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Yesterday I picked up an assortment of canned cat foods for Whit when I went grocery shopping. He’s always eaten dried food and was such an excellent rodent-hunter that I tended to think of what I offered him more as supplemental feeding. Even so, I always provided him with what I considered the best, although I admit that I’ve made adjustments several times over the years when new data about feline physiology made it clear a particular era’s best wasn’t as great as we thought it was.

But when I went shopping yesterday, the cardinal rule of nutrition was paramount in my mind: Nothing is nutritional if they won’t eat it. With that in mind, I purchased an assortment of products from the generic store brand to top of the line organic.  For once in my life, I didn’t read the labels.  My old goal that Whit eat only the very best was replaced by a much more basic one. That he eats, period.

And yet even as I did this, I found myself fighting feelings of guilt and even thinking about hiding that can of store brand stuff (as I smugly had thought of it) under my other purchases lest I meet someone I knew. I wondered whether I, as a vet, had ever put a client or friend in a similar position. I hope not because it’s a crappy feeling.

Not surprisingly, Whit immediately dove into the cheap store brand and even munched on some of his premium dry afterward. No vomiting, no diarrhea.

What is a well-balanced diet for a cat? Good question. Given that Whit was born under a farm porch, I’d say that the ideal diet for him would be New Hampshire Rodent Feast. Not just any rodents, mind you, but local rodents who fed on local vegetation, a dietary combination of fats, carbohydrates, proteins, minerals and probably a lot of other nutrients whose presence we don’t even know about and whose function is even more obscure. Those rodents and their ancestors and Whit and his co-evolved, predator and prey in a timeless dance that ensured the survival of both.

Alas, I can’t go to my local supermarket and find NH Mouse Mousse or Upper Connecticut River Valley Rodent Buffet. It offends us Americans that our pet cats would have such uncouth eating habits. Nor is there anything on the cat food shelves that produces sound and motion, those prime triggers of feline appetite. So I reach for cans of smell, combinations of fish the likes of which never appeared on Whit’s or any other area cats’ ancestral menu.

I do not read the labels. I do not want to know.

This post inaugurates a new blog category, the Whittington Journal. Ironically, in March of this year, I wrote In Praise of Whittington, a commentary that described my feline companion of almost 14 years. At the time, I did this because he was doing very well for his age and I didn’t want to wait until he was gone to write about him. I say “ironically” because two weeks after that commentary was posted, I had to euthanize my old dog, Watson, a loss I’ve yet to put into words.

Wats and Whit were so much like an old married couple I couldn’t help wondering if the year following Watson’s death would be as difficult for Whit as the year following the loss of a long-term spouse. Perhaps those who have found themselves or loved ones involved in such a loss with another human would view even considering that such a corollary might exist as the epitome of disrespect and bad taste. But when I think about all we know about the physiological as well as the behavioral effects of the human-animal bond, I’m convinced that the loss of close companions of any species possesses this same potential.

Normally I’m the kind of person who deals with loss and grief in private and then shares the results after the fact. That’s why I haven’t written anything about Watson yet. There are still some pretty raw spots there. But it stuck me that this was both a fear-based and egocentric response on my part because a lot of people have gone and will go through through what I’m currently going through with Whit and maybe they might learn from my experiences, think about things they chose not to think about in the past, or find some small comfort in these reports.

Has Whit declined since Watson’s death in March? Yes. Like a lot of cats his age, he has arthritis and his increased water consumption and the size and texture of the one kidney he’ll allow me to palpate suggests he has those common feline renal problems, too.

However, up until the last week, he’s coped so well that sometimes it was easy to think that all was well. In another blog, “When Animals Mess With Our Minds,” I wrote about discovering that Fric and Ollie had learned to jump on the chair I’d put next to the counter for Whit to use to get to his food. For a while after that, it seemed like everything was going back to normal again.

But the thing about old animals of any age is that it doesn’t ever really go back to normal. In the case of old cats, they remind me of a most sophisticated factory complex breaking down one miniscule piece at a time. It happens so slowly, so subtly that you don’t even notice anything is awry. Kind of like an LED light where one tiny cube after another may blink out without being noticed, until one day someone says, “Doesn’t it seem awfully dark in here?”

I have the same problem that many cat-owners have. Whit hates to ride in the car and he hates to be handled. He’s never bitten to my knowledge, but he does everything in his power to get away and becomes very stressed when he can’t. Consequently, there is no such thing as doing a “routine” work-up on him.  If I choose to go that route, I’m not going to do it unless I’m prepared for him and me to go the whole way. If there are other issues–such as hyperthyroidism or heart problems–that means additional diagnostic tests, perhaps surgery, and a high probability of multiple daily meds.

And am I prepared? At that point, I run smack into that wall known as Quality of Life. It’s a wall I’ve defined for myself and did for other animals in the past. I always considered that part of my responsibility to them, although I’m not sure everyone would agree. If Whit knows what he wants, he’s not talking.

That’s where I am right now. Wailing at the wall of Quality Life. I try different foods to keep Whit eating. He always has plenty of fresh water. The difficult part is keeping the dogs away from him because baiting them to chase him has always been one of his favorite games. He purrs a lot more now, which further alerts the dogs to his presence. As I was writing this he came up the stairs to the office, and immediately Ollie was ready to play with BeeBee right behind. Should I interfere? I did, but I don’t know if that was the right thing to do. I don’t know. Some days it seems like everything I think about Whit ends with that refrain. I don’t know.

So right now I’m where many of you have been or will be with your animals, trying to decide how much to do, how much is enough, and how much is too much. For them, for ourselves, and for all of the other inhabitants of our human-animal households.

But for now, I’ll post this and then go downstairs. When I do today, at least, I expect Whit will be at the door and politely ask to go out and tour his territory like he always does. Later when I go out to mow and weed, he’ll probably be in the flower bed next to the walk watching the chipmunks he used to hunt and the birds he rarely did.

And so another day will pass.

The Bee’s Knees - NOT!

Did you ever support some animal-related practice that you and almost everyone else thought was fantastic, the bee’s knees as we used to say in the old days, only to question the wisdom of it later? As we have more access to more information faster, such doubts seem to crop up more often. Then the question becomes, what are we going to do when that happens?

 

 Meandering With Myrn - Episode 3: The Bee's Knees - NOT! [5:44m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download (204)

The Sound of Two Paws Clapping

In many ways, for me the best time of day is when I take the dogs out first thing in the morning. Particularly at this time of year, I love that everything is so fresh and clean.

And quiet.

It’s the quiet that’s particularly engaged my thoughts lately. These past weeks I’ve become almost obsessed with it as I’ve attempted to master the basics of podcasting. There’s nothing like walking through your home talking into a sensitive voice recorder to point out just how much noise there is that’s slipped your notice.

Then I heard a news report about how whale song is getting lower.

Read more here.

Clinton, Obama, the Dogs, and Me

I continue to master the technological aspects of podcasting with more or less success. But a report on Barack Obama and Hilary Clinton’s historic unifying visit to my little town of Unity, NH last week seemed like something that would cause people to overlook my electronic limitations, so enthralled would they be in the story of the dogs’ and my first foray into national politics. Well, our sort of first foray…

 

 Meandering With Myrn #2: Clinton, Obama, the Dogs, and Me [17:05m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download (70)

Below are links to the show I did with Drs Kim Bloomer and Jeannie Thomason on June 17th about human emotions as they affect animal health and behavior. But as always happens with these two great folks, the conversation strayed to other areas, too.

For the written/streaming version, click here.

For the mp3/download, click here.

It’s that time of year again in New England when the fireflies flash their distinctive calls as they court members of their own kind. On clear,  moonless nights, they look like low-lying twinkling stars. On foggy ones, the tiny points of light become fuzzy golden globes zipping around the yard and garden.

Although we humans with our complex relationships might find their simple on/off form of communication simplistic (or even enviable!), when it comes to courting, it’s not without its unique twists. Each firefly species has its own distinct flash pattern to avoid breakdowns in communication, but as we all know, the path to true love almost never runs smooth.

For example, so-called femme fatales of some predatory species (genus Photuris) will mimic the flash calls of other species to lure unsuspecting amorous males of those species to them. Males who reply to this bogus come-on become lunch rather than find love.

How, you might ask, does such a species manage to survive given this unfriendly female orientation? Usually the females of these species alternate between reproductive and predatory behavior. As long as the male is good at reading female behavior, he survives.  But as most human males and females know, that’s often easier said than done!

In another variation on the firefly theme, males of some species also will mimic the flash patterns of others. Based on observations, one explanation is that these males are more interested in tricking the femme fatales of their own species than preying on others. These tricky males allow themselves to be called in by the female’s fake call, then switch to their own species-specific reproductive patterns at the last minute with the idea of convincing the female to mate with them.

Needless to say, their timing must be perfect. Nor is it surprising that this technique is referred to as “kamikaze-copulation.”

If you have kids or are a nature-loving kid at heart like me, you too can call fireflies by mimicking the flash sequences of those in your yard. Use a pen light or other focused light source and blink it on and off in the palm of your hand. When you see a flashing firefly approach, answer with the same call. After the firefly lights, he’ll quickly figure out that you’re not what he’s looking for and fly off. But for that one brief instant you’ll know what it feels like to be a firefly femme fatale who maybe even attracts a kamikaze lover.

Just a little early summer magic to enjoy in your own back yard.

In the Beginning

Join me as I make my first foray into podcasting, share my angst as I come to grips with imperfection, and learn about some of the characters you’ll be hearing in the weeks ahead–whether I want them to comment or not!

 

 Meandering With Myrn #1: In the Beginning [9:20m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download (232)

One of the wonderful things about working with companion animals is that I get an intimate view of how behaviors change as the animals mature. The puppy and kitten toddlers we get at 8-12 weeks give way to adolescents, young then mature adults, and then senior citizens, with each life stage adding its own unique spin to the basic canine or feline behavioral repertoire. It’s unfortunate that as our society has become more remote from animals as animals, we no longer recognize these changes as normal. Quite the contrary, when these occur, and sometimes they may occur as suddenly as they do in humans, a common response is to think that the animals experiencing these have lost their mental marbles.

But in spite of the fact that I know all this, I naively thought that BeeBee’s brain problems would preclude these transitions and she would remain in her own admittedly eccentric but fetchingly innocent little world. But that hasn’t been the case. As she’s moved into young adulthood, she seems to have become aware that she’s different, almost certainly at least partially because of the way other people and animals respond differently to her. When she was younger, she seemed oblivious to their reactions. But now sometimes she pays much closer attention to what the other dogs are doing, as if she were trying to learn how to be more like them.

When she can’t do what they do, her behaviors can take on an edge. Her frustration perhaps?

When I see her doing this, I find myself feeling the way I think the parent of an impaired child must feel, aching for her to be like the other dogs. I know it’s foolish because there’s really no comparison. Plus she isn’t like those other dogs and never will be.

A case in point: each morning after I finish doing my yoga, I cradle each dog upside down in my lap while I sit in the lotus position. Then I massage their ears, eyes, and feet, and finish with a tummy rub, all while doing deep breathing and relaxing myself.

I don’t do this in response to some scientific article that said this would be a good calming and bond-affirming activity, although I do employ other such in my work with patients and clients. If there’s actually an Upside Down Dog Lotus Pose, I’ve never heard of it. I do it because years ago I discovered that the dogs would come and lie next to me when I got to this part of my routine. Once they did, it seemed only natural to include them in it.

Over the years, I’ve learned many things from this accidental interspecies interaction. One is that there’s a difference in the way young, adolescent, young adult, and older animals respond. Within the current canine population, Ollie, the 6-month-old pup does the wriggling wagging routine for about 30 seconds before sighing (sometimes more in resignation than relaxation I think), closing his eyes, then going limp and giving into the calming massage message.

Mature Frica reminds me of myself during these brief interludes of relaxation; she sees these interludes as mini-spas and takes full advantage of them, perhaps to fortify herself for another day of putting up with two high-energy young canines. Some mornings, she practically throws herself upside down in my lap, puts her head back, and shuts her eyes as if to say, “Please, please, massage me and send me to that place with the soft ocean waves and broad expanses of empty silver beaches, where I can sleep when I want, gnaw on my bone or play with the toys I want when I want without having to deal with puppies!”

At a little over a year of age, BeeBee sometimes accepts the massage message to relax, but now sometimes she fights it. She never resists me manipulating her feet or rubbing her tummy. But when it comes to massaging her ears and eyes, sometimes she’s OK with it, but other times she isn’t.

At first it seemed odd to me that a deaf dog with impaired vision would be sensitive about me doing something that would limit the function of organs she didn’t act like she depended on that much, if at all. But when I saw this behavior in the context of the other changes she’s experiencing as she enters adulthood, it began to sense.

Like the rest of us, when BeeBee doesn’t feel sure about herself and where she fits in, she wants access to every means of sensory data collection she has at her disposal to make sense–”literally!–of the world and those around her. The more limited a particular sensory collector and processor, the more she wants the freedom to use what little of it she has. I can understand this because without my glasses, my distance vision is pathetic. Put me in a situation in which distance vision is crucial and take away my glasses, and I would resist any attempt by others to interfere with what little visual ability I have.

So for now, I’m trying to find BeeBee’s soft spot, that position in my lap that will allow her the freedom she needs to feel secure at the same time as it teaches her to relax. Today, that meant just cupping her head and ears in my hands. Maybe that’s as far as she’ll ever get. Maybe she’ll never go back to the blissful Ollie-like puppy oblivion that marked her younger days, or grow into Fric’s zoned out bliss as she matures. But maybe with time and patience she’ll make her peace with this new phase of her life and learn to accept and enjoy it as much as she did its predecessor.

Because I know what an important role modeling plays in animal learning and how that includes modeling human behaviors in domestic animals, I look down at BeeBee’s head cradled in my hands and think, “This dog just might help me find peace as I grow older, too.”

Do you ever get the feeling that your dog or cat is trying to drive you crazy? I’m not referring to the way you feel when your dog rolls in maggot-infested dead animal guts 5 minutes before your boss arrives, or when the cat pees on your $75 French bra just because it’s new. I’m referring to more subtle behavior of the things-that-go-bump-in-the-night variety that makes you think neurons are leaking out of your brain when you’re not looking.

Such has been my experience for the past week or so. At first I attributed it to the fact that my shitzu mix, Frica, is in heat. She’s normally a laidback, fun-loving dog, but you’d never know it if you saw her around the other two dogs lately. When BeeBee, the deaf, brain-damaged corgi does something Fric doesn’t like,and I admit BeeBee does a lot of things that would try the patience of a saint, canine or otherwise, Fric’s snarling response gives new meaning to the word “bitch.” When her young son Ollie tries to check out the strange scents emanating from his mom’s nether regions…

Well, a rough translation of her response would be “Get away from me you disgusting male pervert pig-devil or I’ll rip your heart out!”

Still, even though Frica’s testiness has me yearning for large volumes of chocolate, I don’t consider her behavior abnormal. And while the other dogs vacillate between staying out of her way and baiting her unmercifully, I consider that well within normal limits, too.

The only animal who really worried me was the cat, Whittington. He’s 14 and showing his age. Several months ago I started putting a chair next to the kitchen counter where his food dish is because every once in a while he’d have trouble jumping up there. It’s the kind of thing people do to accommodate an older arthritic animal that’s so common, I didn’t even think about it when I did it. But then about a week ago I realized I was filling Whit’s dish a lot more, and yet he seemed to be losing weight.

Being a vet, several possibilities went through my mind.

I didn’t like any of them.

That same day, I put Ollie in his crate, and let the other dogs have the run of house because it was too hot to take them outside with me while I worked in the garden. Normally when I come back into the house, BeeBee is sleeping against the door, I startle her when I open it and bump her, she gives out her godawful deaf-dog screech , this which wakes up Ollie who starts barking the equivalent of “Take me out, take me out! My bladder’s gonna burst!” and Frica yawns from the rocker where she’s been sleeping.

But not that day.

That day Bee wasn’t by the door and Fric wasn’t on the rocker. Fric was sitting on the chair by the counter and Bee was in the floor below her. Ollie was in his crate and he immediately started barking about his limited sphincter capacity as usual. In my rush to get him out, the meaning behind the other dogs’ deviation from their normal routine didn’t sink in…

…until later when two things happened. The first was that I noticed that the cat’s dish was licked clean. Although Whit keeps himself impeccably groomed, he has never stooped so low as to lick his bowl clean since I’ve had him. If anything, he leaves little pieces of kibble around as if to point out how inferior what I feed him is to the locally grown rodents he catches himself, even at his advanced age.

That triggered the memory that there have been other occasions when the cat dish had been similarly tongue-scoured.

I then turned to Frica to see if she looked guilty because BeeBee couldn’t have made it onto that chair and then the counter unless Fric put her there with a forklift.

But expecting Fric to feel guilty is like expecting two suns to rise in the morning: it might happen, but it doesn’t seem likely. In behavioral terms, she’s much more in tune with her most ancient roots than I am mine: She accepts that does what she does because it represents the most energy-efficient way to get what she wants.

Just like we all do.

If I want her to act guilty about that, that’s my problem not hers.

I never got the guilty look, but the circumstantial evidence was plentiful enough, I didn’t need it. The most damning piece was something else I’d previously noticed, but dismissed. In spite of cutting Fric’s food way back since she weaned her puppies several months ago, she still hadn’t regained her girlish figure.

It a classic example of human projection, I rationalized this saying that it’s harder to loose weight as one gets older.

Hah! My dog did have the same problem I did, but it had nothing to do with our ages. We were both eating too much.

OK, my part of that was sort of depressing, but I had to admire Fric’s intelligence for getting that food, and convincing me that I was losing my mind and that the cat was seriously ill.

With a triumphant look in Fric’s direction, I moved the chair back to the table beyond little-dog counter-jumping distance. Convinced I’d solved the problem, I took a quick shower to get rid of the gardening grime. When I finished, and returned to the kitchen, I discovered Ollie grazing on the table.

Being the learned professional I am, I also handled this with great skill.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I shouted. “Get your puppy butt off that table right now or I’m going to sell you to a laboratory.”

Or something like that. Whatever, it had the same result as Fric snarling at him and he disappeared under the couch. Unfortunately, the cat was also under there and they immediately started playing so I’m not sure how much of my message got through.

Be that as it may, this told me that Ollie hadn’t been spending all of his time sleeping while Fric was raiding the cat food. Instead, he had been watching and learning.

And making plans.

Sometimes I wonder how long he’s been browsing the contents of my kitchen table, the place where I and others eat. Most of the time, though, I decide I don’t want to know.

So, no ghost snarfing up cat food, no seriously ill cat, one dog on her way to regaining her figure, one human who is probably no more insane or thinner than she was when this started, and one puppy and one brain-damaged corgi who still think that all of life is a game.

Not a bad day’s work.