The Complaint Department

Visitor

Early this morning, I was at the cabin.

Someone said, "Look at that."

I looked over in the direction of their nod.

Just inside the woods at the edge of the yard, up in an old tree with many low, heavy, branches, was a sizable animal.

It was a very large, pale yellow-brown, cat--and I mean "cat" in the African-safari sense--draped among some of the sturdier branches of the tree.  It looked relaxed and was watching me with calm intent.

Unafraid, in spite of its enormous size, I walked closer--was drawn over, really--peering harder and harder at the cat, which had started to make its way down the branches toward me.  There was something about the animal; its face and color seemed so familiar.

Nearer and nearer we drew to one another; me on the ground, the cat in the tree.  Soon, I began to realize that it was not a cat at all, but . . . a dog!

It was MY dog, Brownie!  I called his name.

"Brownie!  It's Brownie!  Hi, honey!"

He jumped to the ground and came over to me.

I dropped to my knees and gently, but firmly, wrapped my arms all the way around him, afraid he would run off if I hugged too hard.  I wanted so much to feel him in my arms.

He didn't vanish.  I hugged harder and harder, and stroked him, and filled up with happiness.

As I buried my face in his familiar-smelling fur, I murmured his nickname.  "Beanie, Beanie.  My Beanie Boy."  Such joy!

See, I've missed him so.

Then I woke up.

Meet Franklin

 

Don't be shy, now, Franklin.  Turn around.  Let Mummy take your picture.

 

 

Awww!  That's good!  Good girl, Franklin.

Yes, Franklin's a girl-cat.  She was born to a stray I adopted about 10 or 11 years ago.  I couldn't tell when she was a new born if she was male or female.

I could tell, however, that she bore a striking resemblance to Franklin Delano Roosevelt.  She's outgrown that, though.

She's a very pretty cat, with light blue eyes and a coat that the vet refers to as "snowshoe."  I never heard of that before, but it gives her an air of distinction.

Franklin has always been rather docile, even as a kitten.  As she grew older, she put on quite a few pounds and became, well, very tubby, often stunning our occasional house guests.

About three or four months ago, she started to slim down spontaneously.  I thought that it was a pretty good thing and that maybe she was just naturally getting a handle on the extra weight.  Perhaps she met a man?  Or had a health scare?

When I took her in to the vet for her yearly check-up and shots, she ran a test on Franklin's blood sugar level.  It was through the roof.

 

 

Diagnosis?  Diabetes.  No surprise, really.  Just left with a feeling of guilt at not having been more vigilant about Franklin's weight.  And irritation at self-imposition of another must-do, daily concern.  Who needs that?

Every 12 hours, every single day, for the rest of her life, Franklin gets to receive insulin injections.  That's presuming, of course, that we'll be hyper-conscientious.  Okay, well, I've missed two shots in the last three months.  It's made me realize how quickly 12 hours can roll around, again.

All this has only brought me and Franklin closer.

********************

I can sense some of you thinking, "Who cares if your stupid cat has diabetes?  It's your own fault, anyway."

Well, you're absolutely right.  Of course, since I don't have kids, I lavish all my affection and bad decision-making on my animals, instead.

I do understand, though, that animals are not children.  So, back off.

I also understand the difference between "slacker" diabetes (Type II) and life-threatening, life-altering Type I.  Franklin's diabetes is of the Type II kind.  She just didn't spend enough time chasing and killing wildlife and got too fat.

Head on over to visit Miz S.  She knows from Type I diabetes.