Re: Little Dude's Medical Crisis

       As some of youknow, The Little Dude is a feral kitty rescued from the Mesa area, in Arroyo Grande, CA, in late August of this year. Destined at first for the Adopt-a-Pet, I came to realize he was definitely a part of my family and nixed the idea of any adoptions a few months ago--Little Dude had found his forever home here in Pismo Beach!

        I always knew the Dude was an unusual, seemingly fragile kitten. He had bouts of hobbling around as though unable to use his hind legs well. He never jumped up onto anything, but used (and continues to use) pet stairs that my neighbor generously gave me to access the bed and the sofa. Dr. Conn's first guess was that he might have something called Kelesi Virus, which causes pain in the back legs but generally is outgrown within a short time when it appears in kittens. But Little Dude's symptoms have gotten no better, so we made another trip to Cat and Exotic Care on Monday, this time to begin extensive testing, including blood work, x-rays, testing of the joint fluid, and testing for FIV and Feline Leukemia.

      The results, though as yet incomplete, are not promising. On the good side, the Dude is negative for both FIV and FeLeuk and, somewhat to Dr. Conn's surprise, there is nothing really wrong with his joints. They appear intact. But he shows three healed fractures in his back and front legs that indicate some kind of congenital bone disease--something perhaps akin to osteoporosis. He's Calcium deficient--no surprise there given his bones--and there's a good possibility his thyroid may not be functioning properly. Some of the test results have not yet come in and I'm awaiting further information.

       It's discouraging to say the least.

       As far as having a kitten with a strange, undiagnosable medical condition, this is the second time it's happened to me, which as Carla at Cat and Exotic said this morning is "like getting struck twice by lightning."

       About two and a half years ago, I was incredibly blessed when Sister Bug, a tiny feral kitten whom I fostered along with her brother and sister, miraculously recovered from what had appeared to be a very serious health threat. Basically, she was unable to poop and had to be rushed to the emergency vet a couple of times to have her system cleared out. At one point, Sister Bug was on three different kinds of meds twice a day just to keep everything moving along. And even after all kinds of tests, there was no clear indication of what was wrong with her!

       Then, almost overnight, Sister Bug 'outgrew' her problem and has been a perfectly normal, healthy cat ever since. I was praying the same would happen with the Dude, that his difficulties would turn out to be Kelesi Virus or something else he'd outgrow. This time it doesn't look like that's going to be the case.

       What it comes down to, I guess, is all I can do is the best I can. I'll do everything I can to get the Little Dude the best health care, to remain comfortable and content, and make sure however much time he is allotted on this planet, that it's as pleasant for him as it can possible be. Beyond that, it's up to God.

       Knowing how fragile he is, I'm more grateful than ever that Little Dude is part of my feline family. This is a very tranquil, quiet household where the older cats are generally tolerant and laid back--when Little Dude shoves his little head into a food bowl where someone else is eating, I'm always amazed that the other cat invariably backs off without so much as a hiss. They are touchingly tolerant of his tendency to be obnoxious around eating.

      So that's it for now. I will provide more updates on the Dude's health situation later on.

 

       And on a very positive note, this morning was the first time ever that, when I visited my Mesa feeding stations, there was still plenty of food in each one. I saw the black kitten that lives in the woodpile scamper away--he/she is alive and well, but I need to start trapping for him soon. Like next week. A resident told me there was an owl cruising around in the area of the woodpile the night before. I feel so sorry for this little guy. What must it be like to be growing up all alone, living in a woodpile for shelter on these cold nights. But today, when I was there, he had food, water, and an abundance of warm sunshine, so that is reason to celebrate!

A Good Day For Goldilocks

       More good news from the cat front!  About three weeks ago, I trapped a little orange female, about four months old, up at the Mesa. Because she didn't seem completely feral, I tried to find a foster home for her among the Feline Network volunteers. When I couldn't find anyone, I set her up in the spare bathroom here at my house. Within a very short time, she was sitting on my lap, purring, and lapping up the KMR (kitten milk replacement) that I gave her as a special treat.

        But there was still the problem of what to do with her. Nobody had room in the foster homes and I'm going away over the Thanksgiving holiday. My wonderful petsitter, Anna Stuart, would be coming in twice a day, but that still didn't seem like enough attention for a cat only just getting used to dealing with humans.

        Then Anna called and said she'd found the little girl, whom I've been calling Goldilocks, a home. A wonderful, animal-loving woman had been looking for an orange female--and solid orange girls are hard to find. Most orange cats are actually male. Today was the Big Day for Goldilocks. Anna came and took her away in a carrier, along with a toy mouse and a can of KMR to remind her of her foster home. I know she will do great in her new situation as she wants nothing more than to sit in her person's lap all day and that is what Anna says this lady is looking for.

       I wish Goldilocks could understand how lucky she is. The Mesa is not a good place for cats during the best of times, and we've just come through a weekend of torrential rain and cold. In all likelihood, Goldilocks will have a long, happy life in a home where she is valued and loved. I wish all animals everywhere could have homes like that, but it still makes my heart sing to know that Goldilocks has found hers.

Re: Good News For One Feral

 

     So often rescue work with animals is filled with sad situations, so I rejoice when something goes unequivocally right!

      For literally months now, I have been trying to trap a small calico female who is the litter mate to two orange kittens I trapped ages ago. (They are semi-tame and are living with Christine, the founder of Feline Network). But this calico female always eluded me and, in the meantime, she has grown to the age where before long she'll be having kittens and making a bad situation much worse. Not only that, but this cat makes her hideway in an opening at the back of a small house in AG. The opening leads to

an area of plumbing fixtures of some type and an old bathtub, where she takes refuge. The owner of the house is adamant about not wanting the cat in that space. As soon as I trap her, the plan has been that I am to tell the homeowner and he will board up the entrance to the only shelter this little cat has ever known.

     So all this time that I've been trying to trap her, I've also been agonizing about what am I going to do with her. Normal procedure would have me return her to where I got her, but at that point she would have lost her 'home' and the property owner is not interested in feeding her. So I admit that, while I've continued to trap there, I've not been too unhappy when I continue to fail to catch the cat--since I leave out food for her and she has her makeshift shelter.

     Late last week, though, through a series of coincidences, I made contact with a woman who runs a feral cat sanctuary north of Atascadero. She was willing to take some semi-feral cats from Feline Network, but the person fostering the cats in question changed her mind for various reasons and that deal fell through. Then this morning--after so many attempts--I caught the calico! Immediately  I called the wonderful woman who runs the feral habitat. I will be meeting her up in Santa Marguerita this afternoon with the calico cat, now spayed with her shots, in a carrier to go to her new home at the habitat. It is a large, enclosed area where ferals live out their lives in peace. She will have ample shelter, food, and safety from predators--three options totally unavailable to her in her former circumstances.
      I am so grateful to the Universe for making this possible, for the timing that had the little cat walk into the trap at the one moment  when a new opportunity had actually opened up for her future. Thank God, she will never go hungry and she will have plenty of warm, hay-filled enclosures in which to cuddle with other cats. She will never have kittens, and predators, human or animal, will not bother her. At the moment, as she sits in the carrier on my porch recovering from her spaying procedure, I am sure she does not consider herself fortunate and would love nothing better than to go back to the only home she has ever known. If only she knew the bigger picture!

      I wonder how often I--how often all of us--are like the little cat, unaware of the bigger picture and oblivious to our incredible good fortune!

Re: On Grieving the Loss of Animals

     Recently I wrote about the loss of my 15-year-old cat Twinky, who died at home, with the help of her veterinarian, on October 25. Since Twinky's body was obviously failing, I guess I had thought the pain of losing her would somehow be mitigated by the relief of knowing she would not experience suffering. I'm thankful she had a peaceful and pain-free death, but that knowledge has done little to blunt the grief I feel at her loss.

      Twinky always sat at the end of the sofa in my living room. Every time I come in the front door, my eyes automatically go to the sofa--which is empty now--and I am reminded once again that she's gone. Every morning for the last four years I (or the petsitter if I was out of town) gave Twinky her medicine for high blood pressure; every month of so, I would call up the lab in Paso Robles and order another bottle of her meds. Now every day in which that familiar ritual is no longer enacted is another day in which she grows farther away from me. At "treat time" in the evenings, Twinky--who was blind--would be the first to appear in the kitchen, waiting expectantly for her portion of wet food. When I tossed out dry treats to the other cats, I would tuck two or three under Twinky's paw, so she could immediately find them.  At night, as soon as I got into bed and called her, Twinky would jump down off her spot on the sofa, come into the bedroom, hop up on the bed and stretch out against my back, with her head and paws in my hair. I still can't get used to sleeping on my side, knowing I will never again feel her furry warmth as she snuggles against me or hear the soothing music of her purr. I know that now I can rearrange the furniture with impunity or relocate the food and water bowls if I choose to, because my other cats are sighted. In her later years, Twinky found it difficult to squat and sometimes would end up peeing over the side of the litter box onto the floor. I got her a couple of special boxes with high sides and -- just in case--- placed them on top of a tarp covered with plastic trash bags so even if she missed, it was easy to clean up the spill. I took those away the other day--my other cats don't need them.

      Twinky always enjoyed going out into the fenced backyard, but sometimes she indicated she wanted to go out into the front yard by standing at the front door, looking expectant. I'd let her go outside, but always go out with her, since the front yard isn't fenced and she could easily wander out into the street. I was careful to never leave the side gate open, since she could have gone from the safety of the backyard out into the front unsupervised. Now the gate can be open all the time--it doesn't matter.

     When she was sighted, Twinky terrorized the other cats--she was alpha to the core. Even after she lost her sight, she continued to instill fear--I once saw her carefully locate the position of another cat by listening, turn slowly, then lunge with amazing accuracy at her intended prey. On another occasion, I came home to the horrifying sight of Twinky almost at the top of a twelve-foot high cat tree, looking around in some distress as she tried to figure out how to get down. I plucked her into my arms and put her back on the terra firma of the living room rug. To my vast relief, as far as I know, she never ventured up there again.

       I could write on and on reminiscing about Twinky, her adventures, her spirit, her tendency (probably due to her Siamese blood) to grumble and growl over anything that met with her disapproval--and those things were legion!

      But the point of this entry is to say that I have been unprepared for the depth of the grief I feel. It's a lethargy, a profound lack of appetite for dealing with the day to day demands of the world. Twinky shared my life for fifteen years. Now her life is over and a chapter of mine is irrevocably closed.

       In her mortality, of course, I see my own and that of every animal and every person that I love.

       Yet even as I mourn her, I  look across the living room and see the Little Dude cavorting in a paper grocery bag from Trader Joe's. He rolls around, sticks his head out, dives back in, crinkling and crumpling the bag, finding in its brown, oblong interior a toy more fascinating than any PetCo toy or catnip mouse. Everything is new and amazing and wonderful in Little Dude-Land, where Now is the only moment there ever was or will ever be.

       So I grieve for Twinky but I celebrate the gift that is the Little Dude. I wish that I could learn to live with his enthusiasm and only hope that I can die with a fraction of her equanimity and grace.

           

     

     

Remembering Twinky

     Twinky, my beloved cat for fifteen years, passed away at home on Monday, October 25. The vet and vet tech came to the house, and they were wonderful, giving Twinky a shot first to sedate her before the second, final shot, was administered. She died in my arms, wrapped in a blanket. Her body was taken away to  be cremated and returned to me. I had agonized over the decision to end Twinky's life that day. She was still eating, but the fluid in her abdominal cavity--after having been drained once the previous week--was building up again. The vet said that, for it to build up again so fast, the situation inside her must be very bad. So I decided to let Twinky go while she was still relatively comfortable and not in any pain. Would that it could be this simple for humans.

     Twinky was with me through four major relationships, one of them a marriage, and five relocations, four within Colorado and the last one out here to Pismo Beach. She knew the moment I got into bed and would come into the bedroom, jump up on the bed, and sleep nestled up against my hair. Being blind for the last five years didn't daunt her a bit.


Twinky resting on one of her final days




Enjoying the sunshine





Little Dude keeps her company

           I feel that twice I almost lost Twinky and twice God returned her to  me. The first time was when, as her foster mom, I foolishly decided to put her up for adoption, thinking that I should adopt an older cat more in need of a home. When I realized I had made the wrong decision, I hurried down to the Boulder Valley Humane Society, only to find a couple in the process of adopting Twinky. I was devastated. I remember sobbing all the way home in my car, saying "I'm so sorry", both to Twinky and to myself, for having been so oblivious to how much I wanted her in my life.     That was on a Friday. On Monday I called the BVHS to tell them they needed to remind Twinky's new people that she needed to continue her medication for the  infection that had already cost her an eye. To my amazement, the woman said, "But she's still here. The adoption didn't go through." Needless to say, I rushed back to Boulder and adopted Twinky, so grateful that I (and she) had been given a second chance.     The second time I thought I'd lost Twinky was one of the most painful episodes of my life. I was married and my husband and I had decided to spend part of the summer in Michigan, even though we'd just moved into a new home in Mead, CO. The cats were in the habit of going outside, so I insisted to the petsitter that they be allowed to go out, even though they were now in a new neighborhood with an unfamiliar person coming to feed them. That decision was completely misguided and unthinking on my part and I have regretted it bitterly. I would never leave any animal alone in new surroundings now or allow it access to the outdoors for at least a month.     Within a couple of weeks, I found out that Twinky and another of my cats, Puppy, had disappeared. I flew back to CO to search. I started sleeping out on the back steps in case one or both of them came home in the night. I remember waking up and hearing Twinky meow. She was standing right there. Before that moment, whenever I'd heard or read of somebody who'd pinched themselves to see if they were dreaming, I'd thought it sounded silly. How could anyone not know if they were awake or asleep? But at that moment, I honestly wasn't sure. I just remember thinking that if this was a dream, if I woke up and Twinky was not really there, I would die. So I dug my nails into my arm and I picked Twinky up and she was real.     The joy of being reunited with Twinky was, of course, only matched by the guilt and grief I also felt over Puppy, who never came home. I don't know if he and Twinky left together or separately, or if Twinky went with him on some journey that only she was able to return from. But once again, I felt that God had given her back to me.     I have been blessed and privileged to have Twinky in my life. When I walk in the front door, I still find myself looking at the spot on the sofa where she would invariably be sitting. When I call "treat time" I still expect her to be the first to show up. Knowing this will never happen again leaves a great emptiness. The house doesn't feel right without her, and I wonder if the other cats are aware of her absence. She was a beautiful, sweet soul and will be terribly missed.