Dementia - The Cats Perspective

I am Cat, and I don't have a fucking hat. I've travelled far and wide, even further than Shelley and his romantic rantings. I'm also called Puss, but I find that tedioussss. I've also been called Behemoth after Mikhail Bulgakovs wonderful creation, who is a relative, but we'll stick with Cat because it rhymes with.....

I'm old now, as old as an immortal Taoist, well not quite, but old enough to have only one tooth like Behemoth my mischievous ancestor. I've lived in the same street all my life, but I've moved home from one family to the other and spent years as a stray. I lived in the old Borough United football field for many years, honing my hunting skills.

My first home belonged to Shirley and Alf, he was a miserable old hat, but it was Shirley who brought me here as a nipper, which I was. Unfortunately Shirley died and Alf gave me to the neighbours. How kind! I spent most of my time in the field, hunting the rats and mice. I kept my distance from my new home, not just because they brought in two Akita's, but owing to the fact the owner of the dogs is as thick as an Akitas turd - they are big mean dogs. I think he wanted to look mean himself, but he just looked a twat.

Old fighter's just can't help themselves

A bit further down the road was an old lady called Bessie, who loved cats. She had two who lived there; one was an old passive cat who didn't want to take liberties with my domain, but she also had a black and white tom who did. Well, we came head to head in the garden one afternoon and the daft sod froze, so I proceeded to use my surgical skills on his nice fur coat. Unfortunately, I didn't manage to disembowel him, so I let him live. He was never the same after and not long after slipped this mortal coil.

Enter Olwen , who lived next door to Bessie. Olwen had been feeding me for years, but I would rarely come close, preferring the freedom of the fields, although I appreciated the gifts of food. As my bones aged and became slower in a fight, I decided to come in from the cold and park myself in front of the fire. It wasn't all rosy though. There were two thrones in the front room, one for Olwen and one for....not bloody Culhwch, but Mervyn. He was a demonic little dwarf, who didn't seem to like anything, especially cats. When Olwen wasn't about, he'd throw me out into the cold or pretend to kick me up the arse. Little shit was no bigger than a two penny fart, no adept exponent of a martial art. I take liberty there, he'! How things change when dementia rears its ugly head.

I'll leave my exploits for now and mention how dementia in the family became apparent to me and how it affected my weight!

I've always been a lean, mean killing machine, even in my old age, but you know what we carnivores are like, we are programmed to gorge ourselves silly, so no other fat cat (or dog) gets any. Well, I relied on Olwen making breakfast in the morning, a snack at lunch, tea at 5pm, and a light supper at 9.30 - 10pm - you see a pattern occurring here. After years in the field I put on a little weight, but always kept myself healthy. Then I noticed I was getting second helpings. Breakfast at 8.30, then again at 9.30. A snack at 12.30; again at 1.30. You get my drift! I'm so fat and bloated now that I can just about get out for a dump. Jesus I could give an Akita a run for its money. This is when I knew something was not quite right.

As for Merv, well I don't see him that often, as he's usually in bed, but when I did, and the stupid sod that's there on a Saturday was messing about with my old raggedy mouse, he actually tried to play with me and stroke me, with this big mad hatter grin on his face. Now that was odd.

I will continue my post at some point - I'm off into the night!

When all seems well - Early February Observation

Dad has finished his antibiotics, but we can only see a slight improvement, in that he is eating and drinking a little bit more. Paul is still sleeping over and making sure dad takes his pills, eats and drinks. Now that mum is at the point where she often can't remember to take her pills, she has to be observed taking Paracetamol or she will forget taking them. She has been at the point for a while now where she finds it difficult to organise her pills, so Paul does them as well.

As usual I went to see my parents on Wednesday after work. When I got there, dad was out of bed and had been up the previous day, after two weeks of mostly sleeping. He was eating a bit more and seemed a little more himself. He managed to hold a conversation for a little while, which is no mean feat for both of us. We are not the most conversive of specimens, much to my mums annoyance and frustration. That night he actually ate some fish and chips, although a small portion. He would eat them every day given the opportunity when well. That was a result.

I left there feeling a bit more optimistic after the last few weeks. I rang the following day and he seemed to be the same, so I didn't bother ringing on the Friday.

When I called Saturday, I found he was back in bed and looking pale and listless. I asked him if he would get out of bed. He said he would try later; I wasn't optimistic. He wouldn't talk much, and wanted to go back to sleep. He looked depressed to me. I'm certain he could have got up if he tried, as he looked better than he had looked the previous week. I was even more convinced that it was his state of mind when he ate a small omelette without leaving anything, but just wanted to go back to sleep or look through the window and watch light fade.