My Puss developed diabetes when he was eight and not at all obese. In such cases I understand there is no hope of them ever living without insulin again. My vet predicted he might live for another six months. I decided to try it, and he survived for another five years and a half. The main factors were, I believe, his balanced character and my attentiveness. I soon changed over to two shots of insulin a day, which made for a more evenly distributed intake, and I never limited his food supply. (He went on diet food after a few months because normal food mixed with rolled oats gave him diarrhoea when he desperately needed to put on weight.)

When I left for work in the morning his bowl was still partly filled, and even when I got back ten hours later some food would usually be left. If not, it usually advertised the onset of an attack of low blood sugar. He would amble about aimlessly, oblivious of his surroundings. If I got him to eat a little, the attack usually subsided. If it had gone further I got the fruit sugar out, dissolved a good dose in water and put it into his mouth with the help of a syringe kept for this purpose. This usually did the trick, although the attack took longer to wear off. Occasionally I had to take him to the vet.

I started giving him minced lean beef for a treat. He loved it, and it didn't seem to have any harmful effects. The vet also prescribed a special paste (can't remember what it was called) of which he was allowed about a centimetre a couple of times a day. He loved that too, and used to lick it off my finger. For years he was able to live a fairly normal life, roaming through the fields and allotments behind our house.

However, my vet had warned me cats' insulin levels are notoriously difficult to keep adjusted (far more difficult than dogs'), and that at some point it would be impossible to do so. He was not too well for the last few months of his life, and when we reached a point where a fraction of a unit less than the normal dose was too little and a fraction more was too much, both resulting in attacks, I one day decided enough was enough, and just did nothing when the next attack came. He died in my arms.

It took me more than two years to get rid of the feeling every night around seven that I'd forgotten something. That was the time I usually got home to give him his evening shot.

Sonnet, I hope, for both of you, that your cat will live for years yet. Should you think I can help you further eMail me at: skw at worldmusic.de