ANDRE BEGIN

When I was 12 years old, I had to have my tonsils out. Unfortunately, my mother had just started a new job and her benefits hadn’t kicked in yet to allow her to take time off to stay home during my recovery. I ended up staying with my grandparents for the week following my surgery where I received the most wonderful care a kid could ask for.

Even though I had heard through the grapevine that ice cream was a favorite food after tonsil surgery to soothe the resulting throat pain, I was the weird one who found warm soup more soothing. Either way, I wasn’t eating much in the way of solid food in the days that followed.

During my stay, what seemed a little odd to me was my grandfather’s regular inquiries as to my regularity. The reality was that given the lack of solid food, I just didn’t feel a need to “go.” Nonetheless, he kept offering me different products to coax things along but I politely declined. I really wasn’t feeling bad for the lack of activity in that department. Fortunately, once I resumed solid food, things were back on track to my granddad’s great relief.

Naturally, as a pre-teen, I didn’t fully understand the reasons for the interrogation about my bowel movements. However, as I got older, I grew to understand and appreciate regularity as a health indicator.

However, here we are, almost 50 years later, and guess who’s asking “Have you gone yet?”

It’s me… when talking to the cat.

Last fall, our cat, Ivy, fell ill during a period that was fairly scary for me as a pet parent in seeing my active cat suddenly lose interest in food. I was also worried about the sharp contrast between seeing a cat so regular you could set your watch by her visits to the litter box, to a cat whose routine was completely disrupted.

I accepted that the small amount of food she was ingesting was likely the cause of the irregularity. Just the same, I kept putting myself in her place thinking that at two or three day intervals, it probably wasn’t a comfortable feeling. With the veterinarian on speed dial, we checked in every couple of days, trying to get to the bottom of the cause of the lack of appetite. Naturally her litter box habits were discussed each time as well which put me on permanent poop patrol, tracking what little food she was taking in and combing through the kitty litter for any resulting “outcomes”.

When Ivy was awake and roaming around the house, I would ask, “How are you feeling today?” “Are you hungry yet?”, but most importantly, “Have you gone yet?” The parallels between my granddad and me were becoming increasingly obvious as the gaps between litter box visits became more perplexing to me.

Fortunately, after testing and imaging, we did receive a clear diagnosis of her condition and the recommended treatment. In the weeks that followed, Ivy made a complete recovery to the point of regaining a youthful energy I hadn’t seen in a while.

With a switch to a more easily digestible food, she was back on track. Best of all, her bowels caught up quickly with the intake of new food. When regularity was fully restored, I shared the news with our “village” to resounding cheers from vet staff as well as family, friends and colleagues.

Now that she is back to the point of being so regular that you could set your watch by her again, a sense of fear creeps up whenever she is even a little late in producing a stool. When I catch myself reacting that way, I can’t help but chuckle and call myself by my grandfather’s name, in commemoration of the tonsil days and my grandfather’s worry.

Clearly, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree and I’m OK with that. It just means that I really care, much like I know my grandfather did.

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Sincere thanks for reading!
Have a great day,
André