Our eldest cat Saturn is 14 years old. Some might say that's old for a cat, but boy is this cat spry. Especially when food is involved.
I've never met a cat with an appetite like Saturn's. When I first came into Rob's life, she was a somewhat overindulged puddy with a porky belly to show for it. Far from worrying about her waistline, as many a female reasonably would, Saturn gave the appearance of being rather proud of her figure and the constant flow of tidbits coming her way from the 'Alpha Cat' (as Rob likes to call himself). Her smug attitude seemed to announce: 'Hey, I'm the woman in this man's life. I ain't going anywhere, lady. I've seen off women before you and I'll be here to wave off any woman after you. Get used to it - and don't even THINK about trying to change him. Or... you'll have me to deal with!'
Unfortunately for her, I'm not a woman who is overly-threatened by the machinations of would-be rivals. Unfortunately for me, I did have to realise pretty quickly that if I wanted to maintain my top female position in Rob's life, I'd have to learn to quietly accommodate Saturn's dominance in the household and come up with a way to get her into shape without getting my eyes scratched out.
Cue regular meal times, higher quality cat food but smaller portions. Luckily, the entrance of an additional cat in our household meant that treats had to be divided amongst three demanding felines. Soon enough, Saturn's sleek round belly was reduced to more reasonable proportions. And, as the chief cat feeder in our home, she too had to learn that if she wanted to be fed, she had better be nice to me. An uneasy, workable rivalry was formed.
Her begging-for-food meow (it sounds like 'meh' and is the most pathetic, desperate sound you'll ever hear) drives me nuts. As soon as someone even thinks about the kitchen, she'll dash between your legs and start begging for something to eat. As far as I've witnessed, there's very little she won't beg for and hoover down her sleek little throat. Asparagus and Hollandaise Sauce? No problem. Ice-cream? Mmmm. Creamed corn? Bring it on! Bloody fat pig.
And, when she's not eating, she's sleeping - no doubt recovering her energy after so much guzzling. Bloody fat lazy pig.
Not so long ago, I woke up early as per usual to our youngest cat pouncing on my head. This is his way of waking me up so they can be fed and let outside. I'm pretty sure Saturn taught him this trick, but the sly 'Chief Lady Cat' (as a German friend calls her) is usually well out of visual range when I'm spluttering over being awoken this way.
On this particular day, I stumbled downstairs and prepared the three bowls as per usual. Only, no Saturn was to be seen. Now, this was so unusual that I instantly knew something was wrong. Heading back into the living room (and ignoring the outraged meows of Jack and Shika), I found Satty in her usual cat bed by the fire. Unusually, she didn't react when I called out 'Breakfast!'. After inspecting her for a few seconds, I gently picked her up. She was completely listless and unresponsive. Immediately, I began to fear the worst. I was equally worried about Rob's reaction, as well as what was to be done.
We sat with her for a few minutes, with her head lolled weakly on my shoulder. With tears in my eyes, I looked over at Rob and we urgently discussed what to do. With Saturn in this state and with the nearest vet being a good 20-minute drive away, we were reluctant to put her through the car journey unless it was unavoidable. We found that she would take a few licks of cream off my finger and so, braced by this positive sign, we decided to treat her ourselves, and to take her to the vet immediately if she didn't improve or took a turn for the worse.
Thus began my campaign to get her to eat. The novelty of the reversal was not lost on either of us. Every hour or two, I spoon-fed her cream, cat food and any other tidbit we could get her to eat. She couldn't muster the energy to chew, so I invented delicious gravy mixes to conceal mashed food. Sometimes she ate off my fingers, at other times she licked the spoon.
Despite her lack of real appetite, I kept on encouraging her to take little bits at a time (''Come on Satty. Oh, I'll never get mad at you ever again for annoying me with your begging! Never!''). Rob raced out and bought the most expensive, vitamin-enriched senior food he could find. Anything we could do to get her to continue eating and drinking, we did it.
After 4 or 5 days of this, we began to notice that she was slowly getting better. Slowly, slowly, we encouraged her to eat more and more. And, on day 6, I was ecstatic to find her waiting in the kitchen, begging to be fed.
Over the course of her mystery illness, she lost a little more weight. She also developed quite a liking for being spoon-fed, and I'm pretty sure she was none-too-pleased at no longer being spoiled with cream and expensive food. However, she's back to guzzling her own food and any remnants of Jack and Shika's meals if I don't remember to put the bowls out of her ravenous reach.
Whenever I'm wildly irritated by her begging campaigns, and her nearly killing me as she gallops towards the kitchen, I take a deep breath and remember how I felt when she was ill. Then I pat her fondly on the head and chase her out of the kitchen.
By Christy
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