My cat Simba has a behavioral problem.
After a vet visit to make sure no physiological issue was behind the revival of a habit I’d hoped was no more—spraying in the house— I await lab results to confirm the worst: that there’s nothing wrong with him.
Because if there were a real medical problem, we’d know what to do about it. Give meds for an infection, even have surgery for…something. I actually asked the vet if we could just remove his anal glands and be done with it, but she was aghast. Evidently, vets only want to do surgery for actual medical problems, and that was really disappointing.
Besides, this cat I’ve been Mom to for 13 years was supposed to be my daughter’s cat. After our beloved dog Shadow died, she begged for a cat and we checked many at shelters for the right one. Simba obviously wanted US, and the rest is history.
Of course, my daughter graduated and moved out of state for college and to work, but Simba stayed. With me.
Many dollars, a diagnosis of chronic kidney disease, and lots of cat spray removal later, we still live together. I’m still his mom.
I don’t want to make it sound as though I don’t love the rascal. I do. A lot. According to the charts about such things, he’s exactly my age now in human years. I can empathize with his less-than-springy jumps up to his cat tree and the aborted attempts to make it to the vanity top so that he can drink out of the faucet. In fact, his physical limitations have made it possible to leave the cat door to the patio available to him at all times because he can no longer scramble up the side walls to look for trouble in the neighborhood. Past rumbles with other cats have been stressful for both of us AND my wallet. He does continue to pine for the days when a quick SuperCat maneuver could get him closer to prey.
My own joints have lost some springiness—I don’t hold that against him. I however do not leave a god-awful stank everywhere to mark my territory or because I feel stressed or…whatever. So my empathy does have limits.
When he’s not acting out in this yucky way, he’s a sweetheart. He wants to sit on my lap for cuddles, really turns on the purr machine when I concentrate on his head with soft rubs, and usually ends up on the bed with me in the morning.
I especially love watching him reign over his patio kingdom, vigilantly overseeing the birds and squirrels with whom he has established a love/hate relationship.
Now and then he stalks and chases, but only to maintain his reputation as the boss.
Every day they all just hang out in wondrous inter-species harmony and bring me joy as I sit writing at my desk by the patio doors.
So I suppose I’ll keep him—at least until we get his lab results back. If they show no medical reasons for him to continue with this horrible behavior, and the vet still refuses to surgically remove his…ability to drive me crazy, I’ll be forced to try Prozac once again. On him, I mean.
I’ve already got my own meds to deal with my behavioral issues. 