pets
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I nicknamed him Steve Austin, as in the Six Million Dollar Man. It’s always something with this guy. ↩︎
How I’m working right now. I couldn’t move if I had to.
Gigi turns 15 today. We’re celebrating with lots of cuddles and ancient dog appropriate treats.
Keeva wants pets.
Kitty likes her SureFood microchip pet feeder
We have 2 cats. One of them1 requires a prescription food. Predictably, because he’s a cat, he hates his food and wants to eat the other cat’s. Any other time, the second cat wouldn’t let the first anywhere near her food. Because she’s a cat and enjoys tormenting us, now she’s happy to share her forbidden kibble.
I’d heard about pet feeders that use RFID tags to distinguish between animals and only open for the one (or ones) that you’ve programmed into them. After some research, we took a deep breath and decided to try Sure Petcare’s SureFeed (affiliate link). I wish we’d done it sooner.
The initial setup was a cinch. I pressed the “add pet” button, lured our kitty to the feeder with a treat, and watched a blinking light turn solid green as the feeder detected and learned the RFID microchip her vet had implanted. It came with an RFID tag we could have clipped onto her collar if needed, but we didn’t.
Next, we used its “training mode” to get her used to the feeder. On the first day, the lid stayed fully open so it acted like a normal food bowl. Over the next few days, the lid closed a little farther and moved a little more to teach the kitty that it wasn’t going to eat her. At the end of that process, the SureFeed behaved exactly as it promised. Now our healthy kitty walks up to her food bowl, its cover opens without spooking her, and she eats her dinner. Our medicated cat bats at it in frustration because he can see the tempting food inside but can’t get at it.
The SureFeed is expensive, and I only bought it because I had some gift cards saved up. $200 is one expensive cat food bowl. Still, in our case, it’s much cheaper than having our cat eat the wrong food. It’s also one of our household items that lives up to all its claims. It lets the right cat in and keeps the wrong one out. I’m glad we got it.
Winding down
I knew the conversation wouldn’t be easy when the veterinarian asked if this was a good time to talk.
I still think of her as a puppy, even though she hasn’t been one for many years. People are surprised to find that this tiny little dog is a full-grown adult. Although she’s shaped like a miniature version of the real thing, it’s hard to wrap your brain around something that small being anything other than a baby.
The years don’t care about her appearance, or that she sometimes sleeps on my pillow next to my head, or that I remember how frisky she use to be. Even little bits wear out and start to fail. As her vet translated the numbers from the lab results into things I could understand, I began to realize what they meant: my wife and I will have to make difficult decisions soon.
It’s hard to know what’s best for her, and harder yet to separate that from what’s easiest for us. Those aren’t at all the same things. If I could throw the finite resources available to us at the problem and put it off forever, I would. But that’s not how time works. We can delay things, but only for so long. And the delay has its costs. The analytical part of my brain imagines that she has a fixed amount of happiness left. Do we let her spend it all and then lay down for a last nap, or do we spread it over years (or maybe just months, who can tell) of uncomfortable treatments and procedures? I don’t know. And not deciding is the same as deciding: time won’t give us the luxury of pausing until we can choose what’s right.
My heart knows that this is tougher because of how much we love her. If these sorts of decisions were easy, that would be sad in a different way. Many years ago, we came to care so much about our little puppy that it made the inevitable so painful, but I wouldn’t change that even if I could. And until then, I’m going to make her remaining time as happy as I can.