Guarding the perimeter

On a cold bright November afternoon, Patti, Amy and I gathered around Gus on the couch. At 18 years old he had reached the end of the line with crippling arthritis in his deformed legs.  Gus lay in Patti’s lap wrapped in his blanket. Amy held his head, now heavy from an earlier dose of narcotic. I knelt in front of him, inserted a small gauge needle into his leg vein, and delivered an overdose of  barbiturate. His breathing slowed, became erratic for a few seconds, and then stopped. We wrapped him in his blanket and made the short trip to the garden where a pre dug grave awaited in a sunny corner by the fence.
Earlier, before Amy arrived, Patti and I had taken a short road trip. Mojo, the Brittany, jumped into the back of the truck and Gus took his usual place atop the console between the two front seats. Now, if you don’t know Gus, he is a 17 year old neurotic chihuahua.  (I think the stranger they are the more you care for them). Draped in his blanket, he looked like Yoda. Our destination was McDonalds where the two dogs and I had shared many double cheeseburger meals. Two thirds of a burger each, proportioned more like the senate than the house. If Gus loved two things, they were truck rides and cheeseburgers.
We stood around his grave. We agreed he was a strange little dude and refrained from saying a lot of mushy stuff. Gus was not a mushy sort of dog. We returned home and dispersed Gus’s possessions to the other pets. This morning there is a decidedly empty space between me and the arm of the couch.

On a Saturday morning this summer, Victor arrived at our boat for a routine check up and a Rabies vaccine. Nancy, Victor’s owner, told us about him and his life on the island. She shared that he is not a cat with a lot of personality.   He is not one of those flamboyant types who march into a room with their tails straight up in the air, assuming always they are in the limelight. No, Vic does not want to be the center of attention, nor is he big on playing and nonsense. He spends his time at home, cat napping during the day and out alone at night, probably hunting.

Victor is not going to exit the cat box willingly. If the top can’t be removed, the “dump method” will be necessary. The box is upended and we use gravity and gentle plying to dislodge him. Once out of the box on the exam table, he gazes about the cabin with eyes that say, “So what, you got me out of the box.” You know just by looking at him that he has a threshold of poking and prodding that would be wise not to cross. Thermometer up the butt is definitely out. The Clint Eastwood of cats stares me down,  and he has my respect.

His eyes betray his age. The irises have lost their luster and appear a little moth eaten. Who can guess what these eyes have seen in his 14 years.

Nancy says the only remarkable thing about his health is some weight loss and a pronounced increase in appetite. Gently tracing my two fingers down the sides of his windpipe, I feel an abnormally large thyroid gland slip beneath my middle finger. Listening to his chest, I hear a fast heart beat. Victor seems the poster child for Graves disease or hyperthyroidism. Dr Graves described the disorder in people 160 years ago.  Just down the road two of Maine’s more famous residents on Walker Point, Kennebunk share this affliction.

The next step for Victor is lab work including thyroid levels. I will report back soon.