Jane Ganahl

Hello friends! It’s been 10 days since I posted. Most of that time I’ve been trying to deal with a bit of reality handed me a week ago today: Ginger Rogers is, in fact, terminally ill. The mass under her tongue is a squamous cell carcinoma; in cats, that condition is not reversible. The vet gives her a few weeks to a few months to live. They tell me I could let her have surgery, which would remove the cancer but also part of her tongue and possibly jaw, and likely lead to tube-feeding and misery. And the surgery would only add a short time to her life. I was unprepared to have to make this decision.

Despite the newness of my bond with the wee tortie, nothing has hit me harder in a long time. It seemed so hideously unfair – that this little street urchin should finally find someone to love and take care of her only to have her time cut short. This news, combined with bad news about someone in my extended family, resulted in several tearful days last week. But fairly quickly, and after speaking to friends who understand, I realized that this “service” I provide is sometimes going to require that I revamp my idea of what “saving a life” really means. She might not be living happily ever after, but she is certainly living happily for this most important transition. And, I decided, I should not put her through the surgery. If she indeed found me so I could help usher her out of this world, I’m going to make it as pleasant as possible.

And how DID Ginger find me? The person who’d scoop her up and scotch-tape her together so her final time on the planet would be warm, comfortable, and full of love? And why the hell did the universe pin this duty on my lapel? I railed silently about this last week – I am too emotional and open-hearted as it is. My feelings about everything related to these animals are so intense. Can’t St. Francis give hospice duty to someone more matter-of-fact? But it seems I have no choice in the matter. And as I do believe these things happen for a reason, I continue to try and wrap my brain around the positives of the situation.

I’ve almost succeeded. Where in those first days after diagnosis I’d hold Ginger and fight tears, now I treat her like any of my cats – singing to her when I see her, playing with her, feeding her and holding her close – even as I know our time together will be short.

What helped me get over the hump? Ginger herself. Feeling better from the peripheral ailments (upper respiratory infection, skin rash ETC.), she is a cheerful little sprite. The only reminder of her serious illness is a nearly omnipresent bit of drool on her cute chin. As the doctor reminded me, “She doesn’t know. She’s not afraid. Humans are always projecting our fears onto our animals.” Even so, this is one brave little beast. I would not be surprised if she outlives the prediction by a good long while.

Here she is a couple of days ago.

Meanwhile, the news on Big Mike has been quite the opposite – total cause for ELATION. A week ago Dr. Boltz marveled at how well her latest procedure (skin plugs and sutures) have served to close his lower wound. And when I sent her a photo yesterday, she said we didn’t have to come in for another week! Wow! And her brief missive: “Looks like we might finally have done it! :)”

I could have danced. She cleared Mike to leave the tiny bathroom where he’d been since Dec. 1, and resume his residency in my second bedroom. As I herded him up there, I gave him a lecture: Pretty soon you’ll be able to get up on the bed for the first time in seven months!! But it’s a high bed and we still have to be careful, so I’m going to lift you up at first, and hold you when you get off. We’ll take it slowly.

When he arrived in the bedroom he ensconced himself under the bed where he always stayed before, and I went about my business. A single hour later I went up to check on him, and this is what I found:

Yes, this is Mike. Up on the bed. By himself. The expression says it’s awesome up here!! I had to laugh out loud. There’s no stopping him now.

So my two rescues are on very different paths. One ascending to a very wonderful life he so richly deserves, the other descending to a hopefully wonderful death. I guess these are just two sides of the same coin.

Oh my – it’s been weeks since I reported in! Feeling guilty after several friends have said they craved an update on dear Mike.

Bottom line is: he’s doing FINE. Again, there were setbacks (bottom graft not closing up, sutures put in, which did not last, finally resulting in one last major procedure to implant some skin plugs) but he seems to be doing just fine. (<– note cautious tone, rather than celebrating prematurely which I’ve done far too often.)

After his procedure Monday, he came home and I enjoyed his dopiness greatly. Always so dignified and serene, after general anesthesia he is like a frat boy after far too many cheap beers – weaving his head around, going after my fingers and toes. He is so dear.

One technician working on him was stunned to hear that I still plan to find him a home. “I have to,” I told her, emotion rising in my throat. “He’s not my cat.” The doctor stopped working on him for a moment to look at me. “You might not keep him,” she said, “but he’s YOUR CAT.” That really resonated with me. He found me; we are deeply bonded. At the same time, I’m in a unsolvable situation – absolutely not enough space for the big mook, and trying to keep him could throw the fragile feline ecosystem here badly out of whack. But how can I live without him at this point? I’m resolved to not think about it until I really have to – he’s still several weeks from complete wellness.

Here he is this week – only a sock now protecting his healing wounds! Very exciting. Note how even when he bites at my fingers, he can’t bring himself to bite hard, and finishes the weak “attack” by licking me. So. Very. Gentle.

Mike post-surgical

But here’s the real news (and the real reason I’ve been too overwhelmed to write): after six months of saying NO NEW RESCUES – not until Big Mike was back on his gigantic feet – I had to take action on New Year’s Day. A couple of weeks before that, a new kitty had shown up behind the Post Office – a little tortoise shell female, who loudly demanded food, and affectionately bumped up against the two kitties I feed there. They were NOT happy. Tortie-girl was sweet and friendly to me – though she would not let me touch her. And I could see she was sick. Really sick.

Her eyes were cloudy and cruddy, she was stick-thin, her coat was a mess, and her nose was always running. I started to get concerned, when the temperatures dropped to almost freezing, that she might die. I was also concerned that if she was contagious, there would be a chain reaction among the healthy ferals I was feeding. She was so small and vulnerable, and I thought she was (hahaha) a kitten.

So I trapped her and brought her here, and put her in the big dog crate in the garage (so roomy that it fits a carrier, a food area, a litter box etc). At first I named her Mochaccina, after my late, wonderful Mocha, to whom she bears a stunning resemblance. (After I realized no one could spell Mochaccina, I changed it to Ginger Rogers – both for her coloring and for her long, stilt-like legs.) She was NOT happy to have been captured – hissing when I got close. But within just a couple of days she was literally eating out of my hand, clearly hungry for love.

Ginger day 3

Not so when I took her to the vet for an exam. She f-r-e-a-k-e-d – leapt out of the carrier and proceeded to dismantle the clinic room, climbing across counters and knocking things off in her frantic quest to escape. It was decided at that moment that this was not the time to examine her (the vet apparently values her unscratched skin) and that I would bring her back for a “sedated exam.” I did this today, after waiting a week to ease her back into getting in the carrier. And my heart was in my throat all day.

Ginger was so sick – what if she has Feline Leukemia? What if she has peritonitis? Both fatal conditions. Could I have her euthanized after being in my life such a short time? I need not have worried. The doctor said she is not fatally ill, though she IS an older lady (over 10), with broken teeth, a skin infection, upper respiratory infection, eye infection, worms, fleas and a mass under her tongue that is either part of the URI or potentially cancerous.

In other words, this creature I thought was a kitten because she is so tiny is actually an aging warhorse of a kitty, a jalopy leaking fluids and falling apart. But oh, so darling and sweet and plucky she brings tears to your eyes! Within hours of the indignities wrought by the vet clinic, she was back rubbing up against my hands, begging for food and affection.

And now I have yet another cat I have no idea what to do with!! She is too frail to put her back where I found her – even after she gets healthy again. Oh dear.

All I know is, my heart was telling to get her and bring her home – that she needed me enormously. I cannot afford these vet bills, but my friend Maggie and I are starting the wheels in motion to create a nonprofit for the work we both do, so at the very least we can write off our expenses. In the meantime, I could not turn away from her plight. So I have one sick and recuperating kitty in the garage, another in the half-bathroom six feet away from where I’m writing this. And my “regular” cats staring at me as if I were the world’s biggest traitor.

Perhaps I am, but helping these beautiful and deserving souls gives me purpose and joy. What better way to go through life?

Just a quick update to say I have not written for a couple of weeks because the news has been largely, well… BAD. Soon after my happy update that his grafts were doing great, it all went south. Big Mike developed a nasty infection, and his grafts were grave danger of failing completely. I was just heartsick – not to mention enormously stressed. Over the course of the last two weeks, I’ve made the trek to Los Altos eight times (around 90 minutes of driving round trip, and of course the appointment time) so that anxious doctors could check his wounds, bathe his grafts, re-bandage him – all in an attempt to save the surgical efforts.

(I should also mention that these weeks have been Litquake’s year-end donor campaign, which fell in my lap. And a friend had to be suddenly hospitalized, and asked me to take care of her two cats, which I’ve now done for two weeks. And now my neighbors have left town and asked me to take of… their cat. And money is hideously tight. Can you say circuit overload times ten?)

I reached the nadir of stress on Wednesday when I left Mike for the afternoon so their senior doctor (a friend of Mike’s benefactor) could have a look at him. I hated leaving him – he just hates being in a cage – and while I was in a meeting in San Francisco that afternoon I got the call: there had been a little “incident.” A technician did not have a firm grip on him and he squirmed out of her arms, falling to the hard floor below without a good pair of legs to break his fall. They had to rebandage him, and noted honestly that a small area of separation had gotten larger from the fall.

I snapped.

When I picked him up a couple of hours later, I raged. I do not want that technician to ever, EVER handle Mike again. What the hell is wrong with this hospital? etc. ETC. – words I feel sheepish about now. These are good people who really care about animals and are trying their best. It was just my utter frustration speaking, and my upset that here it was, almost Christmas, and I’ve had zero time for so much as a holiday cup of tea.

What shaped my shit up, as always, was Big Mike himself, who has been nothing short of extraordinary. He curls up quietly under hospital staff’s prying fingers, doesn’t fuss, suffers the pain of bandage changes with courage and elegance. Yesterday when I brought the carrier in for our Saturday trip to the hospital, he literally walked in of his own accord. When I told a technician that he was a street cat, she was stunned.

Anyway, the news is finally not all bad! His surgeon, who had been gone for two weeks, saw him yesterday and was pleased to see that the infection had subsided, and to her, the upper graft still looked alive. The bottom was half dead, but when she took off the dead skin, she found thriving skin growing beneath the scab. There is, she said, much reason to hope that Mike’s suffering is coming to an end. Would there be a better Christmas present??

After the appointment I passed a Target on my way to the freeway and pulled in to purchase a $5 tree skirt. As I wandered the big ugly store, feeling buoyed by the doctor’s words, Bing Crosby crooned his famous song, and the phrase that infiltrated my brain was “let your heart be light.”

So I haven’t been able to celebrate the season to my liking, and I’m burdened with more responsibilities than I can possibly do well. But Big Mike is doing better, and I’m surrounded with all kinds of love of the feline variety. I’m following my heart and doing good and not just taking up space on the planet. And I’m thinking that’s reason for joy. I think Mike would agree.  Now if I could just get him to leave his decals alone.  😉

Big Mike was seen a couple of days ago by the surgeon who worked on him for three hours a week before. I had a few moments of panic when she clipped away the thick bandages protecting his grafts, because she shook her head a couple of times and looked displeased.

Then she smiled and said, “this looks amazing. The best I’ve ever seen. At the one-week stage there is always some die-off of tissue that didn’t ‘take,’ but it’s completely alive and knitting perfectly to the surrounding tissue.” She also said his abdomen, with its awful skin-grafted stitching, is looking totally great. (The reason she shook her head in displeasure was because the doctor who did his re-bandaging on Thursday put some tape on some delicate tissue. But, she said, it did not hurt it.) (I get that she is a perfectionist. 😉

Anyway, I almost did a dance I was so happy.  Would you believe that after maybe two more weekly bandage changes he could be BANDAGE-FREE for the first time in six months!?!  Dr. Boltz joked that one reason he is healing so well is because she had decorated his “cast,” and then she put FOUR decorations on it this time just to amp up the juju.  🙂

Thanks to his angel benefactor for allowing this to happen, and thanks to his friends for the wonderful emotional support!

[Big Mike, post-surgery hanging with Grizz, and having a bandage put on that will need a crowbar to be removed]

SO much has happened this last week, and this will have to be brief as it’s really Hell Week for me, as I have been thrust into being in charge of Litquake’s year-end donor drive, in addition to shepherding Big Mike through a THIRD surgery.

Yes, you heard me right.

After my last plaintive post, bemoaning his lack of progress, an angel friend (a very successful one) wrote to say she would pay for Mike to get a second opinion/treatment at Adobe Pet Hospital in Los Altos, where she knew the founder. This being an offer I could not refuse, I made his first appointment for Sunday. (They are a 7-days-open clinic, and their cat specialist, Dr. Rachel Boltz, works weekends! Heaven!)

But when she looked at him, she frowned and said I needed to leave him – that he needed surgery ASAP. She also feared a bacterial infection might be the reason he was not healing. (Tho this turned out to not be true.) I had not intended to leave him, and had not packed his favorite foods, his teddy bear Grizz, etc. He looked so confused when they took him away, and I was morose all day, worrying whether he thought he might have been abandoned by me.

Surgery (2.5 hours worth) the next day went VERY well, the doctor reported. She even sent me gack-worthy photos of the wounds before (gaping) and after (completely gone, covered by perfectly stitched fur and skin). It was an amazing thing to see. They had also taken what seemed to be a huge chunk out of his abdomen for the grafts – and his belly now looked like something out of Frankenstein, held together by large stitches and pins. They kept him in ICU for three days, where he was immobilized by drugs and fear. (I went to see him on Tuesday when I was down that way, which might have been a mistake. He was refusing food, didn’t seem to know me, and seemed like he wanted to die. It was very upsetting.)

When I picked him up Wednesday night they told me quite sternly that his bandages must stay in place! If they slipped, they warned, it would ruin the grafting. I got him settled back into the bathroom downstairs, and he seemed disoriented and scared, which was hard to see. After making my feeding rounds of the others, I went back in the bathroom and there he was: reclining majestically as always. When I began to pet him, he turned his head into my hand for a neck rub, and purred. Astonishingly forgiving, as always.

And then, the next morning, and of course Houdini managed to bother his bandages enough that they had slipped. I was horrified, with a tense, tightly-packed day ahead in SF. I called the hospital and they said bring him in. I had to cancel half my day’s plans for the 90 minutes of driving and hour-long time there. I was NOT happy, and let them know it. (For what my friend is paying, is there not a way to make the bandages stay up??) Adobe is a “transparent hospital” – which was a new one on me – so I went back with them to the ER area where they re-bandaged him with a team of 2-3 wonderfully gentle people. Thankfully, the skin/fur grafts were perfectly intact.

He did his best possum imitation on the table, and went completely limp. So much so that the doctor quipped that I must have drugged him to get him to be so quiet. I said no, he’s just a remarkable cat – one that had never even been indoors or had someone love him until a few months ago.

Today it looks like his bandages – now decorated with a snow man – are holding, and he’s a very happy boy to be home. I take him back Sunday for a re-check, and hope that this is really the turning point we’ve been praying for. Hoping that his suffering is soon to be over.

To my friend, who has helped me save his life and shorten his suffering, I am grateful beyond words. Also to the pros at Adobe who, of course, helped.  😉

It’s been a couple of weeks since my last entry, and I confess that I was waiting to write something when I had something encouraging to report about Big Mike. Alas, that is not the case.

Yes, he’s doing better than he was. But last week, when Dr. Sue checked his wounds, she discovered that the skin grafts had not “taken” after all. I don’t know who was more disappointed – me or her. Her frustration was evidenced by her comment, “maybe we should have just amputated back in June.” That really stunned and upset me. Why even mull that path not taken? His leg is much better now than it was, and he does continue to heal. Why the glacial pace is unclear. Is it because he’s FIV-positive? Hard to believe he has a compromised immune system – his coat is now lush and silky-soft, his eyes are bright, and he’s even playful.

But with her words, I realized that my dream of finding him a home for Christmas was not going to come true, and it was a bitter pill. It also means additional twice-weekly bandage changes, which means more money for me and more stress for him. Although he is really handling those like a champ. Curls up and goes almost into a trance. Here he is, just last night. I dread these appointments – it upsets me so much to see him being held down and worked on. But I have to always remember how oddly forgiving he is – how quick to bounce back – almost as if he understands why this is happening.

So it will be a while longer. And while I adore having this magic kitty* in my house, there are others out there waiting for a chance to come in for a landing. (*I was ready to throw my computer out the window the other morning when I couldn’t get my email for two hours. I went upstairs for a dose of Mike – always like taking a happy pill – and asked him to please fix my email. I went back downstairs and it was functioning perfectly.) Anyway, a black kitten has shown up at the Stone Pine parking lot, looking to be around 4-5 months old, and with a skin condition that makes its fur sparse – not good with temperatures starting to plunge at night. I set a trap for Ebony (my name for it) the last few days… and of course Ebony has disappeared. God, this work is so frustrating at times – and heartrending.

And then, there is Diego, a kitty I trapped and neutered almost two years ago with his sister Frida, and returned to the ravine when he proved too unhappy with my human company. But in the last year, he has shown me undeniable behaviors that he now wants my affections – shyly arching his back and rubbing against branches, fences etc. in an awkward attempt to get closer. He is so anxious for contact that even as hungry as he is every morning (I only feed him once a day) he won’t touch the food until we have our tentative petting session. Here he is in the spring, before he started allowing me to stroke his back.

diego spring ’14

Anyway, I would love to get him where I could socialize him more and find him a home, but the inn is FULL. In fact, I’m not sure what I’ll do with Ebony when I catch the little darling. But I can’t worry about that. I see a need and can’t bear to see critters suffer. I’ll figure it out as I go along. Much as I’ve done for Big Mike. All I can do is bear up under my disappointment and anxiety and trust in the universe to help him heal. St. Francis, any help would be appreciated.

My two-week walkabout seemed to fly by, a joyful blur of driving and mountains and sunsets and writing and Giants baseball and solitude and theater and books. The only negative was this nagging heartache I had that Big Mike was shut away in a pet hospital after his surgery, almost certainly in pain and wondering where the hell I was.

Almost daily texts with a very tolerant Dr. Sue assured me that he was doing fine. And when I picked him up yesterday, she reiterated that he had taken well to the surgical procedure and was mending well. When asked if she could hazard a timeline for his being healed enough for adoption, she shocked me by saying, “optimistically, one month. Probably closer to Christmas.” After five months of his moving forward by mere inches, this seemed like an Olympic long jump. Still, she cautioned, he has a ways to go yet.

(Given Sue’s penchant for modesty, I was lucky to run into her assistant Carrie on my way out.  “Did you see??” she enthused. “The skin grafts are really working! It’s amazing!” My heart again leapt up.)

My heart also cracked a bit to see him in his cage. His leg is now in a solid cast, as if it were broken, and if he knew me he was too bashful or anxious to show recognition, and merely curled up in the fetal position as he used to do when feeling scared. But within an hour of being home, he was open to cuddles and purring, and by later in the afternoon, he was standing behind the bathroom door demanding more food and attention. Today, he was his usual affectionate self – tho clearly wiped out and not wanting to stand for too long – and it’s hard to get any work done for wanting to lavish him with time and attention.

Realizing it could take a while to find his perfect home, I put his first video on Youtube – something I never do unless I have a kitty ready for adoption. I have heard that special needs / physically challenged kitties actually have an easier time getting homes, but in case it takes me a couple of months, I thought I should start showing the world his gorgeous charms. Note toward the end when I ask him a question and he chirps. That’s how human he is and how connected we are.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NVMyxFAHHaE&feature=youtu.be

St. Francis, thank you for watching over my sweet boy and helping him heal. I look for your guidance in finding him the perfect home with someone loving and gentle and kind. I won’t settle for less. But not too soon – it will take me a while to detach and prepare myself for saying goodbye.

UPDATE TO BELOW: Five days after Mike’s surgery, the vet tells me he’s doing fine. His skin grafts are “taking” and his stitches are holding. He is being weaned off pain meds, which means he’s waking up a bit. Fortunately, he isn’t picking at his surgical area and – praise heavens – has even warmed to his surroundings. Yesterday, when the vet reached into the cage to pet him, this time he turned his huge head to welcome her hand, and began to purr. That’s my boy.

&  &  &  &  &  &  &  &

Finished with my huge festival week – the thing I work all year on – I had to stare down the specter of taking Big Mike to the vet hospital for a lengthy stay while I’m out of town. For days ahead of time, every visit I had with him would end in my getting choked up, as I did here in this video.

big mike vid 5

I’ve been challenged in the realization that he will be a crippled cat for the rest of his life. As feared, as his torn muscles have healed, they have shortened, giving him a wicked limp. It kills me, though I also realize he will have a wonderful life anyway, and learn to cope with the handicap. What upsets me more is that he’s so trusting, so kind and wise. What would his thoughts be as I packed him off with his bed and teddy bear for a cage at the vet’s office? Would he think he’s being abandoned again? Or was I being a doofus for even thinking these thoughts, anthropomorphizing him to human status?

When the night came Sunday, he was good as gold, if confused. I tried not to cry in front of the vet, who VERY kindly indulged me in having a nightlight for him, and a radio on NPR so he would not feel so alone. (She has him in a motor home that doubles as her operating room, and he is the only critter being kept in there.)

Again, this kitty has gotten to me like few others in my life.

As I drove north on Monday toward Seattle and Port Townsend I called twice, risking irritating Dr. Sue’s hard-working assistant. They would not do the surgery today, they told me, but it would be tomorrow. More calls on Tuesday until I reached her afterward. He had done fine; she had done some sutures to pull together the skin in places, and skin plugs / grafts in others. He would need to be quiet and still for five days so it’s best that he stay there. Relieved but anxious for his potential feelings of abandonment, I immediately started lining up a couple of friends to go and visit him as he recovered. Sigh.

It doesn’t take a Freudian to tell me I am clearly projecting my abandonment issues onto Big Mike; at the same time, this cat, as has been told to me by my telepathic friend, is a “very evolved being.” For better or for worse, I think that means he is better able to understand what is happening to him, and maybe even why. I just hope it also means that when I get home, his forgiveness will be quick and complete.

St. Francis, watch over my beautiful boy and speed his healing! A wonderful life awaits beyond the bandages.

For weeks I’ve been trying to rehearse Big Mike for his role as LUXURIATING HOUSE CAT – so that he can start prepping for his future, when he is healed and ready for his wonderful new home. One major thing a LHC (luxuriating house cat) needs to know is where the soft surfaces are. So every day I’ve been lifting him gently (minding his wound) and placing him on top of the bed. Almost immediately he’s gotten anxious (where’s the floor? where’s my bowl? why is it so bright up here?) and scrambled to get down – with my assistance. (It’s a high bed and I don’t want him leaping from the parapet like Tosca.)

But this morning, a tiny breakthrough. When I lifted him up there, and stayed as always to cuddle him, he relaxed and began to purr!! I had my camera and captured the happy boy here.

What a face!! So gorgeous. You can also see where his wound has seeped through the bandages. This seems to be happening more quickly lately and I’m not sure what to make of that. It’s a reminder that even as Big Mike gets more playful and self-assured, he still has a long road ahead of him before he is completely healed.

Feeling frustrated at his slow progress, I sought the counsel of Suzan, the wonderful animal communicator I have used before – though not for six months now. I felt like I wanted to tune in to Mike’s needs, and let him know that he will have a wonderful home ahead of him after this one. Here were her observations about Mike, which I transcribed:

don’t feel guilty if you have to let him go – he knows you love him and he will not pine for you, he will love whoever takes him.

i can see him with an older man.

this cat has a huge heart!

i don’t believe a human hurt his leg. i believe it was another animal. it looks like a dog or another canine type animal – maybe even a coyote. it looks like to me that the animal became momentarily distracted so he was able to escape without being killed.

there were humans in his life but there was not a lot of interaction. they weren’t cruel to him but they ignored him – never petted or held him. interestingly, he is more interested in humans than in other species.

he is a very evolved being.

he is very grateful that you saved his life, even though he acts instinctively at times. [when he growls and thrashes during bandage changes]

strangely enough i think this cat would be really okay as a 100% indoor cat now. that is surprising as he was 100% outdoors – although he was not really comfortable out there. he’s very interested now in playing it safe, in surviving. he is learning to love his comfortable surroundings.

I think I’ve made a decision about Big Mike: he should have the second surgery, but rather than staying in a hospital cage for the two weeks while I’m gone on my road trip, my wonderful petsitter, Kim, has offered to pick him up after a week and take care of him here. This seems a good alternative to him being there so long – I know I’ll feel less worried about him this way and can enjoy my vacation more. (And believe me, a week of solitude and writing time in a friend’s cabin on the Olympic Peninsula is fabulous, but gives me far too much time to obsess and worry. 😉

This decision also means I’ll have to jump-start a second funding campaign for his vet bills, which I’m not looking forward to. (I’m only going to send the link to NEW people this time, so as not to ask the same folks twice.)

Meanwhile, the new strategy for Big Mike’s bandage changes (giving him a pinch of calming Benadryl and moving him to the small bathroom) worked well on Friday. He complained with a low growl, but did NOT thrash about this time, which was a huge relief. (As all pet-lovers know, there’s nothing worse than seeing your beloved critter freaked out and seemingly fighting for its life.)

Especially when it’s a critter as big as Big Mike. When Carrie – finally home from Alaska – came over to meet him last week, she marveled at his size. “Oh my gosh, Jane – he’s like a bobcat!” It’s hard to get a sense, looking at the photos I’ve put up, just how really big he is. So I decided to do a photo montage of kitty paws – something I’m obsessed with anyway – to give you an idea. (It’s not like I have anything else to do, with the festival starting a week from Friday! Hahahahaha)

We have Lena’s dainty paw:

Claude’s medium-to-large duke:

And Big Mike’s meathook:

Isn’t that amazing? It really is like having a tiger under the bed. (And actually reminds me of the White Fang paw from the “Soupy Sales” show, if you can forgive the 60s reference.)

(Pokey and Iggy refused to cooperate in the photo essay – jerking their paws back every time I tried to click the iPhone shutter. They clearly don’t believe in art.)

Playing the waiting game, and keeping my spirits intact,
Jane