Teenage mutant ninja kitty... not
Jan. 19th, 2013 09:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blatherskiteA while back, our our girl cat, Katrine, was diagnosed with a serious case of hyperthyroidism, which can kill a cat. The gold standard for treatment is a course of radioactive iodine, which has something like a 95% cure rate, with minimal side-effects; the usual consequence is that the treatment is too aggressive and the cat needs to take synthetic thyroid meds at some future point.
After the treatment, they keep the cat in the clinic for at least a week because it's not safe (for us) to release the cat until the radiation drops to tolerable levels; I'm told that in the U.K. they keep the cats in the clinic for 3 weeks and that in other jurisdictions, you have to store the cat's litter for months until the half-life does its work and the intensity fades to levels safe for disposal.
Anyway, poor kitty came home last night from the [NOT!] kitty spa, desperate to tell us her sad story. She's not a Siamese (which are famed for their "conversations"), but nonetheless, she yowled for an hour or so, and demanded much petting and pampering. We were given strict instructions that she was not to sleep in anyone's bed for at least 2 weeks because of the cumulative risk of radiation. (For an 11-year-old cat who will live less than a decade longer, the radiation damage isn't considered serious; for those of us who hope to live another 50 years, not so much.) We were told that cuddle time should also be limited to an hour per day because of the cumulative risk to our health.
It's more than a bit scary to realize just how invisible and imperceptible the radiation is and to know that it could be endangering you without providing any warning signs: no burning sensation, no heat, no nothing. (I used to work in a lab where a couple of the grad students used radioisotopes, and it was never an issue because the doses were lower and the substances were more carefully controlled. It's also true we were in our early 20s and probably way too cavalier about such things.) Reminds me of how sad I felt about the fate of Marie Curie. (Pierre probably would have eventually died of radiation poisoning too, but he died tragically young of a traffic accident.)
End result is that we're sleeping really badly. The problem is that we need to keep the bedroom door shut at night, and both Katrine and Ben (our boy cat) like to sleep at the foot of the bed; on really cold nights (last night it hit -25°C), they'll sometimes even drape themselves around our heads for warmth. (A "two head night" is apparently the cat equivalent of the idiomatic "three dog night", a night so cold you need to share your bed with three of your dogs to stay warm.) That's verboten under the circumstances, so we shut the door.
Unfortunately, both kitties are used to having the run of the house at night. As a result, they take turns coming to the door, scratching like a demon, slamming into the door when the scratching fails, and all the while yowling about the injustice until we finally give up and let them in. We let Katrine stay long enough for some petting and pampering, and then she gets turfed out, which she accepts since she's our nocturnal roamer; Ben's more likely to spend most of the night in bed with us. Usually Katrine will only return once or twice more during the night, usually when she hears someone going to the bathroom. Ben's allowed to stay, but like all cats, whichever side of the door he's on is the wrong side, and shortly after being let in, he wants out again. First night was exhausting—as bad as having a baby with multiple mid-night feedings and diaper changes. Last night was better, but still not great. I'm hoping that they adapt to the new regime in a couple days.
Meantime, the biggest disappointment is that Katrine does not glow in the dark, nor has she acquired mutant superpowers. What's the point of having a radioactive cat otherwise?
After the treatment, they keep the cat in the clinic for at least a week because it's not safe (for us) to release the cat until the radiation drops to tolerable levels; I'm told that in the U.K. they keep the cats in the clinic for 3 weeks and that in other jurisdictions, you have to store the cat's litter for months until the half-life does its work and the intensity fades to levels safe for disposal.
Anyway, poor kitty came home last night from the [NOT!] kitty spa, desperate to tell us her sad story. She's not a Siamese (which are famed for their "conversations"), but nonetheless, she yowled for an hour or so, and demanded much petting and pampering. We were given strict instructions that she was not to sleep in anyone's bed for at least 2 weeks because of the cumulative risk of radiation. (For an 11-year-old cat who will live less than a decade longer, the radiation damage isn't considered serious; for those of us who hope to live another 50 years, not so much.) We were told that cuddle time should also be limited to an hour per day because of the cumulative risk to our health.
It's more than a bit scary to realize just how invisible and imperceptible the radiation is and to know that it could be endangering you without providing any warning signs: no burning sensation, no heat, no nothing. (I used to work in a lab where a couple of the grad students used radioisotopes, and it was never an issue because the doses were lower and the substances were more carefully controlled. It's also true we were in our early 20s and probably way too cavalier about such things.) Reminds me of how sad I felt about the fate of Marie Curie. (Pierre probably would have eventually died of radiation poisoning too, but he died tragically young of a traffic accident.)
End result is that we're sleeping really badly. The problem is that we need to keep the bedroom door shut at night, and both Katrine and Ben (our boy cat) like to sleep at the foot of the bed; on really cold nights (last night it hit -25°C), they'll sometimes even drape themselves around our heads for warmth. (A "two head night" is apparently the cat equivalent of the idiomatic "three dog night", a night so cold you need to share your bed with three of your dogs to stay warm.) That's verboten under the circumstances, so we shut the door.
Unfortunately, both kitties are used to having the run of the house at night. As a result, they take turns coming to the door, scratching like a demon, slamming into the door when the scratching fails, and all the while yowling about the injustice until we finally give up and let them in. We let Katrine stay long enough for some petting and pampering, and then she gets turfed out, which she accepts since she's our nocturnal roamer; Ben's more likely to spend most of the night in bed with us. Usually Katrine will only return once or twice more during the night, usually when she hears someone going to the bathroom. Ben's allowed to stay, but like all cats, whichever side of the door he's on is the wrong side, and shortly after being let in, he wants out again. First night was exhausting—as bad as having a baby with multiple mid-night feedings and diaper changes. Last night was better, but still not great. I'm hoping that they adapt to the new regime in a couple days.
Meantime, the biggest disappointment is that Katrine does not glow in the dark, nor has she acquired mutant superpowers. What's the point of having a radioactive cat otherwise?