I so wish I could share some good news about Bella. I wish I could tell you that she is wagging her tail and smiling at me. That she is learning to get into a car and meet new people without fear. However, I can't, because, to date, Bella is a patient, and not a pet.
I used to think that the word patient, when applied to the consumers of medical care, referenced the individuals who patiently wait for help; that being a patient requires patience because a patient is largely passive, and must place his or her care in the hands of another. Now I think that it refers to the doctor. The doctor waits. Day after day, he or she searches earnestly for signs of improvement in the one he or she cares for. At least this is how it is with me and my patient, Bella.
Bella has changed very little. She lives in a world of fear. Although I look for interesting or encouraging aspects of living with Bella to share here, these moments are like tiny fireflies in a field. Bella continues to spend endless hours on her bed. Her bed, stained by her panting and littered with crumbs from treats, dots of debris from the yard and tufts of fluffy black fur, remains her safest place. She scurries back to her bed after every walk. She doesn't pause to sniff, or notice the black cat that investigates her furtively (even walking right under her belly!) as she make her mad dash back to the bedroom,
Keep Bella in your thoughts. Maybe our collective good wishes will travel through the ether to spark a renewal in this poor, confused girl.
On the other hand, Circe is making great progress. She just now rubbed Bella when we were in the foyer and I was unhooking Bella's leash. Circe swung around Bella's hind legs, rubbing and hopping up a bit like she does when she wants to meet your hand with her back for a pet. Then she quickly circumnavigated Bella, rubbing shoulders. So I guess top cat is claiming Bella as her's. Now Bella, pay attention. That's an invite to friendship if I ever saw one!
I used to think that the word patient, when applied to the consumers of medical care, referenced the individuals who patiently wait for help; that being a patient requires patience because a patient is largely passive, and must place his or her care in the hands of another. Now I think that it refers to the doctor. The doctor waits. Day after day, he or she searches earnestly for signs of improvement in the one he or she cares for. At least this is how it is with me and my patient, Bella.
Bella has changed very little. She lives in a world of fear. Although I look for interesting or encouraging aspects of living with Bella to share here, these moments are like tiny fireflies in a field. Bella continues to spend endless hours on her bed. Her bed, stained by her panting and littered with crumbs from treats, dots of debris from the yard and tufts of fluffy black fur, remains her safest place. She scurries back to her bed after every walk. She doesn't pause to sniff, or notice the black cat that investigates her furtively (even walking right under her belly!) as she make her mad dash back to the bedroom,
Keep Bella in your thoughts. Maybe our collective good wishes will travel through the ether to spark a renewal in this poor, confused girl.
On the other hand, Circe is making great progress. She just now rubbed Bella when we were in the foyer and I was unhooking Bella's leash. Circe swung around Bella's hind legs, rubbing and hopping up a bit like she does when she wants to meet your hand with her back for a pet. Then she quickly circumnavigated Bella, rubbing shoulders. So I guess top cat is claiming Bella as her's. Now Bella, pay attention. That's an invite to friendship if I ever saw one!
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