“There’s a wet spot on the duvet!” my spouse exclaimed. “The cat must have done it. I know it was him because I saw him lying there earlier.”
I sprang to Telemann’s defense. “It can’t have been the cat! He’s never peed outside his litter box in the nine years we’ve had him. Also,” I went on, sniffing the spot, “it can’t be Telemann because it doesn’t smell, and cat urine stinks.” (Truffle the dog was not under suspicion, since he can’t even begin to jump up on the bed.) I pulled the duvet out from its cover, saw that the mystery fluid had soaked through, put everything in the wash, and remade the bed.
The banging of the heat pipes woke me in the night, and I decided to read a while. I turned on the light—and there was a new wet spot on the duvet. Telemann, who had been asleep in the crook of my arm, blinked and yawned as I got up to check it out. Like the earlier one, it did not smell like urine. It didn’t smell like anything. Still, both spots coincided with the cat’s presence on the bed, so they must have something to do with him. If it wasn’t urine, the only thing it could possibly be was saliva. But what would cause a cat to salivate so copiously?
I got back in bed and looked at Telemann. His eyes were clear. His gray coat was sleek and shiny. His gums…well, I couldn’t really see his gums, but I assumed they were ok. Still, for an eleven-pound creature, those wet spots were a major loss of fluid. He must be terribly dehydrated. But when I pinched the skin of his back it went down right away.
By now both of us were thoroughly awake, but I turned off the light and lay down anyway. Telemann settled in the crook of my left elbow, purring, but I couldn’t relax. Was the new raw, responsibly-sourced chicken I’d been feeding him the culprit? I should take him to the vet first thing, I decided. But it was going to be -25 F in the morning. Would my car even start?
I moved my elbow out from under the cat and turned on my right side. Normally when I do that he stays in the original spot, content as long as our backs are in contact. But this time he got up and went to lie in the crook of my right elbow. You know how it is when you can’t sleep—soon I felt that I would die if I didn’t turn onto my left side. Sure enough, Telemann got up and lay on my left elbow. This went on for what seemed like hours, me turning from side to side and the cat repositioning himself on whichever arm was on the mattress. Of course I attributed his restlessness to the same mystery disease that was causing him to soak the bedding with saliva or whatever. True, he was purring, but cats sometimes purr when they’re stressed.
In the morning Telemann, apparently none the worse for wear, ate with gusto, used his litter box, and settled down with Truffle for their usual post-breakfast nap. As predicted, it was -25 F outside, and what with refilling the humidifier, pouring hot water into the bird bath (the heater can’t keep up when the temperature is below zero), misting the houseplants, and feeling sleep deprived, I forgot all about the wet spot. But when I went into the bedroom, there it was again, round and moist and full of mystery. What was going on? Feeling persecuted by Fate, I sighed and raised my eyes to heaven like a martyr in a painting…and saw, on the ceiling vent, a telltale accumulation of water drops. With the super frigid temps, the insulation in the ceiling heat pipes had not been sufficient to prevent condensation from forming and then raining on the duvet.
That afternoon we had a heat wave. The thermometer climbed to fifteen above and I took Truffle for a walk. All things being relative in life, the air felt balmy. We trotted along—me just in my parka, no hat, scarf, gloves, or boots, and Truffle wearing only his God-given Pomeranian coat. And both of us awash in gratitude.
