Stanley the Comfort Cat

Something’s happened to Winston – our very old and very stupid lab. He is over 100 in people years and has never been accused of being brilliant during any one of those years. In his early days, we were forced to move his food bowl because he developed a phobia of heat returns that wouldn’t allow him to get near them. That bowl has been in the same place for a decade, but about once a month our genius forgets its location and has to go on a quest for discovery – like we’re hiding it from him.

Change is hard for Winston. We started getting cats a few years ago and he still doesn’t know if we have one or thirteen. He notices when a cat comes into his line of view. But if there are two of them in the room at the same time, he looks back and forth between them with as much of a bewildered expression as a dog can muster – as if wondering how the cat keeps moving so quickly from one side of the room to the other.

This is the beautiful mind we’re dealing with. In his old age, his fragile mental state has gotten considerably worse.

This mental downfall accelerated when we had to put down his cohort, Misty. It was sad for everyone, but that event pushed Winston over the rugged cliffs of sanity. Losing a pal he partnered with for thirteen years was a lot to handle. Predictably, he couldn’t. He began to wander around the house searching for her. When found, he would look up confused as to how he arrived. We truly suspect doggy dementia – which we discovered is a real thing called Canine Cognitive Dysfunction.

Along with the wandering, he began going outside more frequently. But half the time he never goes off the porch. He either seems to realize he just went out or have no clue as to what to do. There are times when he insists on going out 10 times in 5 minutes. That’s fun.

And everything is worse at night. His sleeping pattern has been reversed like a colicky infant.

Winston has become a team effort and one new member surprised us. Suddenly, our fat cat, Stanley decided to enter the Winston fray. It has truly become a sweet relationship. Stanley sits with him, talks to him, and guides him. That’s the funniest part. When Winston wanders down the hall, Stanley will follow him and nudge him back to the rug in the den. All the while he meows loudly as if comforting him. They lay together often and Winston even licks Stanley’s head from time to time.

Stanley is Winston’s Comfort Animal.

This is a shift in purpose for him. We got Stanley during Kylie’s cancer treatment because she wanted a fat cat to lay with her after chemo. He was the smaller of two massive cats at the shelter and she was afraid she couldn’t even lift the other one. So Stanley came home with us and became her Chemo Cat. He served that purpose well and now has another.

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From Chemo Cat to Comfort Cat… animals are pretty amazing, sometimes.

Frankenweenie

“You’re in rare form.”

Those are words spoken often in our home and they only pertain to two potential outliers: Me or our psychotic dog, Winston. 

A few years ago, I wouldn’t have described Winston that way. In his earlier days, he was only somewhat quirky. All that has changed with age. It’s a little hypocritical for me to label him so when the aging process has affected me also. I have added patch upon patch to my quilt of eccentricity in the past decade and my daughters truly fear the weaving process will accelerate until I’m living on one of their sofas in my t-shirt and underpants with applesauce perpetually dribbling down my chin. But I digress, this is about Winston.

Even in his state of mental disrepair, Winston is still capable of teaching us valuable lessons. 

He teaches us persistence daily. The dog is incapable of making a decision but he is perfectly persistent in his indecisiveness. When you let him out, you will see him perched at the door literally seconds later begging to come back in. Once inside, he circles the den before standing beside the door with a look of desperation to go out. All of this in a span of 23 seconds. And it continues until he gets tired and falls asleep in a heap.

The poor old guy is getting fatty tumors all over his body. We had them checked at the vet and she said there wasn’t much to do, as long as he doesn’t disturb them. As if on cue, Winston found one too alluring to leave unmolested. It was… on his weenie, of course. 

The whole situation was tense and uncomfortable to talk about. His weenie grew. At first, we tried to ignore it like we did when he was a young buck who might have had use for it. Oh, he was fixed, but that didn’t seem to always prevent his amorous attentions. 

But this was different. It grew a big lump. This is also where the biggest life lesson Winston can teach comes in. Gather round children because we all need to get this one: We don’t bite our privates. Fortunately for most humans, inflexibility has taken care of this for us. But Winston caused himself a big problem, a surgery, and a vet bill inversely proportionate to his weenie’s new size.

I’ll spare you the visual evidence of his size reduction. In the immortal words of George Kastanza, “There was shrinkage!”

There were so many stitches, thus the name Frankenweenie, and Winston had to wear his donut for a long time to prevent further damage (remember his persistence). He didn’t like his donut and had no capacity to adapt his spatial awareness to compensate for his extra girth. He ran into everything. It was kinda funny, but also a little sad. Poor old guy.

And I’m finishing this post at 2:50 a.m. because his bladder seems to have shrunk along with his frankenweenie. I’m not one to disparage and old man needing nighttime relief – I’m over 50. But Winston… he gets distracted. Just now I found him under the deck eating the scraps from our grill. I’m not even sure he relieved himself – but wait, maybe he’s trying to teach me another lesson of some kind. 

I have no clue what it might be, but… a burger sounds pretty good right about now.