So Mr. Ferguson is not hyperthyroid. It seems the delicate creature has most likely developed inflammatory bowel disease, you should pardon the expression, which despite the linked article can occur in a cat without any obvious signs, other than weight loss. He doesn’t really yark more than any cat, and his litter box performance is impeccable (this is the cat, after all, who taught a Bengal to use the facilities).
This is supposed to have little or nothing to do with nerves, but somehow, a tetchy stomach just seems like Mr. Ferguson. Never a big alpha cat — he always waited for the local badass black cat to finish eating, when he was a stray in the yard and I put out food — he has a history of fleeing jumpily from running faucets, loud sounds and all my other cats except, eventually, Nickel, to whom he is now married. Apparently her pursuit of him partook more of Sadie Hawkins than of dominance gestures.
Anyone could have been forgiven for thinking it was his thyroid. Hyperthyroid cats often appear to have regained the bloom and psychotic energy of feline adolescence, and Fergie has been zooming around the upstairs, capering on the banister railing — an old habit I thought he had outgrown — and pausing halfway along it, above a ten-foot drop, to scratch his ear with his hind leg. He chatters to me all day long in musical addresses that sound like Feline for mommymommymommymommymommy. He molests me when I am eating dinner (You don’t mind if I sneeze in your plate, do you?) During today’s vet visit he took a shot at climbing the Venetian blinds.
One would prefer than nothing at all be wrong with one’s cat, but of the three differential diagnoses for unexplained weight loss — thyroid, gut disease, and cancer — this is the easiest on the cat, my heart, and my wallet.
My arms, probably, will be in shreds because the prednisone that seems to be the received therapy is an oral medication, and feeding any drug to Fergie is right up there with Simonizing seals. But he is my true love bug and Darby to Nickel’s Joan, and I will slather on the Bactine and get the job done.
He has had a stressful day, and won’t get off my lap. Say hello to the nice people, Fergie.