Tribute to a Tabby

“Would you like a free sample of kitten food?” the receptionist asked.
“Nah, I don’t have any kittens.”
“Would you like one?”

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So, that day, having gone to the veterinarian with one cat, I ended up going home with two. The newcomer was a sweet little “dilute orange” (i.e., blonde) tabby I named Bender. No, not for the robot character in “Futurama.” My guy was born with a bent tail – its last inch folded in on itself twice, almost like a curly-cue. As a result his tail was stiff, not graceful and fluid. When he got mad – which wasn’t often – and flapped his tail, it was like getting hit with a fuzzy mace. Whap, whap.

He was a bit awkward as a kitten with his long legs, but he grew into them, and into the most calm, mellow cat I’ve ever shared a home with. We did hit a rough patch a couple years later when I introduced Paco to the household. (Another day that I went to the vet with one cat and came home with two.) For the first three days I thought Bender was going to kill the 9 week old kitten – the way he stalked and hunted him while Paco explored his new home. But suddenly Bender turned into “Mr. Mom” and took over raising the newcomer the way that Annie had raised him. (Annie was still with us at the time, but was elderly and not up to her usual role as matriarch.)

Even after Paco grew twice his size (and took over as “alpha kitty”), Bender remained his sweet self, with an inquisitive “mmmrrrmmph” noise that he made – he never really meowed. He followed me around the house, especially on weekends, wanting to be near me. He loved to sleep on my legs, using my feet as a pillow. And he always responded when I talked to him, whether I was calling him “Boo” “Boo-Boo” “Boo-meister” or “Bender.” Most often it was “Boo” (not an uncommon nickname for cats, right? How many of you call your cats “Boo?”) I’m not sure if my friends know the exact origins of his nickname: Legally Blonde. Yes, that Reese Witherspoon movie. The asshole boyfriend called Elle Woods “Poo-Bear.” I thought it was cute, so I started calling Bender “Poo-Bear”, but after a bit, because his name began with a “B” it seemed more fitting to change it to Boo-Bear. Toward the end, I mostly called him “my sweet little old man.”

He had medical issues which required daily medication; he even had his own asthma inhaler, complete with an infant mask to fit over his nose and mouth. Scarier were the seizures he began suffering when he was about 8. (The vets could find no physical reason for them so classified it as “epilepsy” – an exclusionary diagnosis.) I’ll never forget the first one I witnessed: one second he was standing next to me, the next he was on his back, all four legs in the air, flailing about, twisting, whipping back and forth, as if his body didn’t know which was up and which was down. Even after he managed to get on his feet, the back half of his body continued to dance around for several more seconds. He watched it quizzically, until it stopped, then ran and hid for an hour.

That meant a quarter pill of phenobarbital twice a day for the rest of his life. Sometimes the money got to be a bit much (ever buy an asthma inhaler that’s not covered by your medical insurance?), but I didn’t mind. Those were our special moments each day as I took him aside to administer his meds.

As he got older, he developed arthritis (like a lot of us!) Boy, did he walk really slowly. For the past year or so instead of waiting for him to respond to mealtime, I had been carrying him into the kitchen. Inconvenient? Yeah, sure. But I enjoyed it. The last couple of months I had even begun talking to him en route, telling him what a pleasure it was to carry him to his food dish, and how glad I would be to do it as long as he needed me to.

I wish I was still doing it. Like I wish he was still sitting on the back of the chair behind me, with his feet touching me. (When he wanted attention, he would tap me on the shoulder.) Paco sits there now, lonely, and sad that he has become an only cat.

As scary as his seizures were, they didn’t quite prepare me for Sunday, January 12th. He was sleeping on the ottoman while I was taking care of the laundry. I’m not sure what made me turn around (maybe he made a noise), but he was crouching, leaning to the right, his mouth opening and closing several times. My first thought was “oh, god, is this it?” (Somehow I recognized it as the event that would end his life.) But then, it was over, he vomited a little, and then just lay there looking exhausted and drained. It was mid-afternoon, too late to take him to the regular vet. And I didn’t want to take him to an emergency vet. Not that they wouldn’t have done their best, but I’ve already had one cat (Marian) die in a strange, unknown, vet clinic, tended by veterinarians she’d never seen before. I thought, that if this was the end, I’d rather he go quietly at home with me.

For the rest of the day he slept. Paco cuddled with him for most of the time. (As two old men cats, they’d made their peace – mostly – and become cuddle buddies.) At night, I carried him to bed, and managed to stay awake off and on, checking on him periodically. I don’t think he moved the whole night. I was pleased to see him looking a little brighter the next day, seeming to bounce back a bit, but he wanted no food and or medicine. He’d wobble his way to the litter box every now and then, but mostly slept. I still expected that he might pass some time that day, but he hung on.

I wasn’t too successful at staying awake Monday night and so was dismayed to not find him still sleeping next to me when I woke up Tuesday morning. He’d somehow made his way to the bathroom and was hiding behind the toilet. (The only time he got cranky with me, and growled, was when I pulled him out.) I certainly didn’t want him to die in such an undignified place. It was clear to me that Monday’s “bounce” was a false hope. I knew Tuesday the 14th would be his last day.

Gradually he lost his ability to walk more than a few steps before his legs locked up, causing him to fall over. But he stopped even trying by lunch time. So I wrapped him in a towel, and held him. We sat that way for a few hours, his warmth against my chest comforting me. Even though I was sad, contemplating that this would probably be the last time I held him, all I felt was love. If we could’ve stayed that way forever, I would’ve been happy. I did not want to get up from that chair.

But as the afternoon waned, I began to worry. Worry that I couldn’t stay awake and that he would die while I was sleeping. I couldn’t stand the thought of him dying alone. Broadway Pet Hospital, our vet clinic – with staff who had cared for him his whole life – would be closing in only 3 hours. I knew I that I had to make that call, and let him go with as much dignity as possible. I put on my shoes, told Paco to say goodbye to his brother, and took him away for the last time.

The veterinarian agreed that he was ready. She was very kind, very professional, informing me of each step. (They always administered a sedative to calm the animal before the final injection.) They gave me some time before and after, of course. What I will always remember is how he purred from the moment I took him out of the carrier to hold him until the sedative was given. I know it’s common for sick cats to purr – it’s self-soothing for them in times of stress – but he looked up at me the whole time, and four or five times, he reached up with one paw to touch my face. He was saying goodbye.

Of all my cats, Bender’s death was the most peaceful (the “best” if it’s not too odd to use that term for a loved one dying). I miss those special moments that were his. I miss his little non-meow. But it was the right time for him, and I’ve come to accept it more quickly than the others. Like the others, he is still nearby – his ashes in a small wooden box that sits next to those holding his sisters’ ashes. I still feel his love.

Giving Thanks

It’s cliche to be expressing thanks this time of year, but today – after a busy morning running around followed by a mid-afternoon nap in the big overstuffed chair – I awoke to two cats draped across my lap, purring. And I felt thankful. Thankful for small furry bodies keeping me warm on a rainy day. Thankful for their gazes which tell me that I am their whole world.

So I’d like to thank all the felines who came before who have shared their companionship and love…and their lessons about life and death…with me.

KC

To K.C., my first cat when I was a teenager. He loved to annoy my mother by sleeping on the clean linen and taught me that I would do pretty much anything to save my cat – including climbing out onto a slippery roof to retrieve him. He was the first to teach me that hearts can be broken from many miles away: he’d gone to live with my sister because I wasn’t able to keep him and passed away without me learning about it until later. (That’s my sister in the picture.)

Lovely

To Lovely, who wasn’t even my cat. She wandered into the basement one day while I was doing laundry. Emaciated and weak, she cried for attention. Sucker that I am, I took her to the vet and found that she had cancer. I’d never seen her in the neighborhood before so I can only assume that her owners, discovering her illness, had tossed her out like garbage. So I felt it my duty to give her peace with caring human hands holding her as she passed. It was the wonderful staff at Broadway Pet Hospital who dubbed her Lovely. They didn’t want her to die unnamed or unloved. Only in my life for a few days, I believe it was her task to teach me about death firsthand, preparing me for the time three years later that I would have to let go of Indy, who I had raised from kittenhood.

Indy1To Indy, my first cat as an adult. I found him at a pet store marked down multiple times from $9.99 to $3.99. He was the smartest cat I’ve had, able to open drawers and cupboards, digging out toys that I had hidden away. At night, he lay on my right side. I would drape my arm across his body and he would wrap his tail around my arm. He taught me the true, and sometimes expensive, responsibilities of cat ownership.

marian1To Marian, who taught me that I had enough love for more than one pet at a time. She would sit in my lap while I was on the computer and rub her slobbery face all over my hands while I typed. (Yes, cats can slobber.) And she taught me guilt. The day before she unexpectedly died from a blood clot, I’d been very busy and kept pushing her away, unable to give her the attention she craved. There was no time to apologize to her, only to tell the vet to end her suffering as quickly as possible. I’m sorry Marian.

FluffyTo Fluffy, who I took in as an elderly feline on behalf of an elderly friend who could no longer care for her. She turned out to be sick, so our time together was short, but it was long enough for many laughs, like the times – completely oblivious that there was already a cat sitting on my lap – would climb right on top of that cat (usually Annie).

 

AnnieTo Annie, who taught me that it’s the cats who are in charge. She would sit on the floor halfway in between the couch and the computer desk…and wait. When she felt that I had spent a sufficient amount of time at the computer, she issued her demands: a series of sharp “MOWS” (not meows, mows) until I obeyed her and sat on the couch, so she could sit on my lap. She had deep maternal instincts, helping to raise Turtle and Bender. She was the only cat who missed those who had passed before her, looking for them in their usual hidey spots.

And, of course, to Turtle, who I’ve written of many times before. She taught me that your soul mate is not always the same species as you.

And to Ariel, who I lost last month. She taught me that a single act of kindness can change your entire world.

You can see photos of Turtle and Ariel in earlier blogs.

BoysTo Bender and Paco, thank you for being with me today. What would I do without your head butts and forehead licks, Bender? And your nose rubs, Paco? I hope that I can do whatever is needed to make your lives better. We will always have love in this house.

And lest I forget the people:

Thank you friends and family. Thank you to the childhood friends who found me on Facebook (yeah, Facebook can be a huge sucking waste of time, but I’ve reconnected with many people important to my past. It’s also giving me a chance to learn about my nieces and nephews who grew up halfway across the country and a way to get to know my two sisters-in-law.)

Thanks to the friends who found themselves terrific spouses who I’m lucky to also count as my friends.

Thanks to the friends I’ve made in my world travel with Lindblad Expeditions. I look forward to traveling with you again.

Thanks to all of those friends and relatives who have raised intelligent, outspoken, independent, and interesting children. It gives me hope for the future.

Thanks to those of you who have bought my e-books. I hope that I’ve entertained you.

And many thanks to the ancient Mesopotamians for inventing beer.

Running on Empty

imageGoing home with the empty cat carrier. How many of us have been through that gut-wrenching experience? My first time was ten years ago with Marian, who woke me up in the middle of the night by jumping onto me in bed, screaming. Not meowing, not howling. Screaming. She promptly lost bladder control, tumbled off the bed, and began dragging herself toward the closet to hide. Her back legs would no longer work. I rushed her to the emergency veterinary clinic and was given a grim, devastating prognosis: saddle thrombosis (i.e., a blood clot in the abdominal aorta). It was, as the vet explained, one of the most excruciatingly painful ways for a quadruped to die. My decision was a no-brainer. She’d been too good of a companion for me to let her suffer. The vet ended it quickly, although not before Marian bit me in the face. That was my fault. I was trying to comfort her and just as the vet was saying “be careful, an animal in that much pain will bite” (literally – the words were just out of her mouth), Marian turned around and went ‘chomp’ – my nose was swollen for three days.

When Turtle died last year at home I took her to the vet in an Amazon.com box. It was an undignified method of transport, but I just couldn’t bear the thought of taking home an empty carrier. (Sorry, Turtle.) But yesterday, I braved that emotion once again when I took in Ariel for what I knew would be her final trip. She had stopped eating, was very confused, could barely walk, and had even peed in her bedding and then laid down where she had just peed. There was no dignity left for her, no peace, only pain and suffering. But I knew the staff at Broadway Pet Hospital would give her that dignified, peaceful ending. That last ‘magic carpet ride’ (as the attending vet called it) bundled in a warm towel to be taken into the back for insertion of a catheter to make administration of the fatal drug easier for her.

I held her head as she passed, grateful that I could be there for her. Grateful that I was privileged enough to be her mommy the last half of her life. I told her that Turtle was waiting for her to show her the way. And so was Sammy, the cat with whom she had shared a home the first half of her life (Sammy died earlier this year). I’m grateful to have been given the opportunity to watch over her in her golden years. Admittedly, it wasn’t something I wanted to do. I already had enough cats, and – to be brutally honest – I did not like Ariel. Not only had my experience with Siamese cats been traumatic (friend Lisa had a Siamese named Chandar who hated me & stalked me whenever I visited), but Ariel was a nasty, bitchy little cat. I only took her in because I felt sorry for her previous owner who was temporarily in a housing situation which did not allow pets. Little did I know that Ariel’s bad temperament was due to three rotten molars. Teeth that had been bad for years (not just months), meaning she had been suffering horrible pain for years. After a month or so of recovery from their extraction, Ariel’s personality changed like flipping a light switch. She couldn’t get enough of expressing her gratitude by climbing into my lap and purring away. True to her somewhat solitary nature, that activity didn’t last forever, but she became the sweet cat she should always have been.

If only her previous owner (someone who I’m no longer friends with because of her oblivious nature and inability to listen to anyone – including those she claimed were her friends) had paid attention to her and given her the regular veterinary care a cat requires. But true to her nature, the ex-friend had no concept of the need for maintenance. That may not sound like an appropriate term to use for pets, but just as you need to maintain your car or any household appliances, your animals need that kind of care too. I can’t count the number of things in this woman’s house which were no longer operable because she either couldn’t take proper care of them or keep track of needed parts.  But, to her credit, when I informed the previous owner that I had “just spent $900 on what is now MY cat, thank you very much” she did not contest ownership, recognizing that the cat was better off in my care.

I’m glad that I got to show Ariel that she was loved. That humans were good. That her experiences were not representative of humans in general. I’m not just talking about the lack of proper care either. Her previous owner’s mother, with her bizarre and cruel sense of humor, would place Ariel in plastic grocery bags and then hang her from door knobs or the backs of chairs, and then either leave her there to climb out on her own or tickle her until she got irritated and jumped out. Until the day, of course, Ariel turned around and attacked her tormenter. This resulted in the mother saying, “this cat is vicious – you must declaw her immediately.” And the ex-friend obliged. While I feel there are rare justifications for declawing a cat, this is not one of them. I objected. And I told my ex-friend to tell her mother to stop torturing the cat. Her response: “I’ve asked her.” I said “It’s your house. It’s your cat. Don’t ask. TELL her.” Her response: “I can’t tell her what to do. She’s my mother.” Bullshit. No offense to my mom, if she ever did that to one of my pets (which she would never do!), I’d kick her out of my house. But this ex-friend didn’t have the guts.

Now, before you go form a lynch mob to string this cruel woman up, she passed a few years ago. Not to speak ill of the dead (well, I guess I just did, didn’t I?): good riddance, God rest your evil little soul. At least her passing saved me the awkward conversation with Ariel’s previous owner (still my friend at that time) to confess that I never liked her mother anyway. There was something wrong with that woman. And before you ask, no I did not inform her previous owner that Ariel was near death or invite her to see her one last time. She forfeited that right some time ago.

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Crisis Management 101

Bender_blogThe trackpad on your MacBook Pro begins to malfunction, making it nearly impossible to navigate through your hard drive, let alone through the internet. What do you do?

1) Resist the urge to throw the computer across the room and/or out the window.

2) Repeatedly swear at computer.

3) Feeling a migraine attempt to explode behind your right eyeball, give up, take medication, and go to bed.

4) Get perhaps three hours of sleep before your brain wakes you up with a “pssst….hey, you have an old trackball plugged into the much older non-functioning desktop over in the corner.

5) Try to sleep anyway. Not much success.

6) The next morning, try plugging in the trackball. No success.

7) Borrow laptop from very nice neighbor and finish the paper about a fictitious disaster along the Mississippi River for your “Crisis Management Law” class. Turn assignment in. Get a 92% (That’s an “A”)!!

8) After perusing the Apple User Forums, you take MacBook Pro to Apple Store where it is diagnosed with a bad battery (bad battery! bad!). When batteries go bad, they swell and – being located directly underneath the trackpad – place pressure on the trackpad, confusing it. New battery: $140.

9) Start working on next assignment for your “Crisis Management Law” class. The cat – the most sweetest, calmest tabby ever – sitting at your feet suddenly flips over onto his back and makes like a turtle which has been flipped onto its back and can’t right itself. Seizure lasts nearly a minute.

10) Forget homework. Rush cat to vet. Battery of tests: $300. Results negative.

11) Hope it’s a one-time event. Cat has another seizure three days later, doing the “drunk walk” like his back half and front half aren’t speaking to each other.

12) Rush cat back to vet. More tests and x-rays: $300. Results negative. Most likely diagnosis: neurological. Conclusive results would require $1500 MRI at neurologist. I don’t have $1500.

13) Put cat on phenobarbital to control seizures. Hope for the best. Drugs: $40

14) Suffer through series of tension-related migraines during the next couple of weeks.  Run out of migraine medication.  Order more: $15

15) Only with the help of the calming influence of acupuncture, manage to complete the next “Crisis Management Law” class assignment. (And some really nice friends who proofread.)

16) Start working on final research paper for “Crisis Management Law” class and discover the MacBook Pro’s problems have not been completely solved by replacing the battery.  Symptoms not as disruptive, but still damn inconvenient. How’d you like it if your computer spontaneously minimized windows you were working in, or thinking you had clicked on something you hadn’t?

17) Decide to work on WordPress blog posting instead. Malfunctioning computer “publishes” the blog before it’s finished despite the fact that I never clicked on “publish.”

18) Delete half-finished blog and do it over again.

19) Resist the urge to throw the computer across the room and/or out the window.

20) Instead, go give love and attention to ailing cat.

A Hole in my Soul

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A year ago today, in the dark chill of a January morning, a piece of my soul was forever ripped away. After a few gasps for air with lungs rapidly shutting down, Turtle’s limbs relaxed and she was gone. I knew that she was, but I denied it, continuing to lay there with my beloved cat on my chest. I told myself that the gentle rise and fall I felt was her breath, not mine. But soon her body began to stiffen and chill like the winter air. I couldn’t ignore the truth any longer. It was time to drive her to the veterinary clinic and hand her off for delivery to the crematorium. I wrapped her in a towel and, as undignified as it was, I put her in a box. I couldn’t bear the thought of returning home with an empty cat carrier in my hand as I’ve done in years past.

Turtle is, of course, not the first pet I’ve lost, but the hardest to lose. She was my soulmate and I miss her still. I think of those last few days, of the joy of having her with me for one last Christmas and one last New Year’s. But I also reflect on what I could have done to make her passage easier. I knew that she was ready to go on Friday, the 4th. I could tell. It’s something you come to learn as a pet owner. But I needed to go to the office. I vowed that I would only work a partial day and get back as quickly as possible. But that didn’t quite happen. I wasn’t able to escape until close to the end of the day, giving me only an extra hour to spend with her. And the vet closes early on Fridays. Selfishly, I did not rush to take her in for euthanasia because I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. I told myself she’d make it through the night.

But as I lay awake with her, holding her on my chest, I knew she wouldn’t. Turtle suffered through two seizures before the end came. While I doubt she was aware of much after the first seizure (maybe even before), I too suffered watching her, feeling her little body tremble and thrash. I begged her to let go and slip away; I told her it was okay to go to kitty heaven, to join Indy & Marian & Annie & Fluffy. But I still watched the clock tick away the minutes for nearly an hour before those final gasps for air came on January 5, 2013.

ImageSo tonight I light a candle for her memory, and I look through her photo album at her kitten pictures, and I choose to remember her healthy and happy, draped across my face sound asleep. And I remember those little moments I wish I’d caught on film like when Turtle was a wee little furball, and she came bounding across the room like a rubber ball, bounced off the coffee table, bounced off the sofa, and bounced right past my head and up on to the window screen, her tiny claws latched on tight. She hung there for a moment, looking around, and then started screaming her little head off. It took me a couple minutes to peel her off the screen.

Thank you, Turtle, for 16 years of love. Can you feel my tears?