Keeping cool

"Don't let him see that you're upset," Peggy warned me.  "Cats sense when you're upset, and get upset themselves."

I was a bit embarrassed, because I didn't think I was really upset.  Or if I was, that it was evident to the casual observer.  Peggy is our neighborhood "pet woman."  Mainly dogs.  Every day you run into her out walking dogs along the sidewalk, standing in for neighbors who dearly love their dogs, but apparently don't have time for them. 

Peggy will also be my cat person, looking in twice a day on my surviving feline Muldoon whilst I'm off wandering around the Highlands of Scotland.  I say "whilst" just in preparation for Britain.

If not "upset," I do confess to being a bit concerned.  Muldoon has been diagnosed with a benign thyroid tumor, a common problem, apparently, in cats.  The tumor causes the thyroid to produce T3 and T4 hormones (don't ask, I'm not a doctor) in large quantities.  I take Muldoon into a specialist tomorrow who will inject him with radioactive iodine.  The iodine is immediately absorbed by the thyroid gland, where it will kill off the tumor without bothering the healthy tissue.

This, at least, is the plan.  Muldoon's tumor is a bit more advanced than average, and the chance of the procedure being a complete success is only 70 percent.  If in the unlucky 30 percent, he'll either need a second procedure to complete the job, or -- if the dosage overshot the problem -- he'll have to be given thyroid pills for the rest of his life.

But my concern really isn't about the procedure.  I'm just aware that Muldoon is not the most easy-going sort of cat.  Unlike his recently deceased step-brother, he doesn't take change in stride.  And in a short period of time, he's had to adjust to being the sole cat in the household, and then wander the empty house alone for four days while I was back in Washington D.C.  Now he faces a trip to the vet, impoundment at the hospital for up to six days until he stops giving off radiation in excess of what the government allows, and limited hugs and contact with me for another week or so, even after he comes home.  And then, the final straw, I'm abandoning him again in favor of the Scottish moors.

It's enough to make a cat question the humanity of his human.

I was holding up well, nonetheless, or so I thought, until Peggy warned me that my anxious demeanor might somehow freak out poor Muldoon.  So now I march about the house, under Muldoon's suspicious eye, looking incredibly -- and unbelievably -- blithe and unconcerned. 

"Tut-tut, it looks like rain," I keep repeating loudly, imitating the inimitable Christopher Robin in a vaguely similar context.  Muldoon stares impassively at the blue sky.

I'm hopeless.  Sooner or later, I'll break down, burst out crying, and give him a huge bear hug.  Muldoon will regard me with some concern, but will make every effort not to show it. 

He hates to upset me.