My peeps are like army sergeants when it comes to treating my feline diabetes. Every twelve hours, BAM! someone jams a needle with insulin into the back of my neck.
I am allowed to eat food that only a veterinarian can sell. Oh, how I loved Friskies’ “Captain’s Choice” and an endless bowl of corn-laden crunchies. But when I felt the urge to drink, drink, drink, and then pee, pee, pee, and my fur looked awful and all I wanted to do was sleep, Slave took me to the doctor. That’s when the doc said, “Mouser is diabetic.”
Little by little I felt better, and my cat box was no longer a stinky lake. I wasn’t constantly thirsty, and I learned to love my specialized food. I mean, it was eat that or nothing at all. Last choice was not an option. I do love to eat. As a matter of fact, I really miss those days on the apple farm when I lived up to my name. If it was alive and moved, it went into my belly. Those were the good old days when I’d proudly drop my fresh catch — from rat, to bird, to lizard — at Slave’s feet. Sometimes, I’d bring my catch to Slave when she was asleep at night. Never could figure out why she screamed!
I wasn’t happy when Slave stuffed me back into my travel box and took me to the vet for the second time in two weeks. You see, every 6 months I get what’s called a fructosmine test. The vet chills me out with a little gas, then draws blood from my neck. I DO NOT LIKE THAT! Then she tells Slave how I’m doing with the diabetes thing. For the last few years the diabetes has been “controlled” with measured units of insulin. This time, when the vet measured the fructosmine value, everyone got kind of silly, including Slave. They said it was a really good number — like maybe the diabetes was going away. Us cats are like that. Sometimes we can make diabetes just poof into the air or something. And that’s why Slave is so picky about my injections and watches me afterwards.
It’s kind of confusing, but here’s a chart:
Normal non-diabetic cat: 190-365 == POSSIBLY ME NOW!!!!!
Newly diagnosed diabetic cat: 350-730 WAS ME
Treated diabetic cats:
Excellent control: 350-400 WAS ME LAST AUGUST
Good control: 400-450 WAS ME
Fair control: 450-500 WAS ME
Poor control: >500 WAS ME
Both tests over the last two weeks have the same value: 243. So, my peeps are slowly weaning me off insulin. The bad news is I have a bunch of blood tests ahead.
Life is so good, that Bastet sent a bird into my house. Yes, just pushed that thing right inside — AND Slave was gone when it happened. So I had a little party.
NOTE FROM SLAVE:
Mouser is 15-years-old. He’s been diabetic for about 4 years. I started this blog for him because I want to let other people owned by a cat diagnosed with diabetes know that it can be treated. Mouser still pounces, chases strings, plays with his toys, and rules the domain.
His veterinarian assures me that because we have been so disciplined about his shots and feed schedule, that those efforts have made a difference. Yes, I do get up at 4 a.m. every day to give him 4 ounces of food, his “snack,” to fortify him before his insulin injection at 5:30 a.m. He eats his regular food after his injection. This same scenario is repeated twelve hours later.
Yes, treating Mouser’s diabetes has interrupted our lives. But it is worth it. Where else can he turn for care? After all, it was Mouser who sensed there was something wrong with me, even when my own medical doctor assured me that I was OK, not knowing that cancer has just seeded itself inside my breast. If Mouser had not been such a pest about my left breast we would not have caught the cancer in time and my treatment for the highly invasive form that I had would have been much more life-impacting.
I’ll let Mouser report his progress as we slowly lessen his twice-daily insulin injections. For the moment, it is looking good for him.