I have four cats and one of them is ill. That is the reason that I spend such a lot of time here on my own at the moment. Of the four, three are happy and sociable and will sit on any lap going however skanky and cat-hating. The other one loves only me; runs from the rest of the family with mad eyes and sleeps on my head. Naturally she is the one who is ill. She is called Lottie and is part of a long chain of family owned cats going back into the mists of my ancestry.

She has an incurable disease, (apparently - but perhaps there is some foreign cure that I haven't heard of), which is caused by an immune deficiency failure. It is like having tonsillitis all the time and it is only eased by steroid pills. If I don't give them to her every day she eats nothing and would eventually starve to death. Otherwise she is TOTALLY FINE. It is such a small thing that I can't understand why there isn't a 'golden bullet' as the Vet calls it. I have spoken to several vets including one VERY expensive one and they all say the same. That she can carry on for years like this, but there is nothing else to do. It is seriously affecting my life. I have been doing this for two years now. I can't be away from here for more than a week without imagining her in pain and miserable and feeling insanely guilty. The person who feeds the cats while I am gone is saintlike and hides ground-up pills in all Lottie's food and drags off to buy the only brand of cream she likes (which is all she will drink). But Lottie always looks thin and low when I come home and throws herself at me, purring in that high, squeaky way.

Many people have said, 'Why don't you just kill her', using euphemisms obviously. I can't. I don't feel strongly about many moral issues but where animals are concerned I feel we have a duty to protect and serve. Once you have taken on an animal I think you should feel an obligation to look after it as decently as you can for as long as it takes. So I am stuffed.

Lottie is my favourite of the present cats. I bought her and her husband to replace my older set of cats who were all the same age and about to die anciently. They were bought when I became hysterically certain that I would never have children and so would have to pour my frustrated instincts into animals instead. It turned out that I was six weeks pregnant at that point - hence the hysteria. Oddly, the next time I was six weeks pregnant I went through exactly the same scenario; only that time I impulsively bought a miniature horse.

Of the first set one became my constant companion and close friend. In a horribly similar manner he loved only me and ran from the rest of the family with mad eyes. However, he had a constitution of steel. He was called Mr. Fur and escaped certain death on several occasions. Once he ate rat poison and was found lying in the garden, frothing. The Vet said it was hopeless and only a matter of time. I took Mr., as he was known in the family , into my bed and stayed there with him for several days, only leaving to get him Brand's Beef Essence, well diluted, which I forced into him with an eye-dropper. On about the fourth day I went down to greet a visitor and was saying how Mr. was seriously ill and couldn't leave my room. 'But isn't that him?', he said. Tottering behind me was Mr., obviously desperate to escape the vile Brand's Essence. He instantly ate a huge dish of normal cat food and was better in no time.

Another time we had only recently bought our house in Norfolk and the whole rotting thing had to be sprayed with timber treatment. It was so poisonous that they wore space suits and did one section of the house at a time and then sealed the rooms off for THREE WEEKS. Just to walk in and breath during that time was totally inadviseable. They had to take up random floorboards and spray underneath. Naturally I had all the cats herded away well in advance.
Late at night, with all those rooms taped off, there was no sign of Mr. Noooooooooooo...... It was just not possible - I had even asked them to double-check with torches before they nailed the floorboards back. ( 'Stupid bitch' had hung in the air). I crept up to the deadly rooms and called - there was a faint reply. F@ck! He was not only nailed up under the floor but had actually been heavily SPRAYED with timber treatment. He was sopping wet and had been there for hours breathing the stuff in. I rang the emergency Vet who said 'I'm afraid it is hopeless, he will probably die within a couple of hours'. I washed him down with a wet towel and he seemed oddly cheerful. He ate a large supper and fell asleep. I watched him all night, our last together, until the dawn when he went out, peed, and returned for breakfast as usual. He never showed the faintest sign of anything amiss and eventually died at the age of 21 after not a single days (normal) illness.

If you looked into his eyes it was like looking at a human person. I always felt that he was an old soul and for some reason was constantly reminded of a wise, Chinese scholar when I was with him. I did try out some Chinese words on him occasionally, but he did not respond. Perhaps it was my accent.
- posted by Iris @ 11/16/2003 11:19:00 AM comment