Smol Tragedies
George Carlin once said: “purchasing a pet is like buying a small tragedy. It’s going to end badly”.
Independent and proud, the feline is grace and beauty. Surely if there were pageants to be won, where they strut their stuff across a stage and display their many talents, they would leave any competition with a snazzy sash and crown (if only to shred the former and ignore the later).
Who would have thought cats were such sensitive creatures?
My cats are a bonded pair, assumed to be brothers, and adopted together as they would likely fail to thrive separated. Jax is an all-black gentle giant, and a kitten in big-boy body. Skittish at first, once he acclimatizes to your presence he loves to cuddle, and when you scratch his butt where his tail meets his body, it’s an elevator ride to the top floor. When he’s really comfortable, he rolls on his back exposing his bare belly, and kneads biscuits in the air.
Patch is tuxedo cat, with markings on his face in line with his personality: with half a Hitler ‘stash, he can be a little devil, and with a Marilyn Mon-mole, he is the life of the party. He’s more resilient than his brother, and although he can also be skittish, his curiosity will often get the best of him. I’ll never forget the first couple days when I brought both cats home from their foster family, and how Patch stared at me from around the corner—wide-eyed and confused—as I sat peeing on the toilet.
At his last check-up, Jax’s gums were red and inflamed with gingivitis. Despite being put on a special kibble, it eventually turned into what’s called ‘periodontitis’ which is essentially severe irreversible gingivitis. Apparently dental disease is quite common in cats, and although the advanced symptoms are more common in older ones, those as young as three years old can have it to some degree—Jax is only four.
The gum line in cats is very low to begin with, and the enamel is quite thin, so plaque left untreated can cause recession which exposes the roots of teeth and allows bacteria to set in. The only real way to know the state of your cat’s teeth is with x-rays (which has to be done under general anesthesia) just like any professional dental cleaning.
It’s recommended to regularly brush their teeth to prevent issues, but have you ever tried to brush a cat’s teeth? There’s a reason we use the saying “it’s like herding cats” to imply something is difficult, or nearly impossible. Cats do what they want, and they make their own rules. Honestly, I have to respect them for that. It’s part of the reason I love them so much.
Cats are also notoriously stoic, and are good at hiding any pain or discomfort they have. This is why I had no idea anything was wrong with Jax, until I found a tooth—a whole lower canine—on the floor of my apartment one day, like it had just fallen out. Even before I met with the dental veterinarian I was referred to, I found another one—a molar—just hanging out on my floor one day on my way out of the bathroom.
The vet specialist was amazing, and drew a picture of a cat tooth on the whiteboard in the little meeting room we were in after her initial assessment, so she could show and tell me the extent of the damage.
“You’d think considering how often I do this I would have become better at drawing by now” she said, as she pulled out the primary color markers of all whiteboards: red, blue and black.
Her squiggles confirmed a verdict, and the verdict was bad: the damage was irreversible and Jax needed to have ALL of his teeth removed, or risk further pain and health complications down the line.
But how does a cat eat when they don’t have teeth you may ask?
Well apparently it’s quite easy, considering the diet of the average feline has significantly changed since they were domesticized. As carnivores, in the wild their teeth were used for hunting and tearing the flesh off their prey, while now, most live on a comfortable diet of mush and hard kibble.
On the day of his procedure I was nervous, but I brought Jax into the vet and tried to focus on how much better his health would be once it was all over and done. Although his surgery was most of the day, I felt guilty going home to his brother without him, so I held out as long as I could by grocery shopping and hanging out at a Starbucks with the teenagers and students (the weather was cold enough that I could leave my food in the car without imminent fear of spoilage). Unfortunately, the vet had told me Jax was pushed to the second case of the day due to a medical emergency, so I caved and went home.
Patch was under the couch, which was the usual escape place when I’m chasing both cats around the apartment to get them in the cage for a vet visit. Once I settled, he emerged confused, and wandered around the apartment before meowing and pawing at my bedroom door. Sometimes I inadvertently trap them in there when I close the door behind me; they can no longer be trusted unsupervised in my room due to a tendency to pee on my sheets sporadically and for no damn reason.
Patch must have thought his brother was in my room as he has been accidently trapped in there before, and since Jax can’t meow (he does a cute clicking noise instead, as the air passes over his vocal cords), I can’t tell when he’s in there until I open the door again and he rushes out like a bat out of hell.
The next few days pass like a kidney stone: painfully.
Day of Surgery:
I pick up Jax from the vet at the end of their clinic hours. It’s quiet and the lights in the office are low. The vet tech brings him in his cage to the front desk where I wait. He emerges from behind his translucent Elizabethan cone to make eye contact with me, telepathically signaling that he’s ready to get the fuck out:
These crazy people have drugged and violated me mummy.
Despite having all of his teeth removed his prognosis is good, and I’m sent home with a list of instructions, medications, and warnings. I’m instructed to keep him in a separate room for the night, which worries me because of the close bond he has with his brother; they are rarely apart from one another.
Jax hates the small room and escapes several times as I try to sneak in and out with his overnight items. His pupils are dilated with all the drugs he has in his system, but despite being stoned and wobbly, he is surprisingly agile (something we don’t have in common). Patch is nowhere to be found, but likely in hiding. Without the comfort of his brother, the stress of the day, and the imprisonment, I decide to sleep on the floor beside Jax in the small guest room to keep him company.
Unfortunately, once the drugs wear off after midnight, he keeps me up by pawing at the door to get out, and flopping all over the place trying to remove his E-cone. I feel bad, but I leave to sleep in my bed. I work the next day to support his lavish lifestyle, and his surgery wasn’t cheap.
Post Op Day 1:
Patch has disappeared. The place is only so big, but I don’t know where he’s gone and in the morning, I have no time to search.
I end up leaving work early, stressed that Jax isn’t eating or drinking. The vet told me I should bring him in if this happened, because he needs to be hydrated to receive his anti-inflammatory medication which is hard on his kidneys otherwise. Was he not eating or drinking because he was in pain? But he needed the medication to help with the pain . . . it was a vicious cycle that kept my cortisol levels high.
At the clinic they give him methadone: a popular treatment to help those with severe opioid/narcotic addiction. I’ve given this to patients before in my nursing career—it’s a highly controlled medication that is given and received with caution, double-checked and signed off with another licensed professional, and taken under watch like a security officer guarding a TTC employee as they empty out the change machine. It was hard to imagine my cat in need of this particular treatment, but apparently it works quite well in cats for pain control. Go figure.
When we get home I look for Patch and find he has decided to take up residence on top of my kitchen cupboards, shielded by a barrier of my novelty shot glasses. His food is untouched, and I can only surmise he’s gone on a food strike in solidarity with his brother. Now he isn’t eating or drinking.
FML.
Post Op Day 2:
I suspected that I wasn’t going to get Jax to take his oral medication, and I was right. Despite multiple attempts with broth, gravy, and creamy cat-crack, he only sniffs at his offering and walks away. When I was at the vet yesterday, I mentioned I was a nurse and they agreed to give me and injectable version of the medication, and some fluids to be given by needle under the skin if needed.
He needed, so I gave. It felt so wrong to give a needle without cleaning the skin with alcohol first, and although I was assured by my vet I could use the same needle in another spot if I had to (the old “double-poke” we call it), I cringed as I did. Apparently cats are actually quite resistant to skin infections; small mercies I suppose.
Patch is still living above my cupboards, and I can’t tell if there is a subtle odor of cat pee in the air or if I’m just going crazy.
I yell at Patch that he’s being selfish. His brother needs his support and he can only think of protecting his own hide.
Post Op Day 3:
Jax is his usual cuddly self, if not a bit clumsier with his cone on. He gets lots of cuddles while his brother continues to be a big jerk judging us from his dusty tower: Mr. Princess is eating only because I put his food dish up there so he doesn’t need to interact with his brother and me, the diseased plebs below him.
Turns out it was pee I smelled: A small, cloudy yellow puddle appeared under my toaster.
But now Jax isn’t peeing.
Even though he visits the litter box quite often, all he does is dig in the litter and leave. Email communication with the vet suggests he may have stress-induced ‘interstitial cystitis’. Basically, if there is no cause for his bladder to be inflamed, he could be so stressed and anxious that he can’t urinate. This becomes an emergency.
I ask the vet if I can give him his dry kibble since he isn’t eating enough wet food, and she gives me the go ahead. Wouldn’t you know it, as soon as I put it out, Jax waddles over and digs in. Huh. I guess cats don’t really need their teeth to eat after all.
Then he waddles to the litter box, and I hear angels singing—echoing off the plastic walls—as he pees. And pees. And pees. I almost cried in relief.
He isn’t out of the woods yet, but prognosis is good now that he’s back to eating and peeing. His pain seems to be under control, and I’m sure I’ll struggle with getting him to take his pills but I can only take it one day at a time or I’ll implode with stress.
I’ve remained sober these past couple days, needing to stay vigilant in my responsibilities as a cat-parent, but damn I’m craving a joint.
References
“Feline Dental Disease”. Cornell University: College of Veterinary Medicine, June 2017. https://www.vet.cornell.edu/departments-centers-and-institutes/cornell-feline-health-center/health-information/feline-health-topics/feline-dental-disease
Hiscox, Lorraine and Bellows, Jan. “Dental Disease in Cats”. VCA Animal Hospitals, 2023. https://vcacanada.com/know-your-pet/dental-disease-in-cats
Reiter, Alexander M. “Dental Disorders of Cats”. Merck Veterinary Manual, October 2022. https://www.merckvetmanual.com/cat-owners/digestive-disorders-of-cats/dental-disorders-of-cats