Nada watch

Tuesday evening, I simmered sweet onions and tomatoes, as I always do at this point in the season, planning to freeze the concoction for winter eating. I had a good onion crop, and sweet onions don't store well, so this is a good way to preserve the harvest. (And it satisfies my sweet tooth on chilly winter evenings.)

I decided they'd cooked down enough and I left the pan on the stove to cool while I sat in the living room and played around online. Both Belly and Nada had been sleeping on the sofa next to me, but at some point Nada got up to wander. I heard noises in the kitchen, and I suspected he was trying to get into something on the counter. He's not supposed to get up there, but I knew I'd put everything problematic away. The second time I heard the noises, I realized I was hearing the tag from his collar hitting the pan. I got to the kitchen as he jumped off the stove. A sizable chunk of my tomato/onion mixture was missing. And onion is toxic to cats — potentially fatal.

So, at 11:30 p.m., I called the emergency vet. I explained what had happened and told them how much I thought he'd eaten (I've been second-guessing that amount ever since — how can you tell how much is missing from a mostly liquid mixture in a skillet?). The doctor on duty said she wasn't concerned because it was a small amount, cooked, and diluted. I was relieved but skeptical, and I asked the nurse on the phone what symptoms I should watch for and if there's anything else I should do. I confirmed that the risk is anemia, and she said basically if he's anything but his normal happy cat self to bring him in. So that was late Tuesday night.

Yesterday, I was relieved to see a bright pink tongue in his mouth when he yawned, and I rejoiced every time he jumped on top of the front door or chased his brother. But I read more on the Internet and learned that cooking doesn't reduce the toxicity of onion, that it takes a very small amount to create a toxic effect, and that symptoms may not appear for several days. My anxiety increased with each bit of information I read.

Nada was an active cat from kittenhood. If the top pantry
door is open, he jumps into it; it it's not open, he climbs on
top of the pantry, somehow not knocking off the vases we
store there, and then uses his paw to open the pantry door and
climb in. (A long time ago, we stored treats in that cabinet.

It's too late to induce vomiting, and pointless to take him to the emergency vet if he's not actually symptomatic and might not be. So I'm monitoring him constantly, reassured every time he does something normal and concerned every time I catch any hesitation in his movement. I've made a point of finishing the work that absolutely has to get done this week, so I won't mess up anyone else's schedule if I spend hours at the emergency vet. I've rehearsed what I'd do if he does exhibit symptoms: reserving a Zipcar, popping him in a box with his current favorite fleece, grabbing the things I'd need to take (and yes, I've made a list). I've charged the cellphone to take with me, put my Zipcard in my wallet.

 And then I tried to switch gears and think positively. He's a boy who eats all kinds of things that most cats don't: tomatoes, broccoli, spinach, bread. He has also eaten a large quantity of plastic and rubber bands in his seven years, and though he's sometimes been a bit constipated, he's always come through fine. There was a lot of tomato liquid in the stuff he ate; it's possible there really wasn't much onion in the mix. In an effort to be proactive, I've got a call into our regular naturopathic vet to see if she has any ideas how I might bolster his defenses. I'll feel better when there's something I can do.

He likes to jump on top of the wooden front door, using the
security screen door as a springboard. As long as he's doing
that, I'm pretty sure he's not anemic. And to get him to do that,
all I have to do is to try to shut the front door, or plan to leave
the house, or walk by in a way that makes it look like I might
want to do any of those things. Then he's up in a flash

The last year of Sandy's life, we straddled two worlds: Sandy survives / Sandy dies. We tried to prepare for both, without focusing on the latter. Now I have a taste of that again, though only for a few days, I hope. Nada could be completely fine, or his red blood cells could be under attack even as I write this. I'm ready to jump into action, but trying to go about normal life while we wait to see if any action is necessary. I won't feel confident that he's actually just fine until a week has passed; we're just past 36 hours right now. I think it's going to be a long few days.

Meanwhile, I find it amusing every time he carries around the stuffed red blood cell a friend gave Sandy when she was anemic in the summer of 2010. Both cats move it from room to room. I can always tell that's what they've got because we never removed the heavy cardboard tag that was attached to it. There's a clunking sound that accompanies them, especially when they drag it up the stairs. It pleases me to see Nada with it now; keeping red blood cells handy seems like a good idea.