Weighty concerns

Ugh .... eating healthily really just means planning in advance, doesn't it?

It doesn't mean skipping breakfast, jamming in lunch half an hour early because you're starving, and then accidentally consuming a mini chocolate cannoli, a custard-creme puff at 3.30, and then accepting the free raspberry muffin at close to 5pm.

No, it does not.

I could learn a thing or two from Fatpuss I think, who spent the first week of his new diet refusing to eat at all, and the second week of his diet snuffling up every diet chompie he could find because he finally realised that nothing else was going to come back on the menu.

Fathead has a weigh-in on Thursday at the vet, too, where she's going to look him up and down and stand him on the scales and tut-tut about his tummy. Granted, it's a slightly smaller tummy than it was, but it could still warrant its own postcode in some small countries.

In fact, I think MY tummy could rival it, after all the rubbish I've eaten today. Lucky I'm wearing an empire line dress that's lovely and voluminous ... at least I can't feel my waistband straining!

Fat Puss Slim

Well, the verdict is in. Cat Weightwatchers says something must be done about the Fatpuss. We've got to make the Fat Puss Slim.

Here is a photo of him expressing his feelings about the news.

We went back to the vet to check his paw again - only this time I had to take the Grimth for a vaccination booster as well.

Driving there, a trip that takes all of 15 minutes, they at least made the effort to harmonise their catastrophic (cat-astrophic! ha! ha!) yowling beautifully, it was like fingernails down a blackboard, except Right. Inside. My. Head. Strangely though, when Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata came onto the radio, they both quietened down considerably. I must remember that in future.

Once at the vet, they both squeezed themselves into the smallest spaces possible before the examinations. Here is Grimth in the smallest space possible.

A number of conclusions were reached following their examinations.

1. The Fathead's paw is improving, but we have to keep him inside for a week. This also means we have to keep Podae and Grimth mostly inside as well, because we can't have two pusses running around outside without the third, and we can't keep the catflap closed because then Podder and the Grimth would be stuck outside, and that would be both torturous to Fatticus as well as mean to the other two. And that means My One True Love and I have a real task on our hands to keep them inside together, not letting them squeeze out the front door as we leave for the day, not letting them open the bathroom window with their little paws, no, just sitting on the sofa looking longingly at the outdoors. Result: three deeply irritated pussins.

2. Grimth is adorably cute. See Exhibit A, above. Ignore the slightly resentful expression on his face. This is due to the FIV and FE vaccination jabs, which went fine. He weighs 5.6 kilos and shouldn't be allowed to gain any more weight.

3. (And this is the worst part). Fatpuss is overweight - okay, no surprise there. It's his name for a reason. He weighs 7.05 kilos. Which is less than his top-heavy record of nearly 8 kilos over a year ago, but not nearly good enough. Apparently he should be more at the 5.5 kilo range, which means more the weight that Grimth is. So he's been put a special diet and isn't allowed to eat any other food. Nothing, zip, zilch, nada. Not a single Fat Chompie treat is allowed to pass his lips. No chicken livers on a Saturday morning. No kangaroo mince. No tinned wet food. Nothing. Nothing but the new special high-fibre, low calorie food.

This might sound simple enough, but consider that there are three cats inside the house (all currently wandering around in bewilderment at not being allowed outside.) We can't leave chompies out during the day. And it means feeding them separately for the FOUR MONTHS it's going to take to get Fatpuss to lose 1.5 kilos, if he shifts the weight at the recommended retail amount of 70 grams a week. Cripes.

Podder is going to be disturbed. He's such a light eater that he takes two mouthfuls of wet food and pushes the plate away - Oh, I'm so full, I couldn't eat another bite. Then he spends the rest of the day grazing on dry chompies - he loves chompies, any kind, it doesn't matter which brand or flavour. If he could live solely on chompies he would. Fish chompies, chicken chompies, iron filing chompies, he'd eat them.

And Grimth, well, he just likes to hoover up whatever he can find. I swear if we could plug him in he'd be the most efficient vacuum cleaner ever. He's like those pool cleaners that just work their way methodically across the bottom, sucking everything up.

And Fatpuss lives for his Fat Chompie treats! We use them to reinforce his positive behaviour, and they're specially designed to help pusses keep their teeth clean. (The good news from the vet is that Fathead has excellent teeth.)

So this morning we tried to feed them separately, with the Fathead in the laundry. Podae took a bite of wet food and went away, Grimth steadily ate the rest of it up, Fatpuss had a mouthful of the new chompie and stopped, I walked away from the closed laundry door for a minute, and when I returned Podae had pushed it open and was busily eating all the Fathead's chompies while the Fathead moaned about the cat flap being closed.

Gah. I know it's for a good reason. We want the Fatpuss to live a long and healthy life, free from diabetes and arthritis and all the other weight-related afflictions that can strike a portly puss. And once he loses weight he'll have more energy and be more active, and probably happier as a result.

It's not going be easy, but we've really got to try and make the Fat Puss Slim.

Poor old Fatpuss

Oh dear - the Fatpuss has done himself a mischief!

Don't worry, this picture here does not show him dead on the polished wooden floor, in fact he's actually upside down in happiness following a large meal and subsequent pat, a couple of months ago. But I had you going, didn't I?

I knew something was wrong the minute I walked through the front door last night. I was pleased at arriving home early because I wanted to do some sewing ahead of the Shirt and Skirt Market coming up on Sunday - but then when I saw him I knew those plans were out the window.

First of all, I heard a thump. When he poked his head out through the doorway of the Amateur Actress' room, I realised it was the sound of him jumping off the bed. Now, this is unusual. Fathead is not usually asleep at this time of day, he is usually waiting outside for one of us to return home, so that he can loudly demand food.

Then it was obvious what was wrong. He emerged from the room and limped heavily down the corridor towards the Place of Fat Chompies (his favourite treat) - which is normal, as he usually gets one when we get home. The limping however, not normal. Not normal at all.

He wouldn't put any weight on his left front paw, though when I palpated it gently he didn't seem to object, or to have any particular place that was sore. I thought it might just be pins and needles but after ten minutes he was still limping. And he didn't want any dinner, which is Front Page News. If he had a bottom lip, he'd have been sticking it out in misery.

On closer examination I found a bump on his head with all the fur and skin missing, and his front and back claws were all shredded, as if he'd scrambled to grab onto something in a hurry. So off to the vet we went.

My god, the trip there was the worst part. When Fatpuss saw the cat cage he limped away from it as fast as his fat little legs would carry him, because he hates the cage. He knows it means going in the car, which he abhors, and in turn it signifies going to the vet, which is even worse - about the most horrific thing that Fatpuss could ever imagine, except for dieting.

After tut-tutting about his weight (yes, we know...) the vet examined him. Fatpuss suffered the indignity, fuming silently, and then slunk off the table and under the chair. She diagnosed either a minor run-in with a car - hence the shredded claws - or a fight with another cat a few days earlier which could have formed the beginnings of an abcess under his elbow. It's hard to tell, I suppose, when your patient can't talk.

So the Fathead got a pain relief injection, a penicillin shot, a course of antibiotics, and another appointment for tonight. If he's not better, she said, we'll need to x-ray that fat little arm of his. (Okay, that's not exactly what she said, but I could tell she was thinking it).

And then - the mortification - she booked him in for Cat Weightwatchers! Fatpuss was absolutely flabbergasted. And he's got a lot of flabber to be gasted about, let me tell you. He stared at me, open-mouthed in shock.

This contradicts all of the Fathead's weight management philosophies. He strongly believes that weight management is not about how much you weigh, it's about how your clothes fit. And his collar fits just fine, after all, so therefore what weight could possible need managing? He shot me a wounded look and turned his back to me. I said Fatpuss, what can I do? It was the vet!

He'd have given me the silent treatment all the way home, except of course we were in the cage, in the car, and so that meant he howled like I was slowly cutting him into a thousand little pieces, all the way home. It's amazing how long a car journey can take when the passenger is being loudly and brutally murdered in the most sadistic of fashions.

Deposited on his blanket in the sitting room, Fatpuss mournfully went off to sleep.

This morning he's still ginger on his paw, but he ate a healthy breakfast, so I have hopes he is improving. Of course, he has to die again twice tonight - once on the way to the vet, and once on the way home from there - so we'll see how he holds up through that.

I'll keep you posted.