goTriad.com

The adage "a mother knows" is correct. Call it instinct, intuition, whatever, but we do know when something is amiss with our offspring.

For the past several weeks, my mom radar has been alerting me that something is up with Dylan, our beloved family cat.

OK, so technically Dylan is not my biological offspring, but he might as well be. Dylan Jose Midero was a tiny, scrappy kitten when my husband and I adopted him from the animal shelter seven years ago. He quickly endeared himself to us and became an irreplaceable part of what is now our growing family. He has grown into quite a conversation-starter. A polydactyl cat, with an impressive 28 toes, Dylan is also roughly the size of a small sheep, with hulking shoulders and a perpetually raised tail. Alternately clownish and volatile, his personality is a cross between that of an opera diva and a street tough, yet he never misses an opportunity to affectionately rub his head on our daughter Addison's cheek.

Dylan has always been anything but normal, but I've really been worried about him these past few weeks. He has been exhibiting some behavior patterns that are weird, even for him. Constant meowing, excessive furniture scratching and an obsession with Addison's "Dora" couch prompted me to begin the long and arduous process of taking Dylan to the vet.

We did a couple of dry runs, making a big show of his pet carrier (which is actually for a small hound - I'm not kidding, that's what the tag said when we bought it). He sniffed it warily, squinted at us and sprinted upstairs to relative safety under a bed. We tried new techniques, such as throwing a blanket over Dylan and sweeping him into his carrier, ultimately resulting in much hissing and the subsequent cancellation of an appointment. Meanwhile, the weirdness continued.

After several days of rolling him in blankets and plying him with food, we met with success in getting Dylan into his carrier with an old-school sneak attack.

Taking him to the vet was a family affair, and an eerie silence pervaded the five-minute drive to the office. Other than the occasional snarl, our boy was pretty quiet, but not for long. Dylan pulled out all the stops and began rolling around in his carrier, shedding like crazy and emitting throaty noises. The minute we entered the lobby, all the dogs stopped barking. A worried-looking Rottweiler cowered behind his owner, and a pair of Jack Russell terriers avoided eye contact. I think they were all freaked out by the low, guttural moaning and floating tufts of orange fur.

Mercifully, we were quickly shown to an examining room, where Dylan's veterinarian tenderly scratched his head and called him affectionate names like "buddy" and "big guy." Having resigned himself to the situation and gone completely limp, Dylan's eyes met mine as he lay on that long steel table. As we discussed his diet and well-being, his doctor peppered her recommendations with phrases such as "older cats" and "mature." Stroking his fur and looking down at my boy, I could see only the feisty, ebullient kitten who used to bat golf balls around our old apartment and sleep in my husband's shoes. But I knew what the doctor was saying was true. Dylan is getting older. His shoe-sleeping days are long past.

Everything turned out fine. Dylan is as healthy as a small horse, and all he needed was a good nail trim and some Soft Paws (vinyl nail caps that fit over his claws and serve as an excellent alternative to declawing). He made not a sound as we whisked him out of the office and back into the car, and he spent the rest of the day sprawled underneath the Christmas tree, purring and swishing his tail.

My worries about Dylan have dissipated in the wake of his manicure. He seems proud of his Soft Paws and does not seem interested in shredding our furniture, and the little adventure seems to have cured him of his angst-driven Dora fixation. But I'm left with the new realization that our baby boy is getting older.

Dylan is a member of the old guard - a walking, living, meowing witness to who my husband and I used to be, a tribute to the lean years of futons and Ramen noodles. His evolution from frisky kitten to mature, complex cat complements growth and development of our family, and just knowing he is here brings me peace and continuity.

Seeing Dylan alone and

vulnerable, though just for an instant, reminded me how important he is to our family, and I am even more committed than ever to ensure he is with us for a long time, as we all march together into

the new year, ready for anything, hand in well-manicured paw.

Judy Caldwell-Midero lives in Jamestown with her husband, daughter and kitty. She enjoys reading, writing, wearing sensible shoes and a good cup of coffee. Contact her at judycaldwellmidero@gmail.com.

Newsletter

Learn More

topCars

featured ads

TriadMarketplace.com