Standing Guard

D’Artagnan is now a little too chunky to climb the TV armoire like he did last year, so here he is standing guard over the new artificial Christmas tree, with a friend.

D'Artagnan Style

The Kittehlympics

Like most of the rest of the world, John and I have been watching a lot of the Olympic Games on television this past week. Spurred on by the noise and rapid movements coming from the TV, our cats decided to hold their own Kittehlympics one night.

Events consisted of full contact martial arts, the down-the-hall sprint, the around-the-kitchen-and-den race, the high dive (getting up on the back of the sofa and leaping upward before landing on the opponent cat), hurdles (jumping over every piece of furniture in the room), and cat toy soccer. I’m not sure who won, but it wasn’t the furniture.

During the 2010 Winter Olympics, Truffle was a mere spectator.

Watching the Olympics this year, I notice that the USA is not the only melting pot nation, if it ever was. There is a Dutch gymnast named Marcel Nguyen. Emili Sandé, the singer who sang Abide with Me during a choreographed memorial segment of the opening ceremonies, is Zambian-British. There are others, those are the two whose names I remember off-hand. 

This morning I read an article on Oscar Pistorius, the double amputee who is running for South Africa in the Olympics. There are still people arguing that his artificial legs give him an advantage in competition. I suspect if you could analyze the genetics and body mechanics of all the athletes participating in the games, you’d find they all had some kind of advantage over us mere mortals. (Michael Phelps, the swimmer, for example has long arms.) After all, isn’t that the reason you have a competition to begin with, to find out who can do the best with what they’ve got?  Whatever bio-mechanical advantage Pistorius might have over people who were merely born with naturally long legs and short torsos, he still needs to train and practice. He still needs to learn race strategy. He still needs to show up.  

Little Known Christmas Fact

When the Wise Men traveled to Bethlehem, they brought along a cat, who gave the infant in the stable the gift of comforting purrs.

Peace Offering

Truffle is a warm and friendly cat with me. He is especially warm and friendly when everything is going his way: when I feed him his treats, when he gets to snuggle on the electric blanket, when he’s sitting on the edge of my chair getting his ears scratched.

He is not warm and friendly when he has to see the vet. That’s when he turns into 13 pounds of snarling muscle. At least, I think he weighs 13 pounds. At his most recent check-up, last week, it was impossible to get him on the scale. It was impossible to take his temperature. It was just possible to give him his shots with both vets and one assistant holding him down. Dr. Kate was also able to check his heart rate while he was wrapped in a towel snarling at us. “You would think his heart would be racing, “ she said, “but it’s not.” Great, I’m the mom to Hannibal Lector cat.

So I decided that since I am retired and have time for these things, I would make the vet some homemade goodies for Christmas. The vet’s office is less than half a mile from my house, so it was no trouble to drop something off. And what could be more appropriate than homemade truffles? Made with dark chocolate and decorated with white chocolate and chopped macadamias, they would reference our black and white cat, D’Artagnan, as well. Isn’t that how cute?

I have a recipe for no-cook chocolate truffles, but I decided to try something new, specifically, the Chocolate Truffles Recipe from the Simply Recipes website. It looked easy, especially if I skipped the optional flavors and went with basic vanilla. I could roll one third of them in cocoa, one third in chopped macadamias, and drizzle one third with melted white chocolate. How easy is that? as Ina Garten would say.

I keep forgetting that Ina Garten is a professional chef, and I’m not. Still, the recipe is easy. However, it does not make as many truffles as the recipe says: I was only able to make 25 of the size shown. It’s also harder to roll the truffles into balls than it is with my no-cook version. We have a melon baller someplace in the attic that would have made the job easier, but if I went to look for it I'd be there until Easter. 

After they’re formed, the truffles have to sit in the refrigerator overnight before you can roll them in toppings. They aren’t really hard to make, just fussy.

Rolling one third of them in cocoa was easy. I was even able to round them off some more. Rolling in the macadamia nuts was harder because no matter how finely I thought I had them chopped, I’d keep finding big pieces that wouldn’t stick. Drizzling with white chocolate was where I ran into trouble. I had to guess at the proportions of cream and baking chips that would let me drizzle yet still harden as it cooled. I guessed wrong. Even worse, my attempts to drizzle a few lines over each truffle resulted in blobs rather than stripes.

Okay, they are homemade, right? We aren’t going to worry about the little stuff. I packed them into a tin and took them over to the vet’s office. “Thank you”, said Kim, the receptionist, as I suggested she might want to keep them in the refrigerator. “What are they?”

“Truffles,” I answered. A brief puzzled expression passed over her face and then she realized I meant the candy and opened the box. (After all, I’m the mom to Hannibal Lector cat.)

So I think Truffle will be welcome there for another year, but next year, I'm sticking to cookies.

Walkin' After Midnight

I go out walkin' 

After midnight 

Out in the moonlight 

Just like we used to do

I'm always walkin' 

After midnight 

searching for you.

                          (Alan Block and Donn Hecht)

I have a bad habit of anthropomorphizing my cats. I hold whole conversations with them (both parts) and attribute to them all sorts of knowledge and common sense. Then when they go ahead and act like cats, I’m frustrated.

When I first got Truffle, I had to sign an agreement that he would remain an indoor cat. Truffle, however, never put his paw print to the page and when he saw Poppy going in and out, he decided to follow. I tried to keep him in, but he could slither pretty fast. So my compromise was to make sure he was in at night before I went to bed. For a few weeks that meant I was searching the neighborhood until the wee hours, but he finally started coming in on his own by ten, most of the time. Every three months or so, he’d stay out until 2 AM, but mostly he was in by what I jokingly referred to as his curfew.

Then we got D’Artagnan. D’Artagnan is a young cat and still loves to play, and his favorite form of play is wrestling with Truffle. Truffle will put up with D’Artagnan for a while, before smacking him one or chomping on him, but he’s also spending more time outdoors. Over the last week or so, Truffle has been staying out late (and probably smoking nip with his deadbeat friends).

One night he didn’t come in at all. John woke up at five and went out looking for him with the flashlight. A few minutes after John gave up, Truffle appeared at the window. Mama was not happy with him.

That night, D’Artagnan decided to go outside, too. We got D’Artagnan in, but Truffle was still outside. Around midnight, I slipped outside to look for Truffle. I walked around our half of the block and didn’t see him, but a few minutes after I came in, Truffle again was at the window.

So the next night, I tried again, this time around ten. Sure enough, about two minutes after I returned, Truffle was there.

“This is easy”, I thought. (Always a bad thing to do. With Truffle, nothing is easy.) The next night Truffle came in early on his own, but D’Artagnan was still out. I was in my office playing a computer game when I heard John calling D’Artagnan. “I need to go tell him to shut Truffle in the back when he opens the door”, I thought, only too late. D’Artagnan was in, but Truffle was back out. So I put on my shoes and went walking. Truffle came up to me and headed home with me. Problem is, when I got to the door, he hared off in another direction.

I finally got him in at 2 in the morning, after two more walks. If this keeps up, I’ll at least get my exercise. I had a calm, reflective talk with my husband on the subject of being more careful with the cat.

Last night, Truffle was in by 9. He’s mama’s good baby. He knows when his curfew is.

Round Two

Ever since we got our new cat, Licorice, he's been struggling with digestive issues. We weren't told about his diarrhea (in fact, we were told he was in good health) by the people at the animal shelter until after we filled out the paperwork and paid for him. We were given a bottle of two days worth of medicine to give him as we were getting ready to go. 

It turned out that whatever he has is a whole lot more serious than what they thought and led us to believe. Despite our feeding him a hypoallergenic diet, and giving him various treatments prescribed by our vet, there has been no improvement in the last month. So Monday we took him back to the animal shelter. I know it sounds harsh, but the animal shelter is a no-kill shelter with a veterinary clinic on-site. The cattery, where the older cats are housed, is a bright, open space with chairs and toys and individual cages for night time or when kitty needs a break. With Licorice being there, he can be monitored by the vet and shelter staff on a regular basis and maybe they can help him better than we've been able to. Still, it was a sad moment. He's a nice little cat.

When hubby left with Licorice, he had decided he was not going to get another cat from the shelter. I wasn't surprised, though, when I got a call from him at the shelter saying they had a cute little tabby cat and did I want it? Of course, I said. 

Twenty minutes later, I get a second call. The tabby, it turns out, has a health problem of some kind, but they don't know what because no one is there who can read the note.

"I don't think this is a good idea," I warned.

"I don't either," said my husband, "But there is a black and white cat that looks like Squeaky."

"You mean D'Artagnan?" I ask. I love D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan is the cat that followed me all around the first time we went to the shelter. I am all in favor of D'Artagnan as our new cat. Apparently, D'Artagnan is all in favor of being our new cat, too, because while John and the shelter personnel were trying to decipher the vet note on the tabby, D'Artagnan jumped up on the clipboard and made his presence known. 

So D'Artagnan came home with John and promptly lost all his swagger. "What is this place?" appeared to be his first thought. He dashed around the mudroom, leaped from the sink into the cat food bowl, scattering cat food everywhere, then dashed into the next room and found a hiding spot under the printer stand in the corner. Every so often, a plaintive "meow" could be heard, but that was about it.

At this point Truffle returned from his morning stroll and noticed the carrier. He sniffed it all over, probably detecting a new smell, and then explored the faint "meow" coming from the corner. He seemed to decide it wasn't worth his while to mess with the newcomer and went off for his afternoon nap.

Two hours later,  D'Artagnan was nowhere to be found. John was sure he had escaped from the house, which meant that we needed to change his name to Houdini, because the only person who had been in and out of the house in that time was John, and he was equally convinced he hadn't let the cat out. Truffle, tired of pointless bickering on the part of his household staff, settled the issue by crouching in front of the oak armoire in his "watching the mouse hole" position until he was sure we got the message. This gave John a use for his new flashlight, checking under the armoire, where, sure enough, D'Artagnan had taken refuge.  He finally emerged at 8PM.

After that unpromising beginning, D'Artagnan has made himself at home. It took him a false start or two to figure out where the litter was, but other than that we haven't had any problems. He and Truffle mostly ignore each other, with a hiss or growl when they happen to cross paths. We haven't had to close off the bedroom wing, though.

We're still holding out hope the shelter vets can figure out what is wrong with Licorice and either cure it or get it under control. John told them we'd be happy to take him back if they do. We've had five cats before. We can certainly deal with three.

Making Friends

Things seem to be settling down between Truffle the Demon Spawn and Licorice, Basement Cat's Minion. While it might be too much of a stretch to say they are making friends, they can sit in the same room and ignore each other for an hour or more at a time. Then one or the other will make a wrong move, resulting in yowls, a chase, and Truffle either going outside or to the bedrooms. There is a door that closes off the hall leading to our bedrooms and baths, and that end of the house is now Truffle's at night or during the day if he needs a nap or just a break from Licorice.


Truffle has had five years to adjust himself to our schedule, so while he does take a long nap during the day and does some roaming at night, he is not as nocturnal as Licorice, who sleeps most of the day and plays in the living room at night. We have tried letting Licorice outside, and he went out eagerly the first time, at which point he realized that hot and steamy does not compare with air-conditioned and filled with cushions. So at least until fall, he is an indoor cat. Truffle is an indoor, outdoor, indoor, outdoor, indoor, outdoor cat. Whenever one of us goes in or out the door during the day, Truffle goes through it, too, frequently in the opposite direction. He's usually in by 10 PM.


Licorice still has an unsettled stomach and interesting grooming habits. Our vet is testing for parasites but hasn't found anything yet. She thinks the stress of living with a large group of cats could also have been the cause. I'm warming up to him. He likes being petted and is friendly to humans, just not to his feline housemate. I keep reminding Licorice that Truffle was here first, like that would mean anything to him.


I hope in a few more weeks I can give both of them the run of the house, at least during the daytime, without having to break up fights. I'm encouraged by how things are going so far.

Licorice

Truffle has a new buddy, an all black cat hubby has named Licorice.

Licorice, Basement Cat's minion

Perhaps it would be more accurate to say Truffle has a new nemesis. We got Licorice from the Animal Shelter on Monday. Truffle was sleeping on my bed when we came home with Licorice, and didn't notice that there was a newcomer in the house for about half an hour. (What a watch cat.) In that time, Licorice had made himself at home, not realizing there was another cat already in residence. When they finally encountered each other, there was a lot of noise, mostly coming from Licorice, but no contact. Truffle decided to head outdoors instead. He didn't come back in until 2 AM.

To ensure that I get any sleep at all, I've been closing Truffle in my bedroom with me and letting him out of the room when he asks. There seems to be a period of time between 3 and 5 AM when Truffle keeps needing to be let out, let back in, let out, let back in. At one point this morning, after letting him out, I could hear growls and hisses coming from the living room. For some reason, hubby was able to sleep through it. By time I got to the living room, Licorice was at one end of the room, and Truffle was in the foyer, actually an extension of the living room distinguished by a railing and change in flooring, which meant they were the farthest apart they could get and still keep an eye on each other. 

I don't like Licorice. My husband wanted an all black cat, and he was the only one available, but I don't feel any rapport with him. There was a black and white cat, D'Artagnan, who glommed onto me as soon as we entered the cattery at the animal shelter, because he needed a human to let him in his cage where his food dish is. I should explain that the Animal Shelter has one large space, maybe 25 or 30 feet square, where the cats who have been spayed can roam free. They each have a cage with food and litter and there are some Salvation Army reject chairs for them to curl up on, as well as toys.  Alas, D'Artagnan's dish was empty, and I could not convince him that I didn't know where the food was, but he kept following me around. If only he were all black, he could have been mine.

Licorice, on the other hand, did not make any particular impression, other than being all black.  Once we paid for him and they were getting the paperwork together, we were handed a bottle of pills. "What's this for?" John asked. "Oh, he has some diarrhea and needs to take these for the next two days." Then a volunteer asked if we had been told about his licking problem. Uhm, no. It turns out he licks his butt while making odd ululating noises. Okay, he's starting to make more of an impression. Not a good one, just an impression.

Our vet, who has prescribed a few more days of medication, says he'll probably stop the licking now that he's no longer at the shelter. In the meantime, I'm keeping Truffle away from him as much as possible and letting hubby deal with medication issues.  If they don't settle down soon, I might need medication myself.

Five

Truffle as a kitten

Yesterday was Truffle's fifth birthday. While for the most part, I anthropomorphize my cat, who probably doesn't regard me as prey only because I provide him with easy access to food and water, I don't celebrate his birthday. We don't make him wear an annoying hat and sit around staring at candles while we sing to him. I did wish him a happy birthday, even though the only word he seems to understand is "outside". I carry on lengthy conversations with Truffle, his part as well as mine, and try not to act surprised when his behavior contradicts my version of his words.


Most of our conversations lately involve the impending arrival of a cat brother or sister from the local animal shelter. While Truffle promises me, using my voice, that he will be kind to the new arrival, I know exactly what is going to happen. He's going to try to eat it. Truffle is as territorial as a gang lord. It took him only a few hours after his arrival at our house to establish himself as top cat.


When hubby first proposed going to the shelter to select a new cat, I asked him what his plan was if the cats don't get along. His response was "They'll just have to get along." Yeah, chief, I'll start circulating the memo. Finally when pushed he decided the new cat could be an outdoor cat if need be.  Well, I told him I needed a plan, not that it had to be a good one.


Not getting another cat is not an option for hubby. Five is not just Truffle's age, but the maximum number of cats we've had at one time. Until Truffle's arrival, the only time we had a problem with a new cat was when the neighbor's cat adopted us despite all four of ours taking a dislike to him. When the neighbors moved and left Imp behind, he became our outdoor cat. When Imp died in a struggle with we don't know what, maybe a possum, he was replaced by Poppy, who became a favorite of the older cats immediately.


So hubby naturally concludes that it will be just as easy this time. I don't know where he has been the last five years of Truffle's life. I have a plan of my own, though. It involves a very large water pistol. If that doesn't work, I still have that gift certificate to the day spa. A spa day for mama while the fur babies battle it out on hubby's watch is my idea of a plan.

Access Denied 3, the Home Version

I have a confession to make. My house is not all that accessible, either. I live in a 1970's Southern Colonial tract house with a narrow hallway, light switches set at my (standing) shoulder level, a combination of plush carpet and faux brick tiles for flooring, and furniture placement that was not chosen with wheelchair access in mind. The are no sinks I can roll up to or showers I can roll into, although there is a grab bar in the tub. There would be a shower I could roll into if I had had my way about it back when we remodeled the bathroom, in place of the tub that we do have. I wanted a big tile shower with a shower seat, since we never take baths anyway, but John thought the bathtub would be better for resale value, and since he purported not to understand why I thought the 1970's Harvest Gold bathroom needed a redo anyway, I deferred to him. 

The one good thing about our house for access purposes is that it is built on a slab and all one story, so there are no stairs.

So I have been making do with a combination of wheelchair use, brief bouts of walking, briefer bouts of standing, and my husband doing a lot for me. While it is hard rolling the chair on the carpet and the tile, it is not impossible, especially after those few months of biceps curls and floor and overhead presses. I can actually make myself tea and toast and get my yogurt from the refrigerator for breakfast. I was all set to fry myself an egg yesterday, with the small cast iron pan that lives in the middle drawer, when my husband came in and did it himself, with more than a few sighs and grimaces along the way. I am able to turn the light switches on and off with my walking stick, which I carry around with me in my chair for those times when I have to get out of it and walk to where I am going. I thought about smacking martyred hubby with said walking stick, but he meant well. I think.

Grooming is accomplished with what I call my "Hokey Pokey Bath": I straddle the side of the tub with my right foot in and my left foot out, although I'm not shaking anything all about.

The biggest problem I am having with access is not having my hands free while I wheel the chair anywhere. When I make breakfast, I get it to the table by moving it from the farthest point on the right to the farthest point on my left, moving the wheelchair until the object is again on my right, and keep repeating until I can finally reach the table. It takes a lot of time, but I have time. If I make a cup of tea, I drink it in the kitchen, or at least in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. To do laundry, I have to wheel the clothing to the laundry room in small bunches. Hubby said what I need is a cup holder on the chair. I need to look into that.

This all reminds me of the days after my foot surgery, when I had to get around on crutches until my doctor offered me the option of orders for a wheelchair. I needed to make a phone call while waiting for the wheelchair to be delivered, and wanted to take the phone into the living room. I decided to throw the phone on the sofa, then hobble over to it on my crutches. Unfortunately, I missed the sofa. Plan B was to nudge the phone over to the sofa with one of my crutches. As soon as Truffle saw me nudge the phone in one direction, he decided it was a great game and batted it in the other direction. The phone hockey game only ended when the referee smacked him with her crutch. I finally got the phone to the sofa, me to the sofa, and the wheelchair delivered.

I told my sister about the struggle with the cat and the phone. She told me some day I'd see the humor in it. I saw the humor in it while it was happening, I just needed the phone.

Maybe someday I'll see the humor in my broken foot struggles, too.

Truffle answering the phone for me when I had my foot surgery

Trouble Cat

Should have been named "Trouble"

I am going to blog about my trip to Africa, but I have to wait until next Wednesday or Thursday, so I can post some of my better pictures. The negatives and slides of the pictures that I took while I was there are being scanned to disk by the expensive camera shop at a cost that would pay for a new wardrobe for my next trip. Okay, not a new wardrobe but a pair of jeans and several T-shirts. I have a seriously cute picture of a bunch of children on the street and an arty shot of sundown on the Zambezi, and I can't just scan the prints at home because they are in a multi-picture frame. 

So in the meantime, I can blog about my cat. Lately, it has been horribly unlucky to be one of my cats. Truffle, our only cat at the moment, broke his little toe. The first I realized anything was wrong was when he jumped up on my dresser and I saw his rear paw had an open sore on it. An hour later, the vet looked at it and said he had an abscess that had ruptured, and that he seemed to have broken the bone in his outer toe, probably by catching his claw in something. She gave him a shot of a long-acting antibiotic and told me to bring him back at the end of the week. In the meantime, keep him inside.

By the end of the week, Truffle had managed to escape and get out only twice. The abscess, while looking better, was still draining. X-rays showed the infection was in the bone, and that surgery would be necessary. I had to give Truffle antibiotics by mouth over the weekend, and bring him in Monday for the surgery. He could go home Tuesday, and would need to continue on the antibiotic, and stay inside. 

Truffle is not an easy cat to give medicine to. None of them are, but Truffle is 13 some odd pounds of pure muscle and mean, and has a finely honed instinct for self defense. So far, I've been able to corral him in the sink area of the divided bath morning and night for over a week to give him his drops, and most of them seem to be going inside. None of the scratches he's inflicted on me have been very deep. Despite the fact that Truffle has managed to remove almost all his stitches, he is recovering well, and has only escaped the house once. He should be finished with the antibiotics and make his last vet visit Tuesday, and by then he should be able to resume normal life. I hope.

It is at times like this, when corralling a terrified cat determined to fight to the end to avoid the medicine that is going to save him from a horrible, possibly life-threatening infection, and getting scratched for my pains, that my thoughts turn theological. Maybe this is what our relationship with God is like, I think. We don't understand when he is doing things that will ultimately benefit us. We fight and scratch and yowl and rip at our stitches. Maybe there is some beneficial plan behind events that only seem bad from our limited perspective.

But then I go on to think about the situation from my perspective. I know my cat is a cat. I don't expect him to like or understand surgery, stitches, medicine, confinement. I know that from his perspective, these are horrible events with no redeeming features. If I had the power to make antibiotics taste yummy and wounds zip themselves closed without uncomfortable stitches, I would exercise it in a second and not worry about whether I was interfering with his little kitty-cat sized free will in the process. Whatever Truffle was doing at the moment he got injured (my husband thinks climbing on the fence), he probably did have another choice he could have made. But whatever Truffle was doing at the moment he got injured, he didn't do it with the intention of exposing himself to an injury and horrible infection. He probably did it with the intention of exposing a bird or a squirrel to an injury and possible death, because he's a cat, which means he's a carnivore.

And I certainly don't judge him for not seeing the injury and medical treatment from my perspective. How could he? He's a cat. Oh, sure, I have fussed at him a few times when he's scratched me, and I have called him a bad cat for removing his stitches, but that's just frustration on my part. I know he's not bad. I love the little demon. I love the courage he exhibits in the presence of a being who is many times his size and who seems determined to poison him. I love the ingenuity he shows in removing his stitches and sneaking outdoors. I don't love the results, because they are bad for him, but I love the traits. And I knew when I took on the responsibility of living with a cat that it would mean moments like these, and I did it anyway.

So theology isn't my thing. Obviously I am not qualified to be God. 


Update, May 10, 2011: Truffle has his remaining stitches out, has healed up well, no longer needs his antibiotic, and can go outside when he wants to. He still looks funny with his paw shaved, but that will mend in time, too.

Saying Goodbye

Poppy, the efficient kitty cat secretary

Poppy is very ill. Ever since her surgery two years ago, she has been losing weight, and lately she has been very listless.  Yesterday my husband took her to the vet, who drained some fluid from her lungs and kept her overnight to observe her. This morning she had fluid around her lungs again, despite medication, and refused to eat or drink. My husband brought her home for one more night, and tomorrow she will go back to the vet to be euthanized.

When she got home this afternoon, Poppy headed for the door. Although she has always been an indoor-outdoor cat, she has not gone outside for the last month, but we let her go. In her healthier days, her response whenever she thought a trip to the vet was in the offing was to curl up somewhere and hide. Once I found her hiding amid the wisteria on the pergola, in the spot where the leaves were thickest, keeping very still. Now the azaleas are in bloom, and Poppy headed straight for them. Later, I found her curled up in the chiminea, asleep. After an hour or so, she crawled back to the door and we let her in. She's sleeping on the carpet.

Truffle, our feisty Siamese, has been unusually tender with her. Earlier he walked over to her and tried to groom her. He's been very subdued most of the day, as if he realizes he is about to become an only cat and doesn't think it's such a good idea after all.

I wonder, as I always do, what the world looks like to our cats. Poppy must know that something is very wrong. She meows at us to fix it and it breaks our hearts that we can't. Truffle seems to realize that Poppy is not herself. Usually at some point during the day he chases her around or tries to pounce on her, but he has been behaving himself.

Tomorrow morning, hubby will take Poppy to the vet and in the afternoon he will bury her under the azaleas and camellias where her other buddies are. Tomorrow Truffle will be the only cat. Tomorrow is going to suck.

Three-legged

Poppy, our cat with the tumors on her leg, had been getting worse and worse. The tumors got larger, she got thinner, and she kept licking the incision site from her surgery, keeping it raw and sore looking. We had discussed radiation treatment, but aside from the cost of 3-5000 dollars, there was no guarantee it would work. Finally my husband asked the vet what I had been thinking - could we just amputate the leg? Poppy by that time was walking on three legs anyway, refusing to bear weight on the sore leg, and she seemed to be in pain.

According to Dr. Kate, animals actually adjust well to the loss of a limb, but she was concerned that Poppy might not make it through a long surgery because she had responded poorly to anesthesia during the earlier lumpectomy. Hubby and I finally concluded that at the rate Poppy was losing weight, we might have to have her put to sleep anyway, and that her dying during surgery was a risk we were willing to take, Poppy being unable to voice an opinion. So two weeks ago, we took her to the vet to be prepped for surgery and hoped for the best.

Our baby came through just fine. She had to stay at the vet's for 5 days post-surgery, but we got frequent updates, and she finally came home a week ago. To our amazement, she is able to jump up on our four-poster, which is a couple of feet off the ground, and she doesn't even seem to notice something is missing. The incision healed quickly with no growing tumor to interfere, and she hasn't been licking it raw. She's had to stay in, which she hates, but today the stitches came out and she is free to go outside.

So now it's raining out. Not just a gentle drizzle, but cloudbursts. Our poor baby is huddling inside yowling at us to do something about the weather, and quick. I feel so bad for her. Tomorrow is supposed to be sunny, though, so she can finally go nap on her bench and chase lizards. Maybe the lizards will have a chance against her, but my money is on Poppy.

Sorrow and Hard Decisions

Poppy (in the drawer) and Squeaky in their younger days

Squeaky had always been a calm, quiet cat with the high pitched voice that led my husband and son to give him his name. Unlike our other cats, he preferred to stay indoors, except sometimes in the spring, and one year when he went outside a few days after Easter and stayed there, in the yard, until July. We acquired him a year or so after our marriage from some clients of mine who had a barn cat mama. I made his acquaintance when his eyes first opened and he began exploring the yard and peeking through the back door at me, and his mom's owners were only too happy to let me take him home.

About three years or so ago, Squeaky's kidneys began to fail, and in the last few months, he got skeletally thin. He began having accidents in odd corners, did not appear to be able to see, and started falling asleep near the food dish in the kitchen. I kept telling my husband that we needed to have him put down, but it's hard for my tender hearted husband to let go. I finally realized I'd have to make the decision on my own. On August 4th, we said good-bye to Squeaky.

To make matters worse, a week before we'd noticed that Poppy, our second oldest cat, had acquired a lump on her hind leg. We thought it was an abscess and took her to the vet, but it couldn't be drained. After some expensive X-rays, the vet operated and did a biopsy. The lump turned out to be cancer. The good news is that it is a kind that is unlikely to spread to her vital organs; the bad news is that it can grow large enough to interfere with her mobility. The vet can refer us to an oncologist to see if Poppy is a candidate for radiation therapy, which will require her to be sedated and cost 3-5,000 dollars.

We have some time before we need to make a decision. Right now, she seems unbothered by the lump. She was far more bothered by being restricted to indoors following the surgery, but she's now allowed her usual routine of napping in the garden and chasing lizards. She has really been so patient through all this, although this morning when she was due to go back to the vet to get her staples taken out, she managed to hide behind a bookcase for half an hour or so. I have to stop telling her when she's due to see the vet.

Down the road, we may need to look at her age, the cost, the likelihood of the radiation working, and the inconvenience to Poppy, and make some hard decisions. Cats, unlike people, can't make their end-of-life wishes known. They trust us, and we hope we don't fail them.