Smiling, Gassy Petey

Smiling Petey

Originally uploaded by alfagee

You may have noticed that the updates have been slow to appear this week. Apologies, loyal readers.

I’ve been sick for the past two weeks. Petey’s had a rough few days, too. But we’re both on the mend.

Be thankful that this blog doesn’t feature Smell-o-Vision. Petey’s had the bowels of doom this week.

How much stink could that sweet little cat produce, you ask? Enough for 2 adults with colds/sinus infections to consider pitching a tent and sleeping outdoors.

Notice his little smile in that picture? That usually lures me in to give him a belly rub. Not this week, though. I value my olfactory system too much for that.

NEW & Improved: A Little P&A

Get your mind out of the gutter! There will be no nudity on this blog (unless Drs. Gil and Petey shave more of my boy’s pretty fur).

I’m suggesting a Petey Q&A. Many of you have asked questions about feline lymphoma, Petey and his many moods. Of course, he can’t actually answer any of these questions because a) he’s a cat; and b) he’s not a very smart cat. So, I’ll do my best to satisfy your curiousity.

If your question isn’t answered here, post it in the Comments section or email it to me at alfagee1@gmail.com. I’ll do my best to answer all questions in an update.

Q: You said Petey has mediastinal lymphoma, but what exactly is a mediastinal?
A: The mediastinum is the central compartment of the thoracic cavity. The heart, the esophagus, a bunch of lymph nodes, and some other important stuff are all jammed in there. Petey’s variety of lymphoma affects the lymph nodes of the mediastinum.

Q:  What are Petey’s chances of recovery?
A:  From everything I’ve read, and everything Drs. Gil and Petey have told me, lymphoma isn’t something that’s really cured. But, it can go into remission for a good long time. Most of the literature says that median survival time is 5-7 months, with a 30% chance of surviving one year. Anecdotal evidence points to much longer survival times with aggressive treatment. And believe me, treatment doesn’t really get any more aggressive than what Petey’s getting.

Q: How long will Petey be getting chemo?
A: Short answer: At least a year. The protocol he’s on runs about 26 weeks. Petey’s got one more weekly treatment, then he’ll drop to every other week treatments for another 6 or so treatments. After that, he goes to once every 3 weeks for another 3 or 4 treatments. Then he’ll have another 6 months to a year of maintenance treatments. Of course, this all assumes that the stubborn little beast will start eating better so he’s strong enough to tolerate all these funky meds.

Q: What’s with all the bacon references?
A: Prior to getting sick, bacon was Petey’s favorite food. Like chew off your leg to get to it favorite food. These days, his favorite food changes on almost an hourly basis. Earlier today, it was Pounce chicken and cheese treats (something pre-lymphoma he’d rather bury in the litterpan than eat). Right now, he’s all for Thanksgiving Day Dinner, from Merrick Pet Foods.  It’s a pleasant departure from the past week’s stinky fish fiesta.

That’s all I’ve got for now. Keep those questions coming! Petey is always happy to oblige his fans.

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Now, for some questions from Petey’s fans:

Becca asks: What is Petey’s favorite song?
A: Cream’s Sunshine of Your Love. Whenever I’m massacring this song on Guitar Hero III, Petey runs over to sing along and try to touch the notes on the tv screen. Either he really, really loves this song, or he’s trying to put it out of its misery.

Becca asks: How does Petey feel about the Mets chances this season?
A: Optimistic. The addition of Johan Santana is bound to help that shaky starting rotation, but he’s still concerned about the bridge to Billy Wagner and the abysmal hotdogs at Shea.

Lord of the Fussbudgets

This week’s treatment was Vincristine, again. Petey first had it in Week 1, as part of the killer cocktail that made him queasy, barfy, and miserable. We all assumed it was the Elspar in that cocktail that did the bulk of the damage. Turns out we were wrong.

Petey’s been a low energy all week (I know, it’s hard to believe, what with the chicken thieving episode) and particularly fussy about eating. It’s not so much that he has no appetite. It’s that he wants only very specific things, served up to his Lordship in very specific ways.

For example, on Monday, Petey, Lord of the Fussbudgets, demanded chicken — either stolen off the counter or cut into delectable little morsels and served on a 1/2 sheet of paper towel placed carefully on the heart-shaped rug in front of the sink. And that chicken had to be white meat, with all the skin removed.

Tuesday morning, chicken was only OK — not a fan favorite. And he wanted it served over by the regular food bowls. But, he deigned to eat some of the super-high protein, mucho dinero dry food from a paper plate. But not from its regular bowl.

Tuesday afternoon, chicken was off the menu. Nope. Not even worthy of a lick. Now, his Lordship wanted stinky fishy stuff — the more stomach churning for me, the better. Back to the Weruva we went. This time, we hit pay-dirt with the first can, Mack and Jack. It’s a sumptuous blend of tuna, mackerel and skip jack that Petey finds irresistible — if served on a paper plate. Unfortunately, so does his sister, Pudgy the Wailer. If Pudgy (whose proper name is Lilikoi) approaches the bowl, his Lordship will walk away and never return.

I’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time sitting on the kitchen floor this week, holding his Lordship’s paper plate in place (he hates having dirty paws, so he won’t hold it himself) and fending off the advances of the marauding Wailer. We repeat this process at least 4 times a day, since Petey, Lord of the Fussbudgets, will not eat more than 1/4 can of food at a time.

That boy is lucky I love him.

Incorrigible

Incorrigible PeteyOriginally uploaded by alfagee

If you look up ”incorrigible” in the American Heritage Dictionary, you’ll find the following: 

in•cor•ri•gi•ble (ĭn-kôr’ĭ-jə-bəl, -kŏr’-)
adj.
1. Incapable of being corrected or reformed: an incorrigible criminal.
2. Firmly rooted; ineradicable: incorrigible faults.
3. Difficult or impossible to control or manage: an incorrigible, spoiled cat. (See “Petey“)

n. One that cannot be corrected or reformed.

To all of you, Petey looks like a sweet, innocent little cat. But you can’t see the forces at work behind those vapid blue eyes.

Last night, I was cutting up chicken for our dinner — our being Beloved and me, in this instance. I was setting some aside for cat snacks for the next few days, but wasn’t going to be giving anyone any free samples during dinner prep.

Petey wanted chicken. Petey needed chicken. Petey would not be denied chicken.

He whined. He moaned. He rubbed against my legs. He stood up on his hind legs and tried to reach some with one of his giant paws. No luck.

When I turned around to wash my hands, Petey glimpsed a moment of opportunity. Petey seized that moment, jumping up onto the counter and sticking his head into the bowl of chicken. While I was standing not 2 feet away!

Now, I am nothing if not smarter than your average mentally challenged Petey cat. I yelled “PETER” and threw the sponge at him, sending him sailing off the counter and up the stairs. The chicken was saved.

Of course, he was back begging just 3 minutes later, so I’m not sure who really won that battle.

The Eagle Has Landed

I braved the 9 degree temps this morning to go fetch my boy and bring him home. The vet opens at 8:30. I was there at 8:35  

I’d post a picture of Petey for you, but he’s much too busy to stand still. He’s checking, rechecking, then triple checking all his stuff. I think he was afraid someone might have stolen the litter pan, his half-chewed crinkle ball, or his fleecy mat while he was gone.

Apparently, he smells weird to Lili. She keeps sniffing him, making a face, walking away, then coming back for another sniff. And she refuses to groom him. But that might just be in protest for him coming home.

We’ll be having chicken and bacon sandwiches to celebrate the return of Le Petit Prince. Feel free to celebrate with any form of bacon, chicken or tuna.

The Worst Petey Tender In the World

More Sleepy Pete

Originally uploaded by alfagee

I’m headed out of town for a few days, and won’t be updating the blog during that time.

So, I leave you with this picture of Petey, doing one of the things he does best! If you look closely, you can see the area over his ribs that was shaved when his chest was tapped. Amazingly, that fur has started to regrow! It looks like dirty velvet now.

And, over the past week, Petey has gained almost 1 lb (.8 to be precise). Just goes to show what a little bacon roasted chicken and determination can do.

Don’t worry about Petey while I’m gone. He’s in the capable hands of Drs. Gil and Petey, and the many dedicated vet techs at the hospital. All of whom love Petey, even though he’s peed on a couple of them.

I know he’ll get his medication, get his regularly scheduled treatment, get petted and adored as he deserves. So why do I feel so guilty?

Don’t Drink the Kool Aid

Many of you have asked if Petey has to continue his chemo, now that he’s in remission. The answer to that, sadly, is yes. The boy still has many weeks to go on his initial protocol. When that’s done, he’ll likely be on some maintenance protocol for an indefinite period of time.

The chemo doesn’t seem to realize that Petey is in remission. This week’s treatment is kicking his small furry keister. Not quite as bad as Week 1 (may nothing ever be that bad!), but bad enough.

This week’s chemical cocktail featured Doxorubicin, aka Adriamycin, aka Chemical Kool Aid. It’s a brightly colored red-orange medication that’s so toxic, it can rot away the skin and leave wounds that just won’t heal. Oh, and there’s only a certain amount that can be given during an animal’s lifetime, or the heart becomes damaged.

So, is it any wonder that Petey is less than perky this week? Late Sunday into early Monday, food was the enemy again. We remedied that with bacon-roasted chicken (something Petey can never resist) and a little magic pill called Cyproheptadine. For those of you not up-to-speed on the care and feeding of cancerous kitties, that’s an antihistamine that stimulates the appetite in peckish pusses.

It also makes Petey very, very yappy. Like, follow me around all day meowing/screaming yappy. It’s unsettling since he normally just meeps, purrs, and makes weird little baby tiger sounds.

Today, we’re past that. Le Petit Prince has decided to eat his regular dried food — one nugget at a time, dragged out of the bowl and carried over to the carpet. <Insert eyeroll here.>

But, Petey’s mopey and lethargic. And that we hate. By we, I mean Beloved and I. The Lilikoi enjoys days like this because she can settle into a good nap with both eyes closed.

We’re hoping to return to our regular manic programming soon.

Houston, We Have Remission

If you’ve been following along, you know that Petey has been doing well. He’s turned back into the little pain in the keister he’s always been. The kitten in the 5 year old cat’s body. 

I’ve spent an awful lot of time this week yelling “PETER. Knock it off.” And then feeling guilty about yelling at a cat who has cancer.

Well, forget the guilt. I can now yell at Petey with impunity. A sonogram and bloodwork performed yesterday confirm it: Petey is in remission.

His heart is perfect. The lump on his chest is gone baby, gone. And his lymph nodes look like whatever “normal” lymph nodes are supposed to look like. His bloodwork: Equally perfect.

 In Dr. Gil’s professional assessment, there is “No evidence of disease.”

The best words I heard all day.

 Now excuse me while I go yell at Petey, with a clear conscience, for throwing his sister Lili down the stairs. Again.

It Ain’t Easy Being Petey

I’ve just returned from a short business trip. I was gone just a hair over 24 hours, and the world did not spin off its axis. Unless your name is Petey.

All Petey’s needs were met during my absence. He had his medicine; he had an endless bowl of Petey chow; he had a warm, comfortable house; and the company of Beloved. It doesn’t matter.

Petey is M.A.D. Cheesed off. Angry as a bear with a sore foot. Mad as hell, and he’s not going to take it any more!

I know this because he is even more devoted to me than usual. I cannot exhale without ruffling Petey’s fur. I cannot go to the bathroom without a feline escort. Should I decide that I do not want a pair of big blue eyes starting at me while I do my business, I will be treated to plaintive cries of “oh-oh-oh” and the rattling of the door as Petey repeatedly body slams it.  As soon as I open that door, I’ll be welcomed like Odysseus returning after 10 years lost at sea.

And what of Beloved and sister Lilikoi? They’re the ones on the receiving end of Petey’s anger. In Petey-think, Beloved is to blame for my departure. Every move Beloved makes is suspect.  So, Petey must stare at him to gauge his next move. Will he get rid of the toy basket next? The cat tree? Petey himself?

Should Beloved actually look at Petey or take a step in his direction, Petey must run and hide. Then sneak back up on Beloved to start watching again.

 And Lili. Poor Lili. She’s the only one Petey can beat up on. So, he’s kicking her pudgy butt double-time, spitting out mouthfuls of spotted fur at an alarming rate.

No one is safe from the wrath of Petey!

Do Not Adjust Your Dial

Petey BlurOriginally uploaded by alfagee

The photo you’re looking at is, indeed, blurry.

Petey has absolutely no time for anything but play, food, and mayhem these days.

Giving him his daily Prednisone has turned into a battle of the wills. I can catch him easily enough, but then all bets are off.

Petey thrashes like a shark in the midst of a feeding frenzy. And that pretty Bengal fur? It’s slick, like black ice.

Let’s not even get started on his ability to clamp his jaws shut. Or his special pill spitting talent.  So far, his maximum distance is 5 ft. We’re hoping he can be competitive at the Beijing Olympics.

I’ve won every battle. So far. And I haven’t started drinking heavily, either.