In June of 2000, about ten weeks before Bill and I left consulting to attend business school at Rice, we accidentally adopted a kitten.
Bill and I were going to play racquetball with Chris and Brit at their apartment on Holly Hall. As we stepped out of the Jimmy, we heard a small “mew” outside, and being friendly, we said, “meow, Kitty” back.
But it bothered me that I couldn’t figure out where the sound had come from. We saw no kitties on the ground or in the tree nearby. The next “mew” sounded like it came from under a red Oldsmobile Alero. When I got down on my belly to peer under the car, I glimpsed a swish of orange tail behind the right-front wheel, from a kitten in the engine compartment.
Oh, no! That’s no safe place for a kitty!
We cooed and cajoled until an orange, stripey kitten — coated from nose to tail with engine grease — emerged from the car, and offered it some water from a bottle of Ozarka.
When a clap of thunder startled the kitten back toward the wheel well, we scooped it up and put it in the Jimmy. All of a sudden, we were involved. Oops.
Lost kitten
I had little experience with pets. I naively imagined that someone had lost this furry bundle and would be overjoyed to see it again. So I snapped a photo, made up “Lost cat” posters, and recruited my brother to post them around the complex. Two people called that week, looking for older cats. But apparently, people don’t “lose” kittens.
A warm bath in the kitchen sink got rid of the engine grime, and his first trip to Montrose Vet took care of fleas, ear mites, and worms. The vet alerted us that this kitten was male and estimated his age at ten weeks, making him approximately an April Fools Day kitty. She gave the kitten — name T.B.D. — a clean bill of health and he was ours.
Bob at 29 with Kitten T.B.D.
Bill at 28 with Kitten T.B.D.
* * *
As consultants for Plaut, Bill and I were both still supporting IT clients in other states. Our friend, Susan, and my brother graciously agreed to catsit while we traveled during the week.
Initially, we confined the kitten to the spare bedroom, formerly Cindy’s room. But one Friday morning, Bill sent me an email with the subject, “Open Sesame,” and from then on, the cat pretty much had the run of the house.
Open sesame…
* * *
When Tibbs was perhaps six months old, we took him back to the vet for additional vaccinations and to be neutered. He weighed in at 11 pounds, and the vet tech encouraged us to switch his food from Kitten Chow to adult kibble, and assured us that Tibbs was fully grown.
Despite the tech’s pronouncement, Tibbs grew to become a strapping, 22-pound, adult cat. He could scale any cabinet, open doors, and even jump from the floor into the open freezer (?!?).
Jean captured this image of Tibbs, ready to pounce, in July 2002
Jean caught Tibbs, swishing his tail “no”, in June 2003
Tibbs in Jan 2004
Tibbs in Jan 2005
* * *
In November of 2005, during the week before Thanksgiving, two things happened. The refrigerator that had come with our house died. And we belatedly realized that our five-year-old cat, Tibbs, was becoming sicker and sicker.
Most obviously, Tibbs seemed really thirsty, spending a lot of time drinking from his fountain, and making a LOT of pee in his box. He also seemed hungry, but ate only a little of his kibble before wandering away. Less obviously, he was losing weight. And he had become less playful. What we mistook for the sedentary style of middle age turned out to be the lethargy of systemic illness.
Early in the week, we took him to Montrose Vet, where they tested his blood sugar and pronounced him diabetic. They sent us home with some glucophage tablets and a case of Purina DM, low-carb/high-protein, canned food to see if that would help.
But by Thanksgiving Thursday, Tibbs was struggling to breathe and his abdomen was distended. Glucose dysregulation was impairing his kidneys, and his body was accumulating fluid. Our vet referred him to VERGI on IH-10 near Bunker Hill for emergency care.
Tibbs was so sick that he almost didn’t survive. After Tibbs was admitted, they shooed us away to treat a more-urgent case. We were nearby at Target when a VERGI staffer called to say that Tibbs’ heart had stopped as they began treatment, and they had successfully resuscitated him.
Tibbs at VERGI in 2005, with IV ports for fluids, insulin, and lab draws
I remain grateful that Bill had not hesitated to sign the admission form authorizing heroic measures. Tibbs stayed in hospital through the weekend while they titrated his insulin dose. That 72 hours cost us $2,400, but saved his life. By this time, we had been trying to make babies — unsuccessfully — for more than a year. We had even started fertility treatments at OGA. For all practical purposes, Tibbs *was* our first baby, and we couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.
By Sunday, Tibbs was stable. Signing up for daily insulin shots didn’t seem like a big deal to me — my Dad had already been insulin-dependent for a decade. We took him home, and his Aunt Amy sent him a vase of lovely get-well-soon flowers. We settled into a new routine, Tibbs regained a few pounds, and he thrived again.
Tibbs checking out his daisies from Aunt Amy
Tibbs amongst his sharps in Dec 2006, before I learned the vet could safely dispose of them
Tibbs in July 2006
Tibbs in the soup cabinet, July 2007
Tibbs in May 2008
Tibbs in May 2009
Tibbs in Jan 2010
Tibbs was an excellent partner for “bedrest” everytime, especially the time that really counted in Feb 2011
Tibbs was not particularly amused by the babies or their playthings, Aug 2012
Tibbs in Mar 2012. When the babies were away in their beds, Tibbs still preferred to nap near Mama.
* * *
In retrospect, Tibbs probably stopped eating appropriately two weeks ago. He seemed hungry, and we were slow to notice that he ate only a little of his kibble before wandering away.
Puzzled, I scrutinized his food supply and noticed that the label had changed. Purina, in their continued quest for cost savings, had changed the formula of his food again, this time to add “natural and artificial flavors.” I don’t know what they added, but Tibbs refused to eat the stuff.
(It really, really irks me that Purina repeatedly tinkered with the formula of their prescription diets, which have a captive audience. The health of a diabetic animal — who cannot tell you how he’s feeling, and is difficult to test — depends on a predictable balance between food and insulin. I really wish they had just raised the price of the food every year.)
I called around to 8 or 10 cat clinics in our area, but by the time I had realized the issue, all of them had only the new formula in inventory. Despite my effort, I located just one can of the prior formula, and by then, Tibbs was already so sick he only nibbled at it.
Over the weekend, it became apparent to us that Tibbs was really sick. He was lethargic, and yet seemed to have trouble settling down to sleep. His belly became distended and his breathing became labored. Slowly, it dawned on me that we’d seen this before.
Monday morning, August 4th, Bill and I gathered Tibbs to take him to Montrose Vet for the last time. Sam and Cate expressed concern for Tibbs and insisted that they should come with us to the vet. Recognizing that no good could come from that, we sent the girls with Claudia to Weir Climbing Park. Sam cried as we took Tibbs away.
An x-ray scan revealed that Tibbs had fluid in both body cavities, consistent with glucose dysregulation. Dr. O told us, while the cause was unclear, “it cannot be fixed or managed, and he will not regain quality of life.” At 11 am, Tibbs gently came to the end of his life.
* * *
In 2005, when VERGI gave us the educational brochure about caring for a diabetic animal, I was horrified to read that the average diabetic cat only survives 18 months. In retrospect, that’s a population statistic that includes unfortunate animals whose owners make no effort to manage their diabetes.
Tibbs lived 8-1/2 years after diagnosis, and he thrived for much of that. I am confident that he lived a longer and better life with us than he might have otherwise. Nonetheless, I wish that I had recognized sooner that his not eating would dysregulate him, and acted sooner to prevent his final suffering. Go in peace, Tibbs.
