This Damn Cat

Sybil the cat is snoring on the futon in my office.  We took her to the V-E-T yesterday to check her heart murmur and her thyroid.  Apparently the last time she was in there, her heart rate was so fast it was difficult to check it - well over 200 beats per minute.  This time it was a leisurely 110, which is normal for a cat.  She has gained 2/10 of a pound in the past month since she's been on her daily pills.  I credit that to the Greenie treats we give her afterward.

The vet told me solemnly that her heart murmur is still there.  I asked if it could be a problem in and of itself, and she said no, it is more a harbinger of things to come.  She is better in person than over the phone, but she's certainly not one to gild the lily. 

She doesn't have the faith in Sybil that I do.  This is the cat that shocks people when they find out her age, the Sophia Loren of the kitty set.  She has had no plastic surgery.  Her fur is not gray around the edges, and she can still hop up to the bathroom sink when she wants a drink straight from the faucet.  She did urinate inappropriately on the futon last night, but I know from the look in her eyes that was a "hey, bastards, I told you NO VET" pee, not a "I'm old, help, I've fallen and I can't get up" pee. 

Though her body is somewhat failing her, her mind is still very sharp.  Her fur is so soft, just like the amazing fur rugs I used to beg to touch at the leather store in the Old Market when I was growing up.  Her step is heavier on the stairs than it used to be, but she still takes them six or seven times a day to get from the futon in my office, where she spends her days with me, down to the litter box or, more importantly, the food supply.

I'm supposed to call this afternoon to hear the status on the thyroid test.  I tried reading Sybil some motivational quotes, thinking maybe it's mind over matter for her.  I said, "Sybil, you have to WANT to get well."  She licked her whiskers.  I repeated sternly, "Sybil, you must get fresh air and exercise."  She rolled over and went back to sleep.  It is so hard to get through to them when they get older and set in their ways. 

So now, Sybil's bedside table is cluttered with pills and pill-poppers and snacks and little drinks of water.  She has her good days and her bad days about taking the pills.  We haven't had to buy her the lifting device to get her back off the chair yet.  She doesn't need a walker.  She refuses to hang around with other 12+ cats, saying they are too old and boring, even when I gently point out that she is four years older than they are.  She scoffs at needlepoint and backgamman, demanding whiskey and a cigarette instead.

What can I do?  Don't the aged deserve our respect?