Triage 101

Nature – AKA the goddess of all felines – has been historically kind to me. She has mostly thrown one urgent matter at a time in my direction, so that I never felt like there was something I couldn’t handle. I’d get a litter of kittens adopted out and THEN stumble on a terribly injured cat needing urgent care. And the emails and texts from strangers needing help would dribble in, in a manageable way.

But something has shifted since Maggie died (see previous) and Mother Nature has all but buried me in urgent to-do’s. Learning the delicate art of triage has been foisted upon me, and it’s sink or swim time. I’m mostly swimming – navigating the rough waters of rescue – with the occasional major fail included to keep me humble.

The current list is long:
– a new, possibly abandoned cat at the farm needing to be scooped up and brought to a vet as she looks unwell.
– finding a forever home for Biscuit, the LAST cat dumped at the farm, who’s been brightening my home the last several weeks… or settling for another foster situation.
– catching the remaining intact cats at the senior center – finishing the job that Maggie started.
– working on helping Figgy, one of the cats Maggie fed for years, who is failing from probable kidney disease.
– creating shelters for the cats under the bridge, in hopes they’ll actually use them and not succumb to the bitter cold we’re experiencing right now.

There’s more but you get the general idea. So the plate is full. And even so, more was added earlier this week – the kind of need that pushed everything else aside in the urgent care unit of my life.

A maintenance worker discovered a litter of seven (!) kittens born in a city-owned shed down by the open space. He kindly scooped them up, put them in a box with a blanket in the same location, and reached out to me.

The question was: should we move them into foster care where they would be safe? But seeing that they were only a week or so old, with their eyes just beginning to open, I knew it would require bottle feeders, and since I have zero talent in that area, and our volunteers are already stretched thin, I opted to leave them there another night and put food out for mama to keep her coming back.

That was probably a mistake.

We were dismayed on our next check to find three of the kittens missing along with mama, who had undoubtedly moved them. And then it was crisis time. Every other concern went out the window, in the interest of scrambling to keep these babies alive. I raced from store to store for newborn bottles, formula, heating pads. And for 24 hours I was their fumbling nursemaid, attempting to jam the nipples into their unhappy mouths every 3-4 hours, including during the night. And then the cavalry arrived in the form of a rescue angel who specialized in orphaned kittens. I packed them up and drove them half an hour to her, where they are thriving three days later. Cute little stinkers!!

But their missing siblings? I’d say the odds they’ll survive in the wild open space are slim to none. And it crushes me. (A perfectionist will second-guess themselves into a tizzy, and I’m no exception.)

This week, I made another decision based on anxiousness about a lack of forever homes – and again it proved to be the wrong one. (The lesson from the universe seems to be that I need to trust and relax – neither of which comes easy to me.) An elderly woman in our circle said she was interested in my foster kitty, Biscuit. I knew she was 85, but thought it’s okay – she can handle Biscuit, a sweet live-wire of a cat, since she has experience.

She couldn’t.

That became clear for reasons I won’t go into, but I foresaw disaster – either they’d leave the door open and Biscuit would escape, or kitty would do her acrobatic shelf-climbing thing and send books and picture frames hailing down on the head of a senior citizen.

Smarting from my too-hasty decision on the kittens – one I couldn’t roll back – I decided I would change course here while I still could and ask for Biscuit back. It turns out I didn’t need to! Before I could rehearse that awkward conversation, the caretaker reached out and said she didn’t think it was going to work out – that her cat didn’t like Biscuit! (Thank you, Mother Nature, for having my back this time.) So I went and picked her up today and she is enjoying life again chez moi – even keeping me company as I write this.

I can’t handle a third cat – not with my two seniors needing so much TLC. So it’s back to square one finding Biscuit a home. But that task will get shuffled a bit further back on the triage list. As long as she’s okay and happy, I can push something else to the top of the list. Tomorrow I’ll take a carrier to the farm to get the frail new kitty (granddaughter’s suggested name is Malia) used to the idea of being spirited away to the vet.

One thing – one urgent thing – at a time, and it will work out.

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In memoriam

I’ve been grappling for almost a month with how to frame a recent enormous loss. I’m used to writing about heartbreak brought by the passing of a feline, but never thought I’d be writing about Maggie’s death. My rescue partner for almost 10 years, I thought we’d work side by side long into the future. But her unexpected passing on Oct. 31, at only 74, abruptly changed everything.

Since then I’ve been consumed with reinventing Coastside Feral Care with only me at the helm – a daunting task – and with drafting volunteers to help me keep driving her mission forward. I’ve seen the best of humankind in recent weeks as helpers and friends have stepped forward, offering to help do morning feedings, finish the trapping project she’d started, buy food, take over our accounting, and so much more.

When people ask what kind of person Maggie was, I tell them how she insisted on buying treats with her own money for the many homeless cats she fed every morning. Why? I asked her. “Because it makes them happy!” she smiled.

I’ll post more soon when the wagons have circled tightly, but in the meantime, here’s a photo of my partner and friend, boasting that amazing smile and eccentric style that she wore every morning, rain or shine, because she was all about the love.

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Kittens 4, Humans 1

My very funny nephew has a very funny t-shirt that features an adorable kitten on the chest, with the caption:

KITTEN DREAMS OF MURDER ALL DAY

Where I always thought it was funny/weird, it never made much sense. Why, kittens are cuddly, sweet, precious little beings! Or so I thought until now.

Every summer, it seems, I respond to emergencies and find myself fostering and adopting out a passel of new cuties. Some efforts have gone super smoothly, but most have had major complications. Last summer, it was the heartbreak of two deaths from “kitten fade.” The summer before, the wiley babies eluded my traps so successfully I had to make umpteen trips to the harbor to catch them all piecemeal.

This summer, I was alerted to a quartet of babies living under a shed in the equipment yard of produce growers. I was enchanted by their sweet, big-eyed adorableness, and estimated they were only about 4-5 weeks old.

It only took a few tries to get mama and four babies; these same two were the last to be trapped.

But I learned right away that these two were… it must be said… evil monsters. Don’t be deceived by their big-eyed adorableness! They are a two-kitten wrecking crew.

I am not kidding about this. On day one, they leapt up to an impossibly high shelf in the half-bath where they were confined. It knocked down a very heavy conch shell, which landed on the top of the toilet, shattering the lid. Kittens 1, humans 0.

I moved them quickly to my walk-in closet… where they immediately used their claws to climb up my hanging clothes so they could reach the high shelf reserved for Crap I Never Wear, destroying a few nice items in the process. (Kittens 2, humans 0.) Getting them down from there was life-threatening; rose-pruning gloves were used. And all clothes were relocated.

In the following weeks, the other two kittens – the nonmonsters – learned quickly to not only enjoy the free lunch I put out for them several times a day, but the touch of my hand. They were adopted recently and are purring up a storm in new homes. But these two destructo-kittens – spotted tabby boy is Sage, Russian Blue girl is Zinnia – are going to take more time. Maybe much more.

I moved them to the guest bathroom and set up an elaborate folding gate situation that is about seven feet tall. Even so, Sage figured out how to scale it. God knows how long he was up there before I discovered him. He’d lost his nerve and I had to push a table below for him to jump down in stages. (Kittens 3, humans 0.)

Thankfully the experience scared him enough that now they don’t try to escape that way. And I can keep them confined in an area where I can reach them at any time – which is what needs to be done to socialize feral kittens. Not that it does a whole lot of good! Where I can now sneak up on them while they’re relaxing, the second they wake up, it’s a chorus of hard-eyes-and-hisses, as if I’m the monster and not them. (Kittens 4, humans 0.)

Adhering to the time-tested rule of socializing, I began giving them just a little food, several times a day – really, almost hourly – so they would have to deal with me, and maybe even look forward to seeing me, even if it was the way prisoners look forward to seeing the meal cart creaking down the hall.

It’s been about a week of this and there have been times when I’ve nearly been in tears at their lack of progress. I’ve looked them squarely in their angry eyes and told them, “you will not win this. I have never released a KITTEN to the wild, and this is not going to be the first time.” And still I wondered if I have the skills required to turn them.

And then…

Today I found them sleeping under the sink, in their preferred hiding place. I talked to them soothingly, and to my surprise they did not rear back or hiss, but looked at me with – god help me – soft, sweet eyes. And I touched them gently. And they didn’t freak out. And with that, I melted. Kittens 4, humans 1.

Hey. it’s a start!

And okay, they’re not monsters – just at the mercy of their DNA, which probably goes back generations of ferals. And I will win them over, make them purr, and want to sit on my lap. And then I’ll tell them goodbye when someone wonderful adopts them. Because it’s what’s right for them. And because it’s what I do. Thanks, St. Francis, for the reminder.

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Love a cat, love a lion

Shannon is with me on my morning rounds. Opening the trunk to help me dish canned food into plastic bowls, she observes a new canister. “Why are there goldfish crackers in your trunk?” she asks.

I tell her it’s for my new friend, Robinson the crow. (The Robinson brothers were core of the Black Crowes, one of my favorite bands.) Right on cue, he swoops down, a symphony of flapping wings and guttural caws, and lands in front of my car, perching on a fencepost. She gasps at his beauty – the thick beak, sharp eyes and shining black feathers – and giggles at his clucking hello. But when I ask her if she wants to help me give him a snack, she freezes. “He could hurt me!” she murmurs, wrapping her five-year-old arms around her slim shoulders.

I laugh. “Come on,” I told her. “He is just as sweet as a cat. Just… different.”

Indeed, I’ve been on a steep learning curve since Robinson appeared. Crows and ravens are simply amazing: one of the smartest birds in the world, they are one of the only four species (including humans) who can craft tools. They have been observed using cars in traffic to crack nuts, by laying them on the road at the red light and waiting for a car to roll over them! They mate for life – something most humans can’t succeed in. Their sideways hippity-hop is comically endearing. And they remember human faces – hectoring people they don’t like and pursuing a bond with those they do. Lucky me, I’m one.

Just a week or so after I first interacted with Robinson across the street, he discovered where I live! I heard his guttural caw-caw outside, opened the screen door to my deck and there he was on the roof looking down at me. Since then, I’ve found him on my railing, just a few feet from me, and to reward him I put out some stale Cheerios, which he gulped like they were candy, all the while observing me with head cocked.

I think he is beautiful, and although he has yet to deliver a shiny trinket to me (something many crows do) our bond is becoming profound.

A short while ago there was talk about recent proposed law in my town that would ban feeding both crows and cats – solely because of an argument between neighbors. One fed crows and the other fed cats… and both hated the other species. There have also been suggestions on neighborhood websites that ferals be exterminated… by people who love songbirds passionately. And of course there is the long-standing competition over which is better, dogs or cats?

None of it makes sense to me. If you love an animal – and take it deeply into your heart – how could you love its species but despise another? Aren’t animals all related in their innocence and lack of cruelty that marks humans as the most flawed of species? And aren’t we all interconnected? 

Admittedly, this belief has been tested in the past when misfortune has befallen my strays. Twice I’ve found the cadavers of cats that I had just fed the day before – cats I loved, if from a distance – that had clearly been the target of a predator like a coyote or mountain lion. I’ll never forget being in angry tears about one of these occurrences, and told my friend Carrie I hoped they’d catch and at least deport to the hills whichever predator did this. But Carrie, a longtime rescue guru of mine, asked if I didn’t feel a bit better about it knowing that whatever large mammal killed my cat needed food, too? And was perhaps even a mama looking to feed her young?

That brought it home to me. No mountain lion or coyote is cruel or hunts for sport. I needed to try and love and find compassion for them, even if their hunting upset me and my life. And the truth is, if I had seen that mountain lion strolling down the street I’d been awed by its magnificence. It was only because it hurt me indirectly that I wanted it punished, and that’s not fair. If you love animals you have to accept their primal nature.

Take Robinson. His occasional arrival on my deck causes the songbirds to scatter in a panic away from my feeder, though I’ve never seen him attack one. I suppose he could, and I would hate it if he hurt a songbird, but I would forgive and love him just the same. It’s just a crow being a crow.

Shannon grabs a fistful of goldfish crackers – his favorite – and tosses them on the sidewalk. She squeals with delight as Robinson swoops down to within a few feet of her, and begins to peck away. I don’t take her to church and tread lightly on lecturing about life lessons, but I’m pleased that she is learning that animals – all animals – are worthy of respect.

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You know you really love a cat when…

This morning I said goodbye to Pokey as I usually do, with a hug and a kiss on top of his head as he lay in repose on my armchair. He usually responds with a sleepy purr, but today his chronic upper respiratory congestion flared, and he let loose a hacking sneeze and cough. Alarmed, I soothed him until his fit faded, and then left on my feeding rounds. Then I went to the grocery store where I ran into and chatted with a friend. 

And when I came home, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. There, on my forehead, was a small colored streak. I leaned in closely and touched it. The brownish spot was crusty and flaked off. Then I realized what had happened. I had been walking around in public with cat snot on my forehead. 

In my younger years, when I was far more vain and preoccupied with my looks, I would have shrieked and freaked. But at this age… meh. I just sighed. And looked over at Pokey, who was studying my expression curiously. “It’s a good thing I love you, buddy,” I chuckled. 

When you really love a cat, he can adorn you with mucus on your forehead and you don’t get mad – unless it’s at yourself for not checking the mirror more often. 

When you really love a cat, rather than get upset when you’re awakened by the snoring of Skeeter, whose chronic rhinitis can make her sound like a tiny donkey braying, you think it’s adorable. 

When you really love a cat, even when he’s pugnacious with a capital P, as was the late, great Iggy Pop, you don’t think he’s evil or a jerk, but just lively and funny. (Others in my family definitely felt otherwise. 😉

And I’ve learned that you can STILL love a cat, even when it won’t let you come close enough to touch. 

When you love a stray cat, even though you’re late to a work meeting, you stay a bit longer to make sure the new guy at the farm gets his share, because the old dowager mama cat smacks him around when she’s in a cranky mood, and his response, as a “zeta cat,” is to run and hide, and your heart goes out to him because you’ve been in his situation before. So you move his dish closer to him, and talk to him sweetly until he loses his fear and comes back out. 

And when you really love a stray cat, you stand like a crazy person on a bridge in the worst rain the area has seen in decades, calling the names of the two you feed who live beneath it, Lafcadio and Silver, fretting that they were washed away in the raging torrent.

You shed tears of worry when they don’t come, and tears of gratitude when they show up two days later. 

Just yesterday I saw a deeply moving example of what happens when you really love a cat. A woman who had just lost her 9-year-old cat to cancer offered Kitten’s toys, food and bed to me, so some other cat could benefit from her loss. She was putting on a brave face, but as she extended her arm to hand me Kitten’s pillow-bed, she retracted it again, and held it close. Then she lifted it to her face, so she could take a last whiff of Kitten’s sweet scent, before handing it to me in tears.

I felt her pain and understood her selflessness. Because when you really, really REALLY love a cat, even though you know he might have another week left of life, and you know you will miss him so terribly when he dies that it takes your breath away, you let him go. This one, my Wyatt, still purred slightly, but had lost the ability to eat and drink, or climb the stairs. And even though I was deeply attached to him, when you really love a cat, you make that phone call so he won’t suffer anymore, and you take him in and hold him tenderly while he slips away. And you make a makeshift altar with his photo, and flowers and eventually his ashes, perhaps concerned that you will forget him otherwise.

Which is silly because you really loved him, and won’t forget.

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To possess? Or to be possessed?

Of all the cats I feed in the morning, Eddie is the biggest crowd-pleaser. He trots out from his shelter behind the Post Office, crosses the parking lot – often dodging mail delivery vans – and dips under the fence to join me in the grassy area just behind it. He gets plenty of attention from people during the day, so he’s used to be petted and loved on.

Lately, he’s even taken to jumping onto my car trunk when I’ve been fixing his morning meal. This has frequently caught the attention of passers-by. This week, a woman paused to watch him and admire the agility of his portly frame.

“He’s so beautiful!” she breathed. “Is he yours?”

I chuckled. “No, he’s not mine. But I am his.”

She looked politely perplexed, and walked on.

I think most people think of animals as things or objects to possess. And those things better gratify them or… what’s the point of having one? They are easily disposable. This justifies everything from factory farming to the number of people who return animals to adoption agencies when they aren’t “friendly enough” or develop problems, as every elderly mammal must.

I know better than to believe in the law of reciprocity – or let’s say I’ve been schooled in this matter since starting my rescue work a decade ago. Feeling possessive is fruitless, and frustrating. Especially with cats, who will love you when they’re damn good and ready. And even if they do love you – and claim you as their human – you might never get much in return for your devotion.

Every animal is as different as every human. I’ve had dozens of cats in my life – some of whom are immediately accessible and affectionate. Others, like my Skeeter, have feral roots so deep she will probably never sit on my lap. (After trapping her years ago, she was diagnosed with chronic rhinitis; her illness made me decide not tot put her back outside where a full-blown lung infection would kill her.) So I look for smaller hints of reciprocity: the small purr when I chufff her neck fur, which she seems to like. The blink of her eyes and the small chirp of hello in the morning. I give her space and she politely tolerates me. She is not mine but I am hers.

I don’t think you can be a true animal lover and not accept this truth. I’ve only ever been angry with a few adopters, but the most recent time was the most egregious. A man adopted a street cat who seemed like a total sweetie, though at the time I told him to go slow and not expect too much of a response at first. He immediately started petting him, and Charlie let him know it was too soon with a strong swat. And rather than giving him space, the new owner kept at it, resulting in predictable escalation of Charlie’s defensive behavior. After just two months, he called me: he’d had enough. Charlie would have to go.

I lucked out and learned of a woman on Skyline who loved orange tabbies and would take Charlie in. I warned her about him, and she said she would respect his boundaries and go slowly. Within a week he was purring on her lap.

I guess it’s all about respect. And the importance of humans being able to curb our incessant need for affection and reciprocity.

Not that I’m good at being detached and respectful 100% of the time. If I were, I’d be more gracious at loving and letting go.

The vet told me last week that my beloved Wyatt, rescue of the last 10 months and a feline soulmate if ever there was one, has maybe two more months to live, as his skin cancer is progressing rapidly. He has always been resistant to my attempts at cuddling; so it is with many animals that have been traumatized or mistreated. And he still is, somewhat – requiring me to sneak up and hug him from behind. But now when I do, I feel that little bit of relaxation, that slow and happy rumble, and sometimes even a lift of the head to meet my embrace. In those few moments, he lets me claim him, and even tolerates the tears that drip on his head. But it’s always on his terms – and that’s okay with me.

He is not mine, but I am his.

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Dobby’s Diary

Day two – life in a bathroom

This is a lot better than where I was born just a few weeks ago – crouched in the dirt underneath a deck. I’m here because this human woman started putting food out for all uf us – my three brothers and one sister and my mother, who is so wild. But we didn’t understand what traps were and we went right in them. And here we are. It’s not terrible but my siblings are terrified. Me? I’m not scared of anything, because you don’t get anything in life by being afraid, and life is short, you know? At least mine will be. This woman doesn’t know that yet. 

Day four – “these two are so small!” 

The animal doctor came today and gave us all our kitten shots. She was cool about it but I could tell that she noticed my brother and I are so much smaller than the other three. She even wondered if we were from a different family of cats, because the others were so much bigger. But we were from the same mama – we were just born… different. With a few problems. 

This woman decided on names for us! They are all in a book that she loved – something called Harry Potter. My little brother with the white chest is Harry, my sister with the beautiful brown, gold and black fur is Hermione, my biggest brother with the orange fur is Weasley, and my big, fluffy grey brother is Neville. Me? I’m Dobby. I’m all black and I like the name. It sounds tough and smart, which is what I am. 

Day seven – The vibrating begins

This woman comes in to the bathroom all day long, bringing us food. Then she sits on a chair and picks us up, one by one, and puts us in her lap, and strokes us with her hand. At first I hated it, but something weird happened today. I could feel a little shudder go through my body, and then I felt like I was floating, and all I wanted was more of her hands on me. I was vibrating! It surprised her, too. She smiled and seemed so happy. She put me up to her face and kissed me, and said, “this is it! This is why we’re all here.” I’m not sure what she means, but I’m beginning to understand. 

Her friend who I can tell has so much experience with kittens comes over to see us. Hermione freaks out and bites her thumb, which we all think is pretty funny. But she also holds me and Harry real nice on her lap. When she holds Harry and sees how limp he is, she looks up at my human friend and frowns.

Day ten – the pooping starts

Something else weird is happening to my body. I’m pooping all the time. Not a lot of poop, but just all the time. I can’t help myself. Another weird thing: as I watch my siblings grow, Harry and I stay small — the same size. The woman puts us all on the weighing machine one at a time and I see her get a worried look on her face. SCOOP! She grabs me and Harry and takes us to another animal doctor, who tells her we have a parasite – a thing that grows in us, that might keep us from growing. She takes medicine home. It tastes bad. Being sick sucks.

But both me and Harry are starting to want to be held more often. When the woman holds us we curl up inside her warm clothes and it’s like being next to Mama. But she has to put me on a towel because of… you know… the poop.

Day 12 – a new mama?

A new woman comes over with her two kids to meet me! She says she wants to give me a home of my own. But then the pooping thing happens, and my human has to wrap me in a towel to hand to my new mama. I am embarrassed, but what can I do? She seems to want me anyway, and says she’ll wait until the poop thing is better and I get a little bigger. I’m not sure that will ever happen but it’s nice to be wanted! It makes me feel warm in my tummy.

Day 14 – Done with the medicine

After days of taking that nasty stuff, we’re finally done with it. Our human weighs me and Harry again, and this time when she looks at the numbers, she cries. I guess we’ve actually gotten smaller. She kisses us, and says she won’t give up on us.

Our human moves us to a special place – a circle in the middle of the room that we can’t climb out of – so that she can feed us more often without my siblings getting jealous.

I’m special, I tell ya! Proof? She now gives us tiny bits of cooked chicken all day long – and sometimes at night! It’s pretty much the best thing EVER in this world, but I wish she would stop looking so sad and worried. I’m not scared and she shouldn’t be either.

Day 16 – Not-so-fun playtime

Our human puts me and Harry back with Neville, Hermione and Weasley, thinking we can join them for playing on the stairs. But something is wrong with Harry’s legs. They won’t carry him up the stairs anymore. He just sits down and sighs. It’s hard for me, too, but I can still scramble up one if I really try.

Now our human is really upset. Once again… SCOOP! We’re put in the box and taken to yet another animal doctor. She is also puzzled, uses words I don’t understand like “birth defect” and “fading kitten” but our human shakes her head and says thanks but I’m going to keep trying. I don’t understand it, this thing she feels for us, but I’m glad she feels it.

Once we get home, Harry starts refusing food. She holds him and he is so limp and quiet, and she whispers that she will not force him to eat anymore.

Day 18 – Harry goes away

It’s dark outside and quiet, and Harry and I are snuggling and sleeping, when I feel a little shudder go through him and he doesn’t move again after that. I snuggle closer to him, and when our human comes in the morning, he is very still. She lifts him up and cries and cries while she wraps him in a pretty flowered fabric. I wish I could tell her not to be so sad. Harry is still around, and he’s not sick anymore! That should be good news.

My human says she doesn’t want me to be alone now, so first she tries putting a pretend cat with me. It works okay for a little while, but I’m cold without another kitten.

Then she tries putting me with my siblings, but my brothers are too rough with me. I don’t think they’re trying to be mean, they just want to play, and when they pounce on me and bite me in the neck, I have a hard time getting back up again. My human quickly takes the boys and puts them in another room and sticks me with Hermione who is much more gentle. It’s nice to have someone to snuggle with as my legs keep getting weaker.

Day 21 – Little me

I look at my human with new eyes. She brings me cooked chicken that I’m too tired and feel too sick to eat. When I turn my head away from her treats she gets sad again. But I feel peaceful. And suddenly I get it now – this thing she felt for me and Harry. She calls it “love” but to me it’s just… everything good and warm that connects her and me and Harry too. In this life it’s a gift she gave me – almost as good as the cooked chicken.

She goes off to call her animal doctor friend and while she goes I think maybe this is a good time to go myself – snuggled next to Hermione, feeling the love of my sister and my human and knowing because I was a good boy I’ll be back to try this whole living thing again.

She came back and I was gone, still and quiet. She plopped down in the chair and put her head in her hands and just cried and cried and said loudly that she would “never do this rescue thing again.” I want to tell her stop. Just stop. That she will go on and help other kitties like me, and that love is bigger than her hurt – and definitely bigger than little me. It almost seems like she can hear me, because she stops, picks me up and kisses me, and smiles through her tears. I think she gets it, too.

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Giving them every last chance

I’ve been mulling this post for more than three months. I wanted to write about the death of a cat that I loved dearly for eight years, but as I always follow the admonition of a literary agent I knew (to not write a word until you can keep from “opening a vein and bleeding on the page”) I had no idea how to go at it.

The basics are: Big Mike was well, then he got terribly sick for reasons that are still unclear, and then he died four days later, leaving me utterly devastated.

But I had no perspective – no moment of illumination that would help you, dear reader, come away with a new thought or a new understanding… anything other than a chance to share my grief. And after writing hundreds of columns for Hearst newspapers, I knew this did not making for satisfying reading.

The approach finally came to me earlier this week, when I learned of an emergency situation: an elderly cat that had been abandoned nearby, almost killed in a predator attack, starved for lack of food, and wandered aimlessly until a good person scooped him up and took him to the Peninsula Humane Society, where, she was told, “they would fix him up and find him a home.”

Right…. There is fine print in our local shelter’s slogan that that they are a no-kill shelter, because they find homes for “all adoptable pets.” Sadly, their yardstick for adoptability is woefully short. I knew that the sweet old guy’s days were numbered. He was advanced in age, ill, and frail. Too much work = euthanasia.

And of course the rescuer got the call: pick him up or he’s toast. But she could not keep him. And after I saw the photo of this beat-up old sweetie, *I* was toast.

  

So I received him Monday morning, named him Wyatt (which means survivor) and wondered, as I felt every bone in his starved, sagging body and his fur splattered with diarrhea, if maybe I came into Wyatt’s life just to see him through to a good death. “Okay,” I whispered as I cradled his uneasy form in my arms, “I’m here for you. You have a big last chance at a happy life.”

And then I thought of Big Mike, also a mature brown and black tabby with white markings, who came to me 8 years ago in the field, so badly wounded by a predator attack that both euthanasia and amputation of his shredded leg were considered. But I stubbornly refused, instead putting him through a series of surgeries, afforded when a generous donor offered to help with his rehab.

  

He survived the mauling, blossomed like a rose and became my “barnacle cat” – affixed to me the second I sat down. I gave him a “big last chance at a happy life,” and that’s what we had together, until his luck (and mine) ran out just before Thanksgiving. He began his downslide on a Tuesday, and by Sunday he was gone. I don’t know what killed him – but since so many farms and ranches use pesticides (and I think Mike was a neglected ranch cat), my guess was gut cancer. But it almost didn’t matter. My beloved boy was gone, for whom I’d risked a lot – from money to my heart. I was exhausted and knew it would be a long time before I risked so much again.

And then… Wyatt’s picture appeared in my iMessage. Could I please help? I struggled with how to answer. I dreaded the responsibility, and the inevitable pummeling of my emotions. But I thought about Big Mike. Would he want my grief for him to make me turn away? Wouldn’t he want me to keep opening my heart?

So reluctantly, I said yes. And as soon as I made him at home in my half-bath, I was so glad I did. In less than a week, I have watched Wyatt blossom in small but beautiful moments, to where he’s now purring, eating well, and sleeping soundly. It will take him some time, but I have confidence that his big last chance will be a forever home – I’m hoping on the lap of a lonely senior – and I will cheer him on and make room in my heart for another cat who needs a last chance at a life and especially LOVE.

It’s what Big Mike would want.

Thanks, St. Francis, for the glimmer of perspective, and the nudge to keep sharing what I have to share.

 

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The faces that make it worth it

I haven’t posted in months, but summer and fall are not only my busiest times of year for work, they’re also prime time for rescue. I’ve lost track of how many requests for help I’ve gotten in recent months, but it’s probably a dozen. And with each request comes a series of steps to take and problems to solve. Is the cat already fixed? If not, where on earth can we take it since appointments are booking a month or more out? Is it social? Maybe even adoptable? Does it have access to food? Will it go in a trap? Where can it be kept while waiting for an appointment?

It’s such a time investment that rescue activists can’t be blamed if they have to say no or turn away from a situation. Turning away used to be impossible for me – as evidenced by my one-time household of six cats. I thought I could rescue them all, and the ones I couldn’t adopt out, I made room for. The three I still have were unadoptable because of physical challenges and ailments, so right now I have all the vets in town on speed dial. I have gotten better at this whole “seeing the future thing” and as a result, I do say no occasionally when already feeling overwhelmed.

And then sometimes, all it takes is one look for my “rescue in moderation” rule to go out the window. This happened a couple of months ago when I was told about a situation in the senior housing development in town, with several cats running loose, being fed and not being fixed. I went over to investigate, and within moments heard crying on one resident’s patio. I called out, and this face peeked out at me.

I called to him with a bowl of food, he came running, ate three entire cans, and then rolled on his back with gratitude and joy.

When I asked a resident if there was anyone helping this boy, the answer was no. “He gets fed… sometimes. But he doesn’t have a place to sleep.” He was dirty and rail-thin, and my resolve dissolved. How could I not immediately swear to make his life better?

In a now-comical series of misadventures, Jasper (my designated name) was trapped and  fixed, much to his chagrin.

I then took him to a temporary foster situation offered by a kind woman I know, where he seemed very happy to be adjusting to indoor life… right before he tore through a screen and escaped. Thankfully he was close to “home” and ended up back in the housing complex, where he was trapped a second time and taken to a second foster home. This time he adapted well – no Houdini-like escape attempts – while I sought him a forever home (one with strong screens).

Thankfully, the perfect one appeared on Next Door: a couple of empty-nesters who had been yearning for an orange tabby, and kept their existing cat 100% indoors. When I transferred Jasper, they had set up deluxe quarters for him in their dining room, where he could adjust slowly and learn to trust, after his harrowing and neglectful first couple of years on the planet.

I got this recently, and is this not the epitome of bliss?

I choke up when I look at it. Two months ago Jasper (now Gimli) was living by his wits and trying to stay alive. And yes, it took time, effort and commitment to see his story through to a happy ending. But it was worth it. Stories like these are what keep me going despite frequent tragedies; keep me taking on new efforts, even as I feel overwhelmed sometimes.

Now, if I could only un-see this little face in the bushes, I’d sleep better at night. Here I go again?  😉

 

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Powers of observation

I’ve been in the thick of a challenging situation for the last several days that’s caused me to think extensively about the skill of observation. In ten years of doing this work, I’ve concluded that you either got it or you ain’t.

I don’t mean the ability to see a truck coming at you as you’re walking across the road. I mean the kind of observation skills it takes to hear the whoosh of a hawk’s wings near your songbird feeder, to see a grey cat lying on a grey log far below a bridge, to perceive that a friend is downhearted at dinner, or maybe to spy lost kittens in a bush.

Such a skill I’ve seen first-hand in recent days, as several people in my condo complex mobilized after someone saw tiny, feral-born kittens dodging cars by the Post Office across the street from me, and set out to round them up. Keep in mind this building is surrounded by tall trees and hundreds of bushes, leading toward a deep ravine where predators roam. I thought to myself that even with good intentions, the chances of success were slim to none.

And then, only two days into the search, one couple spied two of them between shrubs. They began going there with food, and each time the kittens came out of hiding to eat.

And then they caught them, with a nonprofessional, Wile E. Coyote approach (putting a small dog crate in the vicinity, tying a string to the door, throwing food in for them and pulling the door closed after them) that should not have worked. But it did. Two of the four babies are now safely in their rescuers bathroom.

While marveling at their powers of observation (and their beginners’ luck! they had never attempted rescue before) I contemplated why the kittens chose to present themselves to this couple. I myself had been over there several times and never caught a glimpse. And where I do think animals are open to connecting to gentle humans, I think there’s more to it than that: I don’t think most humans are receptive to animals, and as a result, don’t SEE them.

I’ve been astonished over the years at how black and white it seems to be: you’re either curious and aware and SEEING, or you’re not. I’d say 80 percent of all people who have walked by me while I’m doing something that would provoke curiosity in some, don’t give me a second glance. That could be prepping a trap on a sidewalk, lowering a basket of food down the side of a bridge, dishing up chow from the hatchback of my car. Most walk right past without a glance. But there are those whose interest is piqued, and approach me to ask what I’m doing. They want to know, and learn, and sometimes even help. They seem centered, connected and clear.

Ten years ago, I walked many times past a group of cats gathered near the Main Street bridge, eating off paper plates left for them by well-meaning people who didn’t want them to starve. It was only when I began to slow down a little in life did I actually SEE the cats, recognize the difficult situation, and ask to learn about it. It was, to borrow from e.e. cummings, the opening of “the eyes of my eyes.”

I love this quote by Sufi founder Hazrat Inayat Khan: “It is the peaceful one who is observant. It is peace that gives him the power to observe keenly.” And he adds, “all things pertaining to spiritual progress in life depend upon peace.”

Perhaps that’s why it took me well into middle age to claim powers of observation – I was on such a treadmill, in such a race until then. (To get what, exactly? Fame? Love? Who knows…) Anyway, it seems clear that you can’t truly observe until you clear your head and heart.

Sometimes I wish I could close my heart back up. Knowing there are two babies still out there alone is heartbreaking. Being observant can be painful.

To quote another philosopher, Jiddu Krishnamurti, “Human beings… go through great agonies. The more sensitive, the more alert, the more observant (you are), the greater the suffering, the anxiety, the extraordinary sense of insoluble problems.”

Oh my, that explains a lot about the darkness of my blue moods this last year. But would I trade my sensitivity for disconnection? Not in a million years.  I don’t think I’d do this work as well if my powers of observation weren’t as keen.

Now, Saint Francis, if you could just let me see those remaining kittens so I can help them, I’d be even more in your debt.

UPDATE: One of the two remaining kittens is now cooling its paws in my bathroom, not happy about being saved but at least happy to be eating a ton. Grateful, as always, for the support!

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