Sneakers turns 16 this year (we got him shortly after Yitzhak Rabin died) and has aged somewhat gracefully for a cat.Â He still stalks the night but is much more included to spend his evening sitting in a lawn chair or beneath or tiny Japanese maple.Â He can jump from the floor to the countertop, although he doesn’t like to, and has no qualms meowing to wake me up to serve as his elevator.Â He no longer picks fights or has gotten better at hiding as he no longer returns home with claw marks on his head or bloody patches but he can still be enticed to play along sometimes and attack a shoe lace.Â But, over the last year, he’s started to pee on my father’s clothing.Â I try to claim this is a sign of endearment and my father took these urine blasts in stride as he himself isn’t as young as he used to be and he himself having had his fair share of urinary issues though of late it’s become almost weekly.Â A friend’s cat also started peeing on things and it turned out his cat was diabetic, requiring twice daily shots of insulin.Â I brought this up to my dad:
Me: Dad, I think the cat may have diabetes.
Me: Yeah, a friend’s cat started peeing on his things and it turned out to be diabetes.Â I mean, it’d take a vet to do the diagnosis but I think we should take the cat in.
Dad: Ok, what’s the treatment course?Â He’s been a good cat.
Me: It’s not much, just two insulin shots twice a day for the rest of his life.
Dad: Nope.Â Put him down.
Me: You’re not even going to…
Dad: Not a chance.Â Not going to stab a cat twice a day.
Me: What if we…
Dad:Â We can put him down there.
Considering that Sneakers barely tolerates us in what he perceives to be his house, I have no doubt the answer would be the same if the shoe were on the other foot.