We've always kept cats. They aren't much trouble and can look after themselves. Somehow I don't quite "get" dogs; I think they frightened me when I was little, we never owned one, and even now I feel awkward with them. They understand the rules of the games they want you to play and I guess doggy people do too, but I'm just not in the know. I feel I need a translator.
Our first cat lived to be 17, started getting yowly, then walked out of the house one day and never came back. Now Custard is about the same age and is clearly impaired - sensorily but I think mentally too. The points of comparison with Dad are quite revealing.
She operates in slow motion. Every action has to be thought about and broken into component parts. The days of leaping nimbly to a favourite spot in one elegant movement are long gone. First you identify the sofa, then you jump, then you dig your claws into the upholstery because you can't jump as high as you once could, then you heave yourself up onto the seat, then you sniff around for your special cushion, only your sense of smell is pretty feeble these days so you might have to yowl for a while and hope someone directs you to where you want to be.
Walking round the house is a challenge because she keeps bumping into things. It's partly her poor sight but also, we think, she's not construing her surroundings properly. No, Custard, that's a wall, not a door we keep telling her. What do you mean, she doesn't understand? Well maybe she doesn't, not now.
She doesn't groom herself properly any more. As she's long-haired, that means her fur congeals into lugs, which we have either to tease apart or cut off: fortunately she's very good-natured and offers no resistance.
She can't always find her way to the food dish; or if she can, she'll start eating, then wander off, realise she's still hungry and yowl because she can't find her way back.
Custard, whom we adopted as a stray from the RSPCA, had obviously been well trained by her original owners. She was always fastidious, asking to go out if she needed to relieve herself, or if we kept her in with a litter tray, using it properly. Now we daren't let her out for too long at a stretch because she'll get lost, so it's the litter tray or bust. But Custard's aim is no longer reliable, and sometimes she forgets to use it altogether.
But: she's not in pain, still likes a cuddle, and has - so far as we can judge - reasonable quality of life. We hope that nature will take its course, eventually, and spare us any wretched decision about having her put down.
Compare and contrast the dementia patient, whose motor co-ordination is suspect so everything's slowed down, might start to have a meal then wander off and forget they were eating, doesn't look after him/herself properly and whose personal hygeine leaves much to be desired. You can't tell a formerly clean cat not to pee behind the sofa because ... because she's a cat and wouldn't understand anyway. But you can't tell a formerly fastidious old man that he's not nice to be next to if he's also got dementia; because he won't realise, or if he does, he won't remember being told.
If a demented cat yowls (a much more penetrating, eerier sound than the normal miaow) it means something: usually - I don't know where I am, I'm bewildered. In demented human beings, language can take on a life of its own, ceasing to refer to anything the person addressed can connect with. Words are being used but nothing is communicated. On balance, if I were going to have dementia, I'd rather be a cat.
