is the deathwatch.
You know, when the cats start actually showing signs of age. DeeJay and Annie were the last cats that I considered old when they passed. Diseases took others, Handsome, Wally, Lisa, just to mention a few. They weren’t what I considered “old”, even though, technically, they were. Seems that anything over eleven or twelve is considered geriatric with cats.
Bart will be eighteen this month. The arthritis is taking its toll on him. And when he takes a tumble or a stumble, it’s takes days or weeks for him to recover. We’ve got a pain management plan for him, but he’s supposed to take the meds with food. And his appetite isn’t all that great right now, when he’s hurting, he doesn’t want to eat. I’ve started giving him deli beef and right now I’m cooking up a chicken breast for him. To look at him right now, as he is on the futon, you’d never guess he has problems. He looks alert, he’s vocal, he pees (never misses the litterbox, always is able to make it there), he poops. He responds to affection, so, in spirit, I don’t think he’s ready to go.
But his poor body is just so worn out.
I started him (again) on the glucosamine and chondroitin. That takes a couple of weeks to kick in. I hate that I do this, I give him this stuff to help him, it does, I think ‘he’s okay’ and stop giving the pills. And then the hurt starts creeping up on him again and one day I look at him and just feel so bad. This cat is just so full of love and I’m going to miss him like hell when he’s gone.
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