30 September, 2012

Bast is watching

Friday afternoon, it looked like Pix was done. Couldn't see, skin was all pissed off again, raw patches under the fur, looked like wild badgers had dragged her around L.A. She was acting like wild badgers had dragged her around L.A.

So we made an appointment with the vet. Not necessarily THE appointment, but maybe.

We tried not to think too hard about it. There were tears.

Saturday, her eyes were dilating normally. She could see large movements, if not well close-up. Skin had calmed down. Raw patches mysteriously vanished. The vet was pleasantly surprised to see her (I think he'd been expecting it to be That Visit). Her BP is more down. Her kidneys are still failing at a cheerfully steady rate, but her retinas are reattached and there are no hemorrhages. Her vision sucks, but she has vision. And most importantly, she's begging for bacon she can't see clearly.

So.

24 September, 2012

the cat who cannot win

...so the bright red ears Pixie was sporting this weekend proved, upon close inspection, to be scabby red inflamed tissue. I discovered this at the vet's, while she was trapped on the counter and under bright light and forced to hold still.

"Look!" I said. "This isn't right. What is this?"

Vet made a face and sighed. "Allergies to the thyroid meds."

Oh, FFS. 

So she's off those for the foreseeable future, with the probability of new meds in 7-10 days if we can get her BP down and her eyes back.

Because yes, high BP. Stupid high. Probable causes: her thyroid and her kidney disease, one and two. The detached retinas that make OMGBIG eyes are a direct result. But in the only good news of the visit, said retinas may reattach if we get the BP down right now. The pupils are still responding to light. So with any luck, she'll be seeing better by Saturday. If she isn't, in she goes and we stick her on some other damn thing to get her BP down. If she's not, she can wait another week for another checkup.

If we can't get her eyes settled out fast, though, the detachment is permanent. Which means permanent blindness. Which means... well. You can guess what it means.

The vet seemed pretty sad when we concluded our visit. Said he was sorry this was all happening to Pixie. Yeah. Us, too. And Pixie totally feels sorry for herself (but not so sorry she could not beg for dinner, which was vegetarian, which did not deter her in the slightest. Cheese counts as cat food.)

21 September, 2012

old black cats, you break my heart

Pooka vs. Pixie, from 2006
 So, Pixie lost 20% of her body mass in the last year. She did this without losing appetite or energy. The blood tests confirmed hyper-hyper-omghyperthyroidism. She and Pooka had low potassium (kidneys!). And while Pooka's kidney numbers didn't change much, Pix's did, though the hyperthyroidism is probably holding it a little at bay.  Her heart murmur also started singing death metal. There are tests for that, too, but the vet wants to settle out her thyroid meds.

First two weeks, one pill a day, in halves, powdered in her wet food so she doesn't know it's there. Now, this pill is tiny. Like fingernail clipping tiny. She found it in yogurt. She found it in ice cream. But powdered, ha! I can hide that under the potassium powder, which is "tuna" flavored and smells awful and so of course she and Pooka love it.

One blood test later, and her thyroid was on the low end. Apparently she responded well to the meds. Her appetite fell off and she gained almost a pound. So the vet cut her back a half a pill.

And one week into that, she's doing the BIG EYES thing that usually means high BP, diabetes, kidney shit, and hyperthroidism. In Pooka's case, none of these things were true. He just had sudden and immediate and total blindness. Pixie can still see. Not well, but she's got shapes, light, etc. Not so good with up close. Vet visit's already on tap for Monday, vet's out of town until then anyway. No way we're doing an e-clinic visit. A) SUPER EXPENSIVE and B) we know what this is. Or what it likely is. And if the vet puts her back on the extra half pill on Monday, she'll probably recover okay (so saith Google).

She's eating, yay! but she's clearly nervous. No purring when you pet her, even if she leans into your hands. This is not a happy kitty. She won't even investigate the boxes from ThinkGeek and Zappo which are all over the floor. Pooka broke the Birkenstock box getting his 12 lb ass into it. Pix won't even investigate.

She will not do well blind, even though she can hear just fine--unlike Pooka, who moves slowly and carefully and navigates by headbumps and grumbling most of the time. When it first happened, he behaved much the same way, except he moved a lot faster and hit things a lot harder. So I don't know. If her sight doesn't recover, I think we're facing a quality of life issue. She is Not Happy(tm) right now. If she continues in Not Happy and moves into Mostly Scared, well, shit.

Oh, old cats.

14 September, 2012

hideous

Someone on my FB this morning posted a picture of the US in which only Texas was identified by name, and all the other regions had labels like boring and crap. California was singled out by shape and labeled hideous. Ah, Texans. Funny people. Leaving aside the bizarre tribalism that leads one to identify with one's  state, I suspect hideous refers to the politics of California, or the imagined politics (in which we are all dreaded liberals), or perhaps just Hollywood values. Probably not the weather, although much of CA is desert and much is cold and wet and only some of it is Mediterranean and temperate and oceanside, which is somehow the default when people imagine California.

But today, mid-September, is our SoCal midsummer and so yes, today the weather is hideous. Which is to say--it's a functionally cool 80 in the house, with fans, and 99 outside. At sunset. Yes. At least it's a dry heat. And this wave of hell should stop by Sunday, at which point the highs outside will exceed the current temperature inside by a couple of degrees. Last year, and the 7 years prior, we weathered (haha) the Santa Anas (which this isn't, quite, having spared us the desert winds) in the old student apartment, which got up to 96 inside once, while it was 101 outside. No AC. (We have AC in this place, but 80 is survivable.  I draw the line any hotter than that.)

It is the sort of night in which one consumes ice cream and frozen fruit and beer, and plots which really long movie one (and one's spouse) will see tomorrow. So far we're down to Spider Man 3D at the discount theatres, and Bourne Legacy at the full price, 2x as expensive theatre closest to the brew pub where we will likely drink eat dinner. Spider Man is sufficiently uninteresting to both of us that we'll probably do Bourne. So there.  That's plotted. Time for the ice cream.

And let it be noted here: Texas, and Texans, can never ever bitch about the weather in any other state. Ever.

11 September, 2012

fate

I decided to try a standing desk at the beginning of summer. Built it myself (well, assembled, really) out of an old shelf and a pair of yoga blocks. I have a wicked* stool for sitting and reading text, but for typing, surfing, etc., I must stand.

This has been good, mostly, for my sacrum and my elbows. It's also easier to move around and walk away and do all that stretching crap you're supposed to do for good ergonomic health.

I can't write fiction this way, but a couple hours on my ass a day (hahaha, so optimistic!) won't hurt me. Also, I've achieved functional word processing on the iPad, so I have more mobility in my choices of where and when to write, and the option to do it without an 8lb metal (hot!) laptop.

But I am tempted to lapse. I have this totally awesome big black captain's chair that fits my butt just perfectly and I love it and... Louhi has claimed it. Apparently it is the perfect size for small cats. I think the pair of shawls draped over the top help in its appeal. And the fact that she is, on that seat, sleeping higher than all the other cats.

If I am foolish enough to move her, or sit down when she's gone off to torment some unfortunate insect, I have to hear about it when she gets back. Whining. Mrrping. Attempts to climb up into my lap which inevitably end with a disgusted mrow and jumping down. Lather, rinse, repeat, until I give up and move.

So yes. I guess I'm standing.

*wicked, because the shaft separates rather easily from the seat. If the seat isn't on squarely--or if you sit on it a little off-kilter--it can come off the shaft. This means that your body weight is coming down a) onto nothing at all, straight to the floor or b) onto a rather sharpish circle of metal on or near delicate parts of oneself. I have been bruised by both options.