We would prefer a different game.
Give us Boggle, Battleship, or Ticket to Ride.
We realize Monopoly is off the table. Olive already owns all the properties, and if you land on Boardwalk, she will bite you.
But “Name That Diabetic” is the game we can’t refuse, so we play to win.
Life at Tabby’s Place is not all fun and games, of course.
The sacrament of wet food must be distributed with reverence at 4:00 pm, or else Suite B will deteriorate into the Hunger Games at 4:01.
When a treat bag jangles its siren song, and fifteen cats scramble to collect fifty treats from one human, the Lobby bears a distinct resemblance to Squid Game.
And when somebody’s bloodwork gets a little “playful,” one unwanted game is on.
The rules of Name That Diabetic are easy to understand:
1. The Vet Team discovers that one of our cats has, without passing “GO” and collecting $200, acquired diabetes.
2. The Vet team announces the game is afoot. They invite the entire staff to guess which cat we are dealing with: Name That Diabetic.
3. The Vet Team clarifies that the game is not a foot, and everyone’s paws are fine.
4. The entire Tabby’s Place staff simultaneously smacks their own foreheads.
5. The guessing begins.
Being dramatic creatures, our minds move ten paces to the most intense endgame. Which cat would show the poorest sportsmanship about receiving insulin?
“Is it Marble Rye?” It would be cruel if the cat named for a carb should be the winner. Not because diabetics can’t eat carbs, but because Marble Rye still wants to eat us.
But our feral loaf is not the new diabetic.
“No.” The vet team races to reassure.
“Lornadoone?”
“No.” The girl who considers all fingers a reasonable substitute for chicken fingers is not diabetic, either.
“Jericho??”
“No.” Jaunty and tender, Jericho has a precious place in all of our hearts. He has a precious place for us between his molars. So, we are grateful not to have to give him insulin.
Who can it be?
When a cat shows certain symptoms, a diabetes diagnosis is as obvious as Connect Four: excessive drinking, excessive peeing, weight loss, lethargy.
But the key to “Name That Diabetic” is the element of surprise.
Our winner is always a cat who did not drop clues. There is no smoking gun in the Conservatory — or empty water bowl in the Community Room, as the case may be.
Savvy staff turn to lore.
“Is it Joy?” There is nothing in our tiny tortie to suggest a diabetes diagnosis … nothing, except her long-term treatment with steroids. The same medication that placates her severe skin allergies could also play havoc with her blood glucose.
But most cats tolerate steroids just fine, and some, like Joy, can’t win without them. The dice roll is in her favor. She is not diabetic.
“No.”
“How about Sam?” A solid cat is a solid guess. Insulin resistance is a similar game for diabetic cats and Type 2 diabetic people, and being overweight is a risk factor.
Not that Sam is “overweight.” Of course not.
He is a cat of perfect size, blown up with the bicycle pump of bravado. He is only ten muscular pounds inside that marshmallow masterpiece.
Sam is the bishop who can move across the chess board diagonally; he just prefers not to move at all.
His obesity is an optical illusion. The excess is all ego. Still, it makes him a compelling candidate in Name That Diabetic.
“No.” It isn’t Sam.
At this point, the Vet Team begins dropping hints. “She’s a lady. She lives in Suite G, H, or I.”
Whoever she is, there is no question: the newly minted diabetic will win. We will king her. She will level up.
At a different table, this would be another game. Diabetic cats are among the most frequently surrendered at shelters and vet hospitals. Their care is costly, and their needs can be delicate.
Loving them means staying ahead of the chutes and ladders of high and low blood glucose. Saving them means sticking to a tight schedule, getting home at the same time every night so they can get their insulin.
But at Tabby’s Place, no diagnosis is a tragedy.
This is the long game of love.
You might even say cats with diabetes are the biggest winners of all.
Everything revolves around them. Since they need their injections twelve hours apart, diabetic cats are sovereign over our schedule. Insulin comes with kisses, congratulations, and winning hands to hug and snuggle them.
Plus, we nestle them in spaces where they can receive maximum mushing (if mushing is what they’re into) and prescription yums. They are not inconveniences or liabilities. They are the center square.
“Is it Cassandra?”
“Bingo.”
Today’s diabetic has been named. It is the opinionated poet of Suite I. She is sweet-spirited self confidence, wrapped in black and white.
We would not have wished diabetes upon her, but we will not let it dim her sparkle.
Cass will have everything she needs.
But Cassandra won the game a long time ago.
When you’re a Tabby’s Place cat, nobody keeps a tally of your needs. You arrived 100% worthy, and you are safe in love’s jackpot. Your quirks and conditions are just experience points.
Name That Diabetic? The safest bet is “beloved.”