Lessons in feeding & palliative care
After discussing the heightened and sharpened senses in the Phantom lyrics in the previous article “Why nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation?”, let’s focus a little bit more on the visual system.
As I mentioned at the end of my psychological memoir The Snowy Battlefield of Ohio, our cat Seth (a.k.a. Sam in the book) passed away last December, at the age of 19. When he surpassed 16, he began to lose his night vision. I fed him animal liver and vitamin A, based on common recommendations. During the day, he had difficulty measuring depth with his binocular vision, so he couldn’t jump safely. (You need two functional eyes to perceive depth or distance; similarly, you need two functional ears to locate an object.) Later, he went almost blind at night and yelled at night when walking back to his cardboard “house” from the kitchen. Our solution was to keep a dim ceiling light on through the night.
In his final year, his vision deteriorated sharply and he could barely see even during the day. I didn’t know that until I brought him to the vet for some ingrown nail issue. It was amazing he managed to walk inside the apartment with other senses. During the day, he could still sense some light, which helped him to locate himself indoors. He walked along the walls in the end, which proved his adaptability and intelligence. Inspired by some Reddit post, I tried to make some frictional path for him on the floor, with special tape purchased online, but he didn’t get it or simply felt uncomfortable with it. So eventually I quit messing with his internal mapping. At night, it was a disaster.
When he couldn’t see and had to rely on feedback from his surroundings, he often hit his head on the wall or table legs. It was poignant to look at it, but I couldn’t think of any effective method to protect him. The local vets didn’t warn me of the danger, because they had never seen a domestic cat at this age in Smoke City. No experience, so to speak. Sam was the trailblazer. So was his caregiver. In the meantime, I had a friend whose cat reached 20 years old last year. That cat had the same issue of blindness. Cats are adaptive, but without vision, things can become increasingly challenging. Especially for a stubborn old dude like Sam. One day, he reached his limit.
Although he died of heart failure eventually after suffering from the winter cold, he also exhibited weird movement patterns which could be attributed to brain damage. I originally thought he panicked and got muscle spasms, or his semicircular canals got messed up. A vet and a human doctor saw his footage. Both thought it looked like some neurological issue, not just some startle response to external stimuli. Later I realized the brain problem could be linked to the blindness, which caused him to hit the wall so many times, in addition to the extreme temperature without AC on (against my will). In retrospect, he might also have vascular problems in his heart and brain at that age. I should have fed him omega-3 supplements more consistently, although his cat food already contained some salmon and tuna in its ingredients. Recently I learned that many pet owners feed salmon flesh to their animals, and I admire their dedication. Well, I was using a Petkit feeding machine to automatically dispense solid food several times a day, until his final months when he would only accept wet food packs with strong “umami”. No, supplements wouldn’t have worked wonders either, when the interior environment he lived in was so harsh last winter.
I also read some acupuncturists can treat brain conditions for pets. Unfortunately, not in an underdeveloped city like Smoke City, where Sam and I grew up. Besides, healthcare is about highlighting successful cases and downplaying unsuccessful cases, just like academia. News reports primarily talk about the former. If he had been 5 years younger, then acupuncture might be able to bring him back to normal. For someone as old as 19, no pet insurance company was willing to insure him. He had more chronic health problems than could be discussed in this article. The details around his heroic death can be found in the extension article Why I don’t feel sorry for sad people.
A common misunderstanding is that cats are nocturnal animals. It’s not very accurate. I learned that during the grief period, i.e. the cold winter. Cats are naturally crepuscular, meaning they are most active during dawn and dusk. Their wild ancestors in the desert hunted at these times to avoid both daytime heat and nighttime predators.
In retrospect, I should have only fed him solid morning meals and evening meals. I knew he slept in the daytime and ate very little, so I didn’t plan any big lunch for him. Here’s the big thing: there was no need to feed him a couple of night meals, but I did, and he appeared to have a strong appetite at night. In his final years, he yelled a lot at night presumably due to bad eyesight, pain, and loneliness. (A costly blood panel helped preclude hyperthyroidism in him.) He would yell right after eating his meal at night! That drove me nuts. As mentioned before, I was using a feeding machine with a preset program. This program had to be adjusted every season, according to his changing appetite. For example, he would eat less in July and August.
See? I failed to understand the natural needs of the cat I lived with, because of the inaccurate information I learned as a child. The biology courses in college didn’t help. Shame on me. It was definitely no fun. I bet the vets knew, but they probably would say it’s okay to feed the animals when it’s convenient for the humans. Yes, this brings us to this crucial point: domestic cats often adapt their activity patterns based on their environment and the routines of their owners, sometimes appearing more nocturnal.
“Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation.” I think it’s mostly accurate for cats as well. Sam’s eyes glowed in the dark, with 2 different colors, red and green. Urban legends may say he could talk with ghosts. He was more vigilant (this can be seen in brain waves for humans) and aggressive in the evenings. But when the winter came, he preferred to jump on my bed and stay silent on my bed, for warmth. It all went well until his legs were too old to jump, despite supplements, and I was diagnosed with Demodex (the type of mites that contribute to dry eye syndrome). I sent him to his cardboard “house” in the living room and purchased a heating pad, which was to be wrapped in a soft blanket.
If I could turn back time, I would not have pushed him so hard for his personal hygiene in his final year. When he was blind, he needed more comfort and ease, but the environment caused him more fear and challenges. It was my true struggle whether or not to put him down before his heart stopped working, but this has been a million-dollar question for many people in my Senior Cat group. It’s easier for outsiders to say “Just give him euthanasia” when they don’t witness the struggle in person. I believe he enjoyed his meals and the Christmas playlists I played for him before his death, but quite often, living is a combination of joy and pain. (Regrettably, I forgot to bring him his favorite bad food, namely Kentucky Fried Chicken, before his death.) I wish there was a clear cut. There isn’t. If he could speak human language and tell me whether he desired euthanasia or more company from his beloved humans, I doubt he knew the answer either. No doubt, he was in pain, yet he looked chill lying upon my thighs like always, before his final dawn.
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