Our little Manx, Otis. Again.
There was the accidental OD last summer that resulted in a near-death experience that segued into another issue where Otis ended up being shaved from the hips down, revealing his previously disguised lineage to a pterodactyl, accentuated by his prehistoric bone structure and lack of a tail. He also looked a little one of those carpet covered armatures that the sadistic behavioral scientist, Harry Harlow, pawned off as mother figures on infant rhesus monkeys in order to illustrate something completely obvious while torturing small animals. (I’m not saying that some mothers don’t resemble carpet covered armatures, but that’s another story.) My eighth grade class was forced to watch one of Mr. Harlow’s films where confused, motherless baby monkeys clung fearfully to a little piece of low-pile shag, too afraid to hope for anything better. I realize now that this was simply an educational film preparing us for our future work lives.
Back to Otis who decided that it wasn’t enough to get us up twice a night to let him out, then back in (and, for anyone suggesting that we ignore his loud, insistent meowing when inside the house and out, let me just say, “Gee, we hadn’t thought of that”); he added to his nightly repertoire by demanding to be fed at two am, every night, like he owned an iphone with a preset alarm. And it wasn’t enough to feed him–no, he wanted me to watch him eat, as if he is suddenly a dinner guest at Downton Abbey.
(Side note: I have a friend who had a cat that got her up at 2:15 every morning to turn his food dish a little to the left. I used to laugh at this story.)
This was around the time I added cursing to my repertoire, since refusing to feed, observe, and open the door was not an option (Otis possesses the single-minded tenacity of a toddler in a grocery store.)
Then one day, about six weeks ago, after his observed two a.m. meal (clearly the inspiration for Taco Bell’s “Fourth Meal” ad campaign) and exit from the house, Otis did not cry to be let back inside at five am. John and I didn’t even notice his absence until later that night–something I can only chalk up to the short-term memory of the chronically sleep deprived.
Otis was missing for thirty hours and when John finally located him under a bush. It turned out that he had a punctured lung, front claws ground down to nubs (the vet said, they were probably dragged across concrete or asphalt), and six broken ribs. And, Reader, he survived. Otis was Hit By A CAR, then went without any medical attention for THIRTY HOURS, and is EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD. (FYI: Most outdoor cats are lucky to make it to five years old, especially if they live in a city; Otis lives in a city on a well-traveled street so his life span in pretty impressive. If only he were a lottery ticket.) To put his age into people terms: If Otis were human he would be graduating from high school and making bad decisions in Cabo.
Here is the abridged version of Otis’s last year:
Spring 2012: Diagnosed with bone cancer. Prognosis: seven months.
Summer 2012: Despite the cancer prediction, Otis is Otis. As a matter of fact, his appetite is so healthy that his food isn’t enough. He eats the dog’s food and, in the process, swallows enough codeine for a 42 pound canine. Prognosis: "We’ll know is a couple of days.“
Summer 2012: Diagnosed with failing kidneys. Prognosis: Seven months, with regular fluids.
Summer 2013: Car accident. Prognosis: Death within forty-eight hours, or he will survive.
And he’s never been on regular medication, nor is he now. The fluids? He’s received them twice. Unless by fluids you mean our bank account. Maybe next year we can take a vacation…
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