For Trooper’s Fan Club

DISCLAIMER:  This is not an easy read.  If you don’t wish to read about the end-of-life situation of elderly coon cats, and their equally elderly caretaker, please pass on.  I’ll look forward to checking in with you again tomorrow.

Background: My first cat was Archie McGee, who came to me as an orange-and-white kitten some time Pre-Steve — say, the early 1970s. Some years later, when Archie was grown, I met Steve Miller. He had a gray and white cat of Extremely Regal Bearing named Arwen. The combined household eventually acquired a third cat, a brown tabby barn cat named Brandee. Steve and I kept cats together for 47 years. We have nursed sick cats, and assisted failing cats through their last days. And when we were let to know that it was Time, we let them go, with grace and love.

Trooper is 15 years old; 16 in December. He’d been fine until last summer when he began to lose weight. He was still sharp and took an active paw in raising his grandson. He took it … badly when Sprite left us (as did we all), and that was when he began to decline. He’s been steadily losing weight, and getting more and more demanding and more and more forgetful.

The problem here is not that his appetite is not tempted, nor that he is “sick” (all his blood work comes back perfect), but that he forgets food while he’s eating it. He will, in fact, no longer eat crunchy food, though he will eat a few hand-fed crunchy treats, and (sometimes) freeze-dried chicken treats. He will not eat chicken baby food, the first cat I’ve ever had that refused this delicacy. He’s … disinterested in tuna water, and mostly ignores tuna. He will eat Delectables gravy, which is not food, necessarily, but he will lap it up — until he forgets what he’s doing, and then I need to show him the bowl again, push his nose down, and he remembers and finishes. He will eat the so-called “stews,” by which I mean, he will lick up the gravy and ignore the inclusions.

This morning, after having smacked me over and over again to get up and feed him, he looked at his bowl, uncomprehendingly. What was this strange thing? I stirred the gravy and offered again — still no recognition. I took the food up. He started yelling at me to feed him. When I went on making my breakfast, he curled up in his box on the desk. Later, I offered the gravy again. Again — no idea what this is, Mom. I offered freeze-dried chicken and he ate a chunk. Then he figured out the gravy.

According to the vet, Trooper’s problem is dementia. While there are apparently therapies for dogs that somewhat mitigate their symptoms, or at least the attendant anxiety (because Trooper knows there’s Something Wrong), there are none for cats. I don’t know about CBD, but I feel that his vet would have mentioned it, if she thought it would help. She’s not a newbie, either.
I am going on at length with this because while these things have been reported in bits and bobs, as I mention what I do during my day, I have not laid the whole thing out in one place and some folks are coming in late, having not heard the whole story.

I am not asking for advice. I am taking expert advice, and I’m feet on the floor here, in a very fluid situation.

I do thank everyone for your support and concern.

Here’s a picture of Trooper this morning: