I can't really say how many lives he's already expended, since he's lived with us less than three months. But last night, he certainly used up one of them.
The Beav and his brother Wally came to live with us in late April. Their owner, who lived in the apartment complex where David works, had died. The staff had been caring for them for a few weeks while Cynthia was hospitalized, and once she passed away someone had seemingly agreed to adopt them "in June." Why that person could not take the cats right away has never been determined. But regardless, David and I agreed to "foster" the cats until that time came. We never really expected that time would come, and of course, it didn't. About three weeks ago, the person who had supposedly agreed to adopt the cats, said it just wasn't going to work out. So, now they belong to us.
There have, of course, been moments of cat-drama in our household over the past 10 weeks. The resident cat, Tigger, is 12 years old, blind, and temperamental. Tigger fears change. He responds to it by pooping and peeing in inappropriate places. He does not understand or accept the invasion of these new cats, just as he never seemed to approve of the introduction of new puppies or grandchildren into the family. We've learned to deal with it, because he's ours; even though we don't like it any better than he likes new creatures in the house.
After a few days of adjustment period when he hid in the bathtub, the washing machine, on top of the armoire, and under the chairs,Wally has adapted pretty well, other than a few hissing matches with Tigger. He seems to realize he has the advantages of vision and front claws, but he doesn't take that advantage very often. He's an attention hog and he seems to feel at home here.
Beaver is a Morris. I believe he was very attached to Cynthia. He has always sort of gravitated to me and ignored David. He's a finicky eater and neither he nor Wally cared much for the dry cat food that the staff provided once Cynthia's stash of canned treats ran out. Lately we had noticed he was losing weight (which, to a point, was not a problem) so I took to feeding him bits of tuna on the sly. He would eat it if we could keep it away from Wally for more than five minutes. Of course I eventually got found out so I openly bought some more canned cat food.
My observation on the whole eating thing was that Beav did not like to be watched while eating or drinking so I tried to give him his space, while still bestowing enough attention to let him know that he knew he was welcomed here ... at least by the human members of the family. I also presumed that since he was close to Cynthia, he was naturally grieving her sudden disappearance from his life. I figured "tincture of time" was probably the best medicine for his gradual adjustment to our household.
Neither of us realized that Beav's self-induced hunger strike may have also extended to not drinking enough water.
Last night, July 4, we got home at 10 p.m. from a very long, very hot day at the zoo. No one had been at home for at least 12 hours, so we don't know when The Beav must have become overheated and dehydrated in the hot, closed-up house due to his eccentric eating and drinking habits. But when I saw him lying on the tile floor of the den in a really unusual position, crying, I knew there was something terribly wrong. I turned on the light and saw that he had been vomiting. His eyes were all dilated and he was trying to get up, but he couldn't.
David thought he must have had a stroke, and what were we going to do so late at night? We really aren't in a position to go to the veterinary version of the ER. He could barely lift his head, so he wasn't going to nibble at any tuna or drink from even a saucer. We finally started giving him water with a medicine syringe, and he actually began to perk up. His breathing got more regular and his eyes went back to normal-looking. After a few hours, David and I finally fell into bed. We thought if he did die during the night, at least we'd know that he was hydrated and we hadn't hastened his demise.
This morning, however, he is "resting comfortably," as they say. He has been lifting his head, enjoying the additional attention of being syringe-fed and watered, and we've added milk and some watered-down oatmeal to his syringe. (Wally got the tuna that we offered him). But we still aren't sure what other damage may have been done before we arrived home, or what actually happened. He's still very weak and is mostly sleeping in his box. I don't know what the outcome will be, but at least we know we are doing our best for now.
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