What are you, some sort of catist?

I can't remember the last time -- if ever -- I spent any real time in a vet's surgery.

It sounds strange, considering we always had pets growing up, but I guess it was always my parents responisbility to take the cat to the vet and to bear the cost of it. Maybe I subconsiously developed a fear of it, since that's the place where animals can go and not return -- you don't hear of people going to the doctor and not returning.

These days, the cat lives with my parents. I uphold he is still my cat, and when I can offer him somewhere to live that is equal to what they have (a big garden, backing onto woods and fields and a farm), then I intend to take him to live with me. I sometimes threaten to do it anyway now, simply because I miss having a cat.

My parents went on holiday last week, and as usual left instructions with my neighbour for feeding him. I thought everything was normal. When the girl and I turned up at the weekend to visit the cat, my neighbour came out to see us to tell me that the cat still wasn't eating, that he also seemed arthritic, and did I want her to take him to the vet. I told her I was sure he'd be fine, but I'd keep an eye on him and take him myself if necessary.

I told the girl I was willing to bet the neighbour hadn't been giving the cat his arthritis medicine, since when he doesn't take it he goes off his food and is noticeably arthritic. Sure enough, she hadn't. But it seems the issue is perhaps more serious. Mum's written instructions for the neighbour next door included my mobile number for if she was worried about the cat, and his vet's details. Clearly, he wasn't well before they went on holiday. I also got text messages on Sunday asking if I had seen the cat, and how he was. I reported that he wasn't eating, that he hadn't been taking his medicine, but that he seemed happy enough. I was told not to worry about his medicine if he seemed happy.

Just the same, I gave him more medicine on Sunday, and called the vet on Monday morning to make an appointment. I got one for that evening.

It was easy to catch the cat and put him in his carrying basket (which looks almost like a picnic hamper, it's a big wicker thing) and on my way out my neighbour again appeared, asking questions how he was and asking me to let her know. She was waiting for me when I returned from the vet over an hour later.

The vet's surgery is a sad place if you ask me, sadder than a doctor's waiting room. Somehow, the thought of all these animals sad and unwell was more upsetting to me than the doctor's has ever been, and even though he's deaf, I'd whisper words of comfort to the cat whenever he started to yowl. It was interesting to hear how different cats had different voices. Because I was sat next to the animal scales in the waiting room, I put the cat on them (carrier and all). It came to about 5kg. It struck me then how small is. One of the first things the vet did was take him away to be weighed -- when she came back she told me he had lost more weight. "More weight" because Dad took the cat to the vet perhaps a month or more ago because I was concerned he was getting too skinny, when we used to tease him for being a fat cat and having to squeeze through the cat flap. At the time, the vet said he seemed OK and to just try to encourage him to eat more.

This hasn't happened, and the vet was concerned about his weight lose -- she said he was now losing muscle, with no fat left. Something clearly isn't right. She felt him carefully and thoroughly and announced she couldn't feel anything abnormal, like tumours, but also said that some don't form in such a way that you are able to feel them. And she wished that a test existed to determine whether one is present in a form you can't tell, even if you can't know where it is.

She took the cat away for a long time for blood tests. She apologised on returning that she'd taken so long because she couldn't find a vein, but that the cat had been very good and very patient. I hugged him gently and stroked his back as he stood on the examination table, and the vet explained she'd taken enough blood to send for external tests if the initial ones didn't yield any results. It could be a thyroid problem, she said, in which case she'd be looking for raised levels in the liver. But she said if the tests didn't show anything she wouldn't advise at his age what sounded like exploratory surgery.

The cat is nearly 20 years old, I remember I was still in primary school and he was a "birthday present" -- and came to live with us on May Day, the first May bank holiday. Making it perhaps almost exactly 19 years ago. I have to face that he is an old cat now, that he has had a long and happy life, and that he can not be expected to last forever. My parents frequently say what a healthy cat he has been, how he has cost us the least of any animal "to run". Frequently he'd come back from check ups at the vet, and we'd say how he was the healthiest cat in the whole world.

I have to face this might not be true any more.

I've spent all day waiting for the vet to call and tell me about the blood test results. I gave up waiting about 4pm and called the surgery. I was told they did have the results, but just like with going to see the doctor, they wouldn't tell me what they were. Instead I have to wait until after 6.30 for the vet to finish examinations, at which time she will call me.

She might call and say good news, the cat just needs some antibiotics, bring him in and I'll give him a shot. Then he'll live for another 10 years, still as happy as ever. Or she might say it's his thyroid, here's a special diet. Or she might not know, and I'll mention how maybe it's his mouth, I could be looking too much into things too much but he seemed to be having trouble when he was eating. Or maybe he'll just need to be taking his arthritis medicine regularly, and I'll give the neighbour instructions... Or she might say "I'm sorry."

I had a physiotherapist appointment this morning before work, and since I had an errand to run out of the office first thing, decided I'd go to it from my parents house -- that way I could bug the cat for a while, wake him up, see how he was feeling, try and get him to eat something. The neighbour told me yesterday he'd just been spending all day sleeping. Although he was sleeping today, I woke him up and bugged him and carried him around and said nice things to him, so by the time I had to leave again I got the impression he didn't want me to go any more. But obviously work has to come first. So I just told him what a good cat he is, how we all love him and he's my best friend, and how the girl and I will visit him again on Thursday night.

Now I just have to wait for the vet to call. And try and stop myself imagining every possible scenario for what she might say.

In case this is all too depressing, I leave you with this: catface. I probably should have tried to pay the vet bill with half a moth as well...

Update: The vet called about 8.30, and said all tests came back normal -- which in this instance wasn't good news, she said, as it made it more likely the cat had a tumour. She said we could do more tests, there are always more tests that can be done, but she wasn't sure it would be in the cat's best interests. Instead the cat could be treated symptomatically, giving him steroids and vitamins. I called my neighbour, eventually, to tell her an amended version of the results, but was surprised when she told me how much better the cat was doing today -- that he'd been eating more, and more sociable.

It could still be his arthritis. This doesn't to my mind explain his worrying weight loss -- he has been losing weight for some time, and while recently he wasn't eating I don't know if it was long enough to be what is responsible. For now I guess we have to monitor his weight a little more closely and make sure he always gets his medicine.....and take it from there.