RAMBO
Rambo had to take a little trip to the vet on Wednesday. You can't imagine how much fun that was - for him or me.
Firstly, Rambo is a BIG cat. He weighs 10kgs and is almost one metre long from nose to tail tip when stretched out. He's big.
I have a reasonably large picnic basket that I squashed him into - and I do mean "squashed" him into and locked the lid down. I didn't dare carry it by the handles. I was afraid they'd fall off.
Tiger the dog was due for his 12 month vaccination, heart worm injection, etc. So I booked them both in at the same time.
Please remind me not to do that again.
Although they were very well behaved, it was quite a saga for me.
You see, Rambo has a voice to match his size. And he really objects to being taken anywhere in a car. And object he did. Very loudly all the way to the vet and all the way back. Luckily we only live a short distance away. I'd hate to have to listen to that for longer than 5 minutes. Even with the car windows rolled up, people on the streets were turning to see what was going on.
So... Tiger had his injections and went back out to the car like a good boy. No trouble at all for him.
Then it was Rambo's turn.
I bet you think I'm going to launch into a tale of how difficult it was to handle him. Well, I'm not. Rambo is probably one of the most gentle, most easy going cats you'd ever meet. He's an absolute dream when it comes to being handled or given medication of any kind.
He was poked, prodded, had needles stuck in him, his mouth forced open... You name it.
He took it all in is stride and didn't utter a single sound of protest. [The car is the only thing that makes him go off like a fire siren.]
The sad news is, that poor old Rambo is now a diabetic.
A couple of weeks ago I noticed that the cats' water bowl was always near empty. Having two cats, it's sometimes difficult to judge whether it's one or both who are eating or drinking everything.
I also noticed that the bottom of the litter tray was unusually more soaked in urine than it should have been.
Our other cat, Dixi, is only 6 years old and we've had her since she was 7 weeks old. I knew it was unlikely to be her. She's never had a weight problem in her life and apart from one nasty road accident, her health has always been excellent.
I watched Rambo more closely and noticed that he was at the drink bowl more often than what I thought was normal for a cat. Then, every time I heard someone in the litter tray I raced in to see who it was - and earned many a concerned look from Rambo. I think I managed to convince him that I had developed some sort of weird litter tray fettish.
Anything out of the ordinary when it comes to animals, is often an indication of something wrong, so I booked an appointment for him with the vet as soon as I could.
Finding out he was a diabetic wasn't really a surprise for me. I brought Rambo home about three years ago and at that stage he weighed over 13 kgs. I was afraid he'd literally eat himself to death.
I wasn't all that successful at reducing his weight either, but I did try. He lost three kgs. For his size, an ideal weight for him would be around 8 kgs.
It was his age that surprised me the most. I had him pegged as being around 8 years old, possibly 9.
The vet laughed.
"So how old do you think he is?" I asked. "10? 11? 12?"
Try about 17 years old.
Wow! I had no idea. He neither looked nor acted like a really old cat. You could have knocked me over with a feather.
Not that it makes any difference. I still love him just the same. It makes me all the more aware that our time together is going to be a lot shorter than I expected. But then, you never know these things - do you?
So now I have to give Rambo insulin injections twice a day for the rest of his life and feed him special Diabetic Cat Food.
There's no question about it, no issue, no trouble at all. I'll do anything I have to do to keep him as fit and healthy as he can be for as long as his life holds out.
The vet showed me how to give him an injectin and off we went back home - Tiger sitting happily in the back of the car, Rambo wailing like a siren in the front seat and me grimacing at the strange looks I was getting from people on the streets.
Three days into his routine, Rambo seems much brighter and more alert. He doesn't seem to mind his needles. He takes them without comment, without a flinch and absolutely no protest. He's a wonderful old boy.
He may be 17 years old - or even older - but I aim to keep him alive for a lot longer.
Good luck to you Rambo. You deserve to enjoy your retirement.
