An oversimplified version of quantum theory implies that reality is variable until it is observed, as in the famed example of Schrödinger's Cat. I've noticed a similar phenomenon in medicine, at least via anecdote. You read all the time about people who have lived for years, decades even, with conditions that should have killed them ages ago… conditions that have a way of killing those people not long after being officially observed and diagnosed.
Pets are no different.
Last year, round about this time (or so says my blog), my elderly cat Orion developed a peculiar problem: urinating outside the litter box at random times, often on or near the bed (or my person.) The vet found no organic cause for the behavior. Kitty Prozac seemed to cure the problem, so I figured it must simply be stress related. Or maybe he was developing dementia in his old age. He's 17, after all - that's about 84 in human years. (The same age as my father, eerily enough.)
For the past few months, he hasn't quite been himself. Orion was never a hefty cat, but he felt too thin by half, and he just had that unwell look to him: the hunch, the squint, the general air of lethargy. The bouts never lasted long enough for me to break down and call a vet, but they just kept happening. Finally, since he was due for his shots and a physical anyway, I took him in. At that point, the only definite problem was weight loss; the rest was just a feeling I couldn't quantify.
The vet determined that he was not only underweight, but dehydrated. His kidneys were also too small and producing too much urine for his condition. The vet wound up drawing blood for tests and pumping in some fluids before sending him home.
That evening, for the first time in months, Orion had an out-of-litter-box incident. He had another one the next day. I had my fingers crossed that it was just because of the fluid treatment; maybe it was too much liquid on top of an already-stressed system. Maybe he was just "draining" the only way Nature allowed him.
Maybe that's not an iceberg off the port bow.
The blood tests revealed that not only were his kidneys not doing their job properly, but his liver was malfunctioning, as well. Given his age and overall condition, a liver biopsy seemed about as useful as a coat of duct tape on the hull of the Titanic, so the vet decided to try medicine in the hopes that it would, at least, buy Orion some comfort. Maybe, once the new regimen kicked in, the urination issues would sort themselves out. For a few days, they seemed to… until I woke up with a sopping wet shoulder. I wrestled Orion into incontinence pants (left over from his late brother Randy) the next night, but removed them too soon in the morning; the next thing I knew, something warm was dribbling all over my sweatpants leg.
As per vet advice, I'm altering Orion's medical cocktail, but it's just a delaying tactic at this point, to see if I can't squeeze another few months (or weeks, even) out of the old boy. His condition has been observed, making it real. In other words, the good ship Orion's struck the iceberg; all I can do is slap on duct tape and rearrange deck chairs until the water gets too deep.
And now that I'm nice and depressed, I'll leave with a picture of a rainbow. (Look close, and you can see two shadow-rainbows underneath... they didn't photograph well, but they were there.)
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