Thursday, 24 July 2003 | Feline plant

I've had five plants in the past year. I've killed four of them. Granted, two people who weren't me dropped the jade plant on moving day in September and its health went downhill from there, so maybe its death wasn't entirely my fault.

The spider plant came from several states away to be with me, wrapped in a damp paper towel and carried quickly at high altitudes; it never liked New York, however.

The string-of-pearls plant had a Homie stuck in its soil and strand of green peas that dangled over the edge of its pot like an offering from Rapunzel. I really liked the string-of-pearls plant and tried so very carefully to sustain its life, to comprehend its strobe messages of Water me! Don't water me!. I gave it too much attention and drowned it.

The last one to go was the succulent plant, which was, incidentally, the grandfather. I think he drowned, too, but it's hard to be sure. He left me a bowl of yellow spikes.

The only plant that is not dead is the bamboo plant. That's because the bamboo plant sits in water, not soil, and requires virtually no care, no interpretation. It's because I would have to literally try to kill it in order to do so.

This has me worried. I'm worried because I've just been given a much bigger, more sensitive type of "plant" test. Yesterday I learned that my cat has diabetes.

With respect to my cat, I think that means that she will have to adjust to new food that may not taste like savory seafood with gravy, and that she can no longer eat the same generous amount. That she may uncomfortable a lot of the time (thirsty? tired? stiff? weak?). That other parts of her body may eventually fail (kidneys? eyes?). And that her owner will probably seem like the enemy.

With respect to me, I think that means that I will have to make my schedule more uniform, to kick it into shape like a new recruit. Learn and read more about diabetes, of course, beyond my experience with diabetic humans. Find someone who is willing to care for someone else's diabetic cat when I am out of town. Spend lots of money. Perform regular feline urinalyses, however that's done. Stop giving her bits of my dinner, treats, and second helpings, and learn to refuse her big, round, needy eyes. Get over my discomfort with needles, and learn to stab her at least once a day in order to save her life. Sense the nuances in her behavior, interpret how she's feeling, and correctly calculate her dosage, in deference to my performance with my unfortunate plants.