Taking down the altar; fixing up the bedroom

Six weeks ago I stared into Pokey’s eyes when he once again refused food, and told him sternly, “This is not gonna happen. You will not die.”

As if demanding this of a very sick cat, who was not only FIV-positive cat but had miraculously lived to 20, would work. It didn’t. After 13 lovely years as commander-in-chief of my home, the old warrior finally gave me the unmistakeable message that he was ready to move on. Unable to find a vet to come to my home, I took him to my favorite vet in town and held him close while we both let him go. It was to be the day I departed on a long-awaited summer vacation to the Sierras. I cried all the way to Tahoe.

When I got back a week later, I got the word that a cat I’d been feeding for 4-5 years under the Main Street Bridge, Lafcadio, had been hit and killed by a car. Reeling, I set up my altar – something I have found comforting for all cats that pass. I included the box of Pokey’s ashes, his photo, his sweater, some beautiful flowers and candles… and a photo of Lafcadio as well.

‘Cadio under the bridge.

Still in deep sadness, I got an SOS call: a mama cat wandering around a neighborhood, nursing seven (!) kittens in backyards. I told my wonderful rescue friends it was too soon for me to ask more of my heart. And I would help with the rescue but it would be a short term TNR (Trap-Neuter-Return) job for mama, and I would need to find foster homes for the kittens after they were trapped. But I could not do a long-term foster – I just couldn’t handle the challenge.

The trapping went smoothly: mama Beatrice (the name the neighbors had given her) came home with me and was spayed the next day, while the kittens were disbursed in groups to foster homes.

But the minute Beatrice – a beguiling melange of colors from orange to black to white – woke up from surgery, she looked into my eyes with the sweetest gaze, and rubbed up against the side of the dog crate hungry for attention. My heart sank. Oh no, I thought – this is a very lovely, social kitty, not a TNR. I’ll keep her a few more days in the crate and see how she does. And then I’ll find her a home. But she is NOT going upstairs.

Going upstairs, from garage to half-bath as a first step of moving indoors, and from there to the guest bedroom where there is more space, is a routine reserved for long-term fosters. And that was not going to be this. Not this time. Every time I passed the altar I’d made, I was reminded of the cost of closeness.

Then, Beatrice plummeted. Refusing food, lethargic, warm to the touch, with rampant diarrhea. I grudgingly moved her to my half-bathroom so I could better monitor her (but only for a few days! I told myself). But even in more comfortable quarters, her eyes told me she felt miserable.

I weighed Bea. She had lost a full pound since we trapped her – and she was scary-thin to begin with. I was looking at the real possibility of losing her. And of course by then her sweetness had sucker-punched my heart and I was desperate to reverse the course.

“This is not gonna happen,” I tried again, gently petting her head. “You will not die.” I whisked her away to the vet, where she spent two days undergoing tests and getting fluids. When tests for major/fatal diseases proved negative, the only assumption I could make was that perhaps Bea had been exposed to toxins during her life prowling backyards.

“I THINK she should be okay,” the vet told me, “with antibiotics, special food for the diarrhea, plenty of rest and…”

I knew what was coming. “TIME.”

Argh. I was so not ready for another life-and-death project. But sometimes the universe doesn’t give a crap about your readiness. Bea needed me, and Pokey would want me to keep on opening my heart. “Okay,” I said softly, surrendering, petting her drooping head. “It’s time to move upstairs.”

Feeling suddenly peaceful, I turned to the altar for Pokey and Lafcadio. It was time to take it down. And fix up the bedroom for a new guest.

Thanks, St. Francis, for refilling my well when it was bone-dry.

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Post Script: After two weeks of rehab, Beatrice has gained 3 pounds (!), the light has returned to her eyes, and her personality (playful, affectionate, silly) has come to the fore. She makes biscuits as soon as you talk to her! She still grapples with diarrhea but when that is cleared up, I’ll be on the hunt for a forever home for this adorable monkey. Stay tuned.