings, and then we would take him to our local vet who is only 5 minutes away in the morning. Of course, I make this decision sound calm and rational, but most of the discussion involved me crying nonstop as I continued to pet him.
After about 7 minutes or so, he wanted to move around a bit, so I let him. He seemed to be moving really slowly, but he was moving. He went over and got himself a drink of water, then he began walking around a bit. At this point, I was sitting off to one side, still in tears. Per came and sat next to me, crying as well. "When I was little..." he said haltingly, "Pongo was the only cat that would let me pet him!" We hugged and talked for a little bit about how we loved Pongo, but how he's an old cat, and things can happen really quickly with older pets. By bedtime, Pongo had perked up quite a bit--in fact he very clearly did NOT want to be a part of the pile of concerned boy children and other cats on the bed, so he and I spent the night on the couch, nestled together. By Monday morning, he was moving a little slower than normal, but otherwise appearing fine--to the point that we decided it must have been a twinge of arthritis, rather than a heart attack. By Wednesday, you would never know that anything had been wrong with him. He's back to ruling the household, demanding his vittles, and clearly letting you know whether or not he'll tolerate your devotions.
The other night, as Pongo was meowing to demand food, Per said to me "Every meow is golden!" After thinking I was never going to see Pongo again, I definitely have to agree with Per!!