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I’ve been away from my mind my writing desk for the past few weeks. Hopefully I’ll be back soon to pick up writing here where I left off. In the meantime, I share with you pictures of my sister’s cat, wearing a delightful ruff designed by my nephew.
Misty Rose sporting a delightful ruff, designed by my nephew.
Perhaps the ruff was a failed attempt at cutting out a snowflake. Whatever, it fits.
C’mere, you
Nom nom nom
I stumbled across this in my drafts. Not sure why I never published it, but here it is. Dear Charlotte has left this earthly plane, but Clarice continues to amuse us with her vociferation and personality.
My sister has not had an uninterrupted phone conversation since the day her first child was born. That child is now 25 years old and Lottie has developed a habit of distracting herself while on the phone, even if there is no outside force actively vying for her attention. (There generally is.) She has a young son who has often taken the opportunity while Lottie's on the phone to stand on the back of the sofa and lick the picture window, or some other delightful exercise in self-destruction. She even stops talking to me periodically to scold her husband for something that he's about to do that will probably hurt himself or the house. Like that time there was a knife sticking up out of his leg. My sister is virtually unable to talk on the phone any more.
So there's this black cat, Clarice. At the ripe old age of 13 or so she is finding her voice, literally. It's as if the ghost of Barry's cat, Ms. Polly, were here teaching her the ropes of being a drama queen. She has her "I'm too weak to move" voice that she will use to convince the guy who cat-sits for us that he needs to bring her food to her while she sits perched on her pillow on the bed. There is the demanding scream to get our attention, and another similar one when we're being too daft to understand what she's trying to explain. She has diabetes now, and perhaps the extra coddling has encouraged this change. We give her moist food every morning and night along with a shot. The moist food is because it's lower in carbohydrates, and she doesn't seem to notice the shot, but the daily treats have made her feel the tiniest bit entitled.
The face of despondency. Alas, her moist food bowl has been empty for hours - and still no gravy.
The other day she poked her head in and meowed at me repeatedly while I was showering, much to my confusion and annoyance, and not a small amount of annoyance on her part – getting splashed in the face. We've been leaving the water dripping for her in the bathtub for a few minutes at a time, so maybe that's what was looking for. Another time I was getting undressed to shower when I heard her karate-chop the middle hinge of the bifold door that separates the bathroom from the bedroom. A moment later she was with me in the bathroom, vocally abusing me. In general cats don't like closed doors, and she's a thirsty girl these days. (There is a Very Large Bowl of Water that is changed daily.)
(In case you were wondering.)
Another cat, Charlotte, is having issues using the litter box, so Barry has isolated her in the living room. He put down a small litter box for her. He did all of this to make sure that he could tell when and if she relieved herself. (There are a number of cats inside, so it's difficult to tell which cat has used the box.) I was at work while this was going on and I had called him. There are almost no internal doors in the house aside from the bathroom, so he put a plywood board across the doorway from the bedroom to the living room.
Our call went like this: "Talk, talk, talk. Clarice! Get out of this living room. This is not your box. *sound of cat landing on the wooden floor on the other side of a piece of plywood.* Talk, Talk, Talk... *Thunk!* 'Meow!' Clarice! 'Meooow!' No, you don't need to be in here. 'Meooooowww! Errrr..' Talk, Talk, Talk... *Thunk! Rattle-rattle* Clarice, get down! 'MEOW!' Talk, Tal... Clarice!"
*Sigh* So much like talking to my sister.
When I got home there was another board screwed into the door frame on top of the piece of plywood and a very perturbed little black cat.
All of this from the cat who, when we rescued her along with several others, did her best to sink into the wallpaper and not be noticed. I'm always happy when people or animals take a chance and express themselves – as long as it's civil and respectful. Perhaps she's taken this a bit too far? She is an old lady, though, and entitled to speak her mind. And, if she's able to jump over a board set up in a doorway, or figure out how to operate a bi-fold door, then more power to her.
But, I shower alone.
Matisse through the years
Matisse, the cat, was born in a Mexican pot in the front yard. He lived his life in the back yard, sleeping in the studio with his brother, Magritte. When they were young, the stripes on their heads very clearly resembled the letter ‘M’, thus the names.
Matisse is on the right, snuggling with his brother, Magritte on a rainy day.
A year ago we discovered Matisse had cancer on his back leg. We discussed options with the vet, none of which were cheap. She told us that we could treat him, but it would involve surgery and even then it would depend on which direction the cancer was growing. If it was growing toward the body, then she’d have to refer him to a specialist, which would cost even more. After some deliberation I asked if removing the leg would effectively remove the cancer. She thought for a second and said yes, it would. So, I suggested that she operate, and if it were growing toward the body, then she could remove the leg. She agreed that this would be a good plan.
A couple of days later we brought home a tripod. The cancer was growing toward the body, but she said that removing the leg did remove the cancer, that it hadn’t spread beyond that point. Our instructions were to give him medication if he was in pain and to make sure that he practiced walking every day. I wondered how we’d know if he was in pain, but when it came time, it was fairly obvious.
As for walking, he did a little in the studio where he lived, but after a couple of days I couldn’t coax him to take any steps. He didn’t look like he was in pain; he just wouldn’t try. So, I took him outside into the back yard. I thought being in his grass and in the sunlight in his yard, he might cheer up and want to sniff around. Barry was very much against the idea of taking him outside, but Barry tends to be (in my opinion) a helicopter parent. What Matisse needed, I thought, was something to interest him. So, with Barry watching me like an skeptical first-grade teacher, I carried poor little Matisse outside and sat him gently in the grass. He blinked and I could see his nose engaging with the scents of the outdoors. I pet him for a few seconds, then pulled my hands away to see if he would try to take a few steps. Then, with Helicopter Parent watching, our just-out-of-surgery, three-legged cat RAN across the yard and under the other studio. Out of reach. Leaving me alone with Copter Parent to explain myself.
We got him out from under the studio (with a long pole, which Barry castigated me for all over again) and Tripod ran in an arc around the yard, heading straight for the opening to go under the house. A tomcat that had taken up residence in our back yard headed him off. (None of us is sure why. One just doesn’t run in the presence of another cat.) After all that running, Matisse huddled in the grass and I was able to pick him up and take him, under Barry’s critical gaze, back into his studio home and set him down.
Matisse/Tripod - filtered with the Prisma app
There were other episodes of Earnie being a bad uncle. I decided to let him walk around outside again – this time while Barry was out of sight. Matisse hobbled a little bit in the grass, then made a beeline for the house and was under it before I could react. I sat on a chair, drinking Topo Chico on ice, watching the opening for him to re-emerge. When Barry came out, he knew what was going on without my having to confess my sins. I don’t typically just sit, staring at the house. But, in my own defense, I thought it was important to keep the poor cat’s spirits up and let him get used to getting around on three legs. I mean, he had been free to go under the house before the operation. Surely, he’d be okay under there and come out when he got hungry. He did come out eventually, and Barry finally got comfortable with the idea of him being outside again. There is not much point in saving his life if we keep him cooped up and don’t let him live it happily.
And, he was happy for about a year. Then, a few weeks ago he went under the house again and this time wouldn’t come out. Barry had to crawl under there to get him. Again we took him to the vet. This time they said he was beginning renal failure. So, from that point on he lived inside, sitting in his window watching the world that he didn’t have the energy to participate in any more.
On the day before Christmas Eve, we got home and Barry went to feed the cats. He came to me looking shaken, saying we needed to go to the emergency vet clinic, that Matisse had taken a turn for the worse. I went into his studio and Matisse was in a heap on the floor, meowing in distress. I put my hands on him and he calmed down a little. Barry came in and I left them together while I gathered an old town and the kitty carrier. I opened the carrier, wrapped Matisse in the towel and set him in his bed. Then we loaded into the truck and set out on a Sunday evening to make the now-familiar trip to the after-hours vet clinic.
I put my hand under his head and front shoulder to help him breathe and so that he could feel me with him. Along the way I had Barry pull over into a gas station parking lot to visit a little with Matisse. It didn’t seem like he had much time left. They did visit, but after a few minutes Matisse was still hanging in, and we knew he was in pain, so we continued on the route to the clinic. When we were about halfway to Round Rock, I told Barry that I thought Matisse had left. He wasn’t moving any more. With my hand propping up his little body, I could feel when he breathed or twitched, and I didn’t feel it any more. Barry pulled off the highway – this time into the parking lot of a human emergency clinic. Matisse’s spirit had left him, Barry agreed. We sat together for quite a few minutes. Matisse had been ours since the day he was born. We’d raised him, fed him, held and cuddled him for eleven years. We’d nursed him through the amputation, and now we saw him on his way to the next life.
I don’t like to see animals suffer; that’s why I wanted to take him to the vet. I’m not against euthanasia when the animal is suffering. That being said, I feel rather strongly about letting nature take its course when possible. The body and spirit are joined, and there is a process to go through. When we intervene too much, we confuse the body and spirit, and what should have been a straight-forward process of the body shutting down gets confused. Dying is not pretty, but giving birth is also not for the delicate. They are both a part of life, though, and important in their own ways. Human life spans are much longer than dogs’ and cats’. When you have pet cats, you know that you are going to lose them. It brought me some peace to know that I was holding him when he finally left. He knew and trusted me, and I like to think that I helped him through a difficult time. I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Okay Matisse, my friend. Go peacefully over that rainbow bridge. We love you.
Anastasia, my nurse, knows that rest is very important
I have been working a lot of hours this month and it culminated yesterday at 5:30 PM. Now, it’s all over but the crying, and I have a very long weekend. I felt I needed a lot of sleep today. Anastasia agrees.
Nurse Anastasia on duty
When I had to call in sick this morning, Nurse Anastasia was happy to be of service.
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