Jane Ganahl

I’ve been so lucky in this rescue endeavor that I used to think “sometimes things do go wrong.” But it’s been such a challenging year so far, with the death of Mocha, the mite infestation and “gut problems” with Pokey, the presumed death of Grace (now gone 5 weeks) and the appearance of a gruesomely wounded Big Mike, that I had to invert that statement a bit. Were things ever going to go RIGHT again?

So when I finally caught Mike, almost two weeks after he first appeared, it was a happy affirmation. Nothing had been working – not traditional traps, not coaxing him into a carrier. I finally used the drop trap – that venerable Wile E. Coyote trick whose success depends on a stick, a string, and a good yank at the proper moment. Mike had clearly never seen one before, and walked right under it. When it came down around him, trapping him, he just gave me a look. Well, you got me.

I took him straight to Dr. Sue, who kept him all day, doing two surgeries – on his leg and neutering him – and treating him for a terrible mite infestation that had him covered with scabs. She also tested him for FIV (he’s poz, dammit) and gave him fluids, as he was badly dehydrated. I was fully freaked, imagining the price tag for his restoration could be close to $1000. When I got the bill, it was only $400. I was overwhelmed with gratitude.

He spent the first week at my house, in the big dog crate in my garage, and has been a very mannerly guest. Granted, he’s been all but at death’s door, so bad was his condition – and all he did for days was sleep hard (verging on unconscious) and eat when food was waved under his nose. After 4-5 days he began to perk up, and would meow-hiss when I appeared. (Kind of a hello thing that strays do.) And he’s never, ever, tried to scratch or bite me, and not only accepted my pets to his head, he rolled his head to the side in a display of affection. No purring yet, but this is a badly neglected kitty and it could take some time.

(Incidentally, I surmised that Mike could have belonged to someone – he has not been like a feral in that he’s let me pet him almost from day one. But whomever took care of him did such a shite job that I’m not even going to try to find his owner.)

He will not be an easy placement (hey, how about a kitty who walks with a limp and has FIV?) but he is going to be a love, I can just feel it. And I took him on and won’t give up on him until he has a life free of pain and abandonment.

I’m in Mexico now for a week, and before I left I took him to stay at Dr. Sue’s. His wounds are still not cleared up, and I didn’t want to put that on my petsitter. I miss him and feel anxious for his progress while I’m gone. St. Francis, take care of my new charge and let him continue to heal, so that he can know the power of love and devotion.

Around the first of each month, I revamp my to-do list. I separate the short-term to-dos (get oil change) from the longer-term ones (do taxes, finish screenplay). Often, these longer ones end up being repeated, month after month, until they get done.

One I’ve been rewriting for two years now has been “trap Grace.” At the beginning of each month, I’d say and write it again: “trap Grace.” Even as I’ve started to come to grips with the idea that she is really gone and I won’t see her again, when I saw this list item today I burst again into tears. The plain truth is, I failed Grace. I tried repeatedly to catch her, but I failed. So clearly, I didn’t try hard enough.

Erin (upon whose dainty shoulder I leaned yesterday) said that was ridiculous – that I did everything I could. But did I?? I’ll have to really examine that before I let myself off the emotional hook.

Meanwhile, after Big Mike went missing (soon after Carrie and I tried to trap him), he reappeared in recent days, looking about the same – which is pretty awful. He is holding his paw in the air, and in the bend of his front leg there is an open wound. He is chatty and acts like he’s starving, so I know he’s not dying. But he has to be in excruciating pain. I can barely stand to look at him, knowing he’s suffering.

The good news is that he is trusting me more. In the last two days he has eaten right in front of the carrier/trap, and this morning went halfway into it. Tomorrow, I’m hoping to nab him and get him to Dr. Sue. Light a candle for him… and for me!

I don’t always love this open-heartedness I’ve grown into. I had to introduce a film that Litquake was co-presenting at the Green Film Festival the other night: a documentary featuring the brilliant author Jonathan Franzen, about the poaching of songbirds. I had assumed they were poaching them to sell them in pet stores; instead we were treated to seemingly endless shots of cooked songbirds in various dishes. WHO CAN EAT THIS?? my brain was screaming. I had to leave after 15 minutes, missing my chance to meet Franzen. Sigh.

So here are a few new to-do’s for my longterm list: don’t beat yourself up more than you should. Ask for help even when you think you can do everything yourself. Recognize that you can’t bat .1000 with critter rescue every day. And try to let yourself off the hook when things go terribly wrong.

Forgive me, Gracie. I loved you as well as I could.

In my last post, I didn’t even want to mention the fact that Grace had disappeared – as if giving voice to this fact could make it become permanent. Just as I was beginning kitten watch, and she was becoming more tame than ever – making long eye contact and even rolling on the sidewalk with a submissive belly display, she vanished. She has gone on walkabout in the past for a few days, but this time, her two pals (Diego and Frida) went from friendly and near-tame to terrified at every sound, and in hiding. I had a bad feeling that something terrible had happened.

A week went by with no sign of Grace, though the other two came back after a few days, looking a little shell-shocked. After she was missing a week, I had a consult with the wonderful Suzan, an animal communicator I’ve used in the past with good results. When I asked her if she could locate Grace, she said she could not get any kind of reading on her, and she was “80% sure” Grace was “no longer in this body.” I was stunned – I was thinking Grace might have moved herself and the kittens farther down the creek. It never occurred to me that she might have been killed. I also asked about some possible kittens, and she chose her words carefully. Two had likely been born, she said, but she was also unable to get a reading on them. She sensed there had been a life-threatening separation from mama, when they were too little to fend for themselves.

I was crushed and in tears for hours, but because I’m basically an optimist, I thought I would trust in the 20% chance that she would show up again, as she always has. But a week has gone by now, and my hopes dim by the minute. I cannot think of her without a flood of emotion. Grace was, in her own way, my cat. I saw her almost daily for nearly four years now; I adopted out three litters of her kittens; she and I played the equivalent of cat-and-mouse for years, with my clumsily trying to trap her and nearly succeeding on occasion. I was in awe of her mothering skills, and her ability to survive in tough surroundings. Thinking I’ll never see her again breaks my heart.

While grieving Grace, I’ve been trying to trap Big Mike, who is also wise to traps and avoiding them scrupulously. The good news is that his awful wound seems to be healing; at least he is putting weight on his leg. And strangely, a Grace-like (and Pokey-like) mini-me came around while I was trying to trap Mike. She is beautiful – a young kitty of maybe a year or so. I have only seen her the one time now, but I’m anxious to create a routine and try and trap her as well – and see if she is as lovely, smart and wily as her possible mama. (Could Charlotte and Wilbur have had a third sibling who struck out on her own rather than coming up to the sidewalk?)

New girl on left, Grace on right.

I don’t know – call me crazy but maybe Grace left a little gift behind?

I know the tears will stop eventually; an excess of them is the trade-off for having a wide-open heart these days, which also has an abundant capacity for joy. Gracie – if you are really gone, fare you well sweet lady. Say hi to Mocha on the other side.

It’s been a while since I’ve posted – partly because the spring seems to have become the most insane time for me, work-wise, but also because it was, for a few weeks anyway,  weirdly smooth sailing with my fur-babies. After Mocha died, and Little Maude and Ritz were adopted, I was able to just tend the flock of regulars. But of course all peace must eventually get disrupted, and my little kingdom is no exception.

After Pokey suddenly stopped pooping and was vomiting, he was diagnosed with something called mega-colon. I’ll spare my more sensitive readers by not going into detail, but let’s just say Dr. Sue’s treatment was akin to unplugging a kitchen sink. Not pretty at all, and poor guy was so traumatized. I have switched his food and he’s doing great – fingers crossed that this continues.

Around that time I realized I would need to move my bird feeder, after Iggy the Terminator got not one but TWO birds on the back deck. First he managed to grab one through the netting of the zip-up tent I had back there, and I could not save the little yellow finch. I wrapped him a white cloth and laid him in the woods, apologizing for the fact that my carelessness cost him his life. I took away the mesh tent and replaced it with a dog crate. And would you believe he got another bird within a couple of days – a bird that had jumped onto the deck, too close to his sharp claws. This time I managed to get him away from the bird, which was injured but managed to fly away.

I was so angry at Iggy; at the same time, he’s just BEING A CAT. Maybe I was more angry at myself for the failure (and perhaps folly) of my little species-mixing experiment on the back deck. Now there’s a window screen separating the dog crate from the feeding area – a second layer of security against his claws. When he sits in there now he reminds me of Hannibal Lechter from “Silence of the Lambs.”

If it were just Iggy’s occasional attempts at murder, I could handle it. But I am now finding at least one dead songbird every few weeks – the result, I’m told, of so many eating frantically that when they startle, they fly into windows or walls. And my neighbors say they have found dead birds as well. Every time I see one I feel awful that my efforts at being a minor league St. Francis are in fact costing critter lives. So the feeder, I decided, will need to be moved again. But to where? I’m scouting the area, feeling sad that soon I won’t be able to revel in the fluttering sea of yellow outside my kitchen window.

Also around this time, I realized Grace had gone from stout to thin – evidence that she has had more kittens. I was so upset by the development – not because I don’t love kittens (I adore them) but because it means more weeks of worrying about them. Will they survive? Will they get eaten by predators? Will Grace bring them up to the sidewalk as she has done before? The kitten watch has started. And then of course, there’s the challenge of finding them good home(s).

Also, it seems more and more clear that the tortie I inherited from the Odwalla folks has a health problem. Her forehead seems swollen above one eye, and I can’t get close enough to her to be able to really look it. Dr. Sue thinks it might be an infected scratch – or perhaps a tumor.  🙁  And then, just a few days ago, tortie girl was joined by a huge tabby boy (I’m assuming by his size that he’s a boy) who is injured. I’m calling him Mike after my new favorite Giant – the towering beefcake known as Mike Morse. Today, growing closer to me, Mike showed that he can’t put any weight on one of his legs, and it seems to have an open wound.

It crushes me to think any animal is suffering nearby; clearly I need to trap this fellow and get him some medical attention. As I sat quietly today while he ate, Mike’s eyes looked woozy with pain. But good grief – my first real vacation of the year comes up in one month, and already it’s hard to make ends meet. How on earth can I afford treatment for a kitty I’ve just met? At the same time, how can I let him suffer?

Simone talks often of trusting in the universe to help, and I could surely use a little of that help now. St. Francis, I’m happy to take care of your critters, if you can help take care of me.

It’s been a (weirdly quiet, uncomplicated) month now since both Little Maude and Ritz were adopted. The first has gone very well – despite a temperamental outburst here and there by Princess M. They love her anyway and she clearly loves them back. Here’s a photo that melts my heart, with her holding court with new mama Trela, and new friend Levi.

Ritz’s adoption has not gone as smoothly; there are complications with his new mom’s other cat (i.e. they do not like each other). She adores him, though, already, and so I light a candle every day that this happy scene can continue.

I also saw a new photo recently from Mickey Blues Eyes’ mom, Nancy, who renamed him Boji. What kills me is how soundly he’s sleeping!! Cats who come in from difficult circumstances sometimes don’t sleep soundly for months. He clearly feels happy and safe enough now to let it all hang out.  😉

There’s just nothing that makes me happier than images like these – seeing kitties who were so fearful, or wet from the rain, or scrawny from parasites. Incidentally, Nancy says that Boji’s collar, which was so tight on his neck when I trapped him, may have done semi-permanent damage to his throat and larynx. It might explain why he was so quiet, those months I had him. It might also explain why he was so easy to catch – he was close to choking to death.

So I can continue to think the best of my fellow human, I choose to believe he was lost as a collared kitten – not than someone was so cruel as to dump him while he was still little, without realizing his collar could kill him someday.

Anyway, thanks to the guiding spirit for putting me in the right place at the right time.

March has been such a whirlwind. No time to breathe let alone blog. But so much has happened!

Little Maude has found a home – thanks to a fortuitous/blessed “share” I made in an essay class. I was talking about blogging and told my students about Critters and Saints. This led to a student saying she was looking for a mellow kitty to be her preschool-age son’s first pet. This led to a lovely visit wherein the occasionally cranky Maudie was sweet as pie with this darling boy, who announced that she was just fine with him, and he would be taking her home now. In fact, he found a pouch of her treats, and said he would be carrying them for her. His mother let him know that they needed to talk first to Daddy, but when they did, Little Maude got the go-ahead. I take her to them on Sunday, and pray she is just what they want and need for that gorgeous little boy.

Simultaneously, Ritz the wayward alpha Maine coon showed up in the parking lot again. GROAN. His adoption had not worked out because apparently the young barista who took him home had failed to ask her parents if she could keep him. Poor boy was back again on the street. This time I got more involved – fanning out the word about him, and posting him on social media. Talk about telegenic!!

Ritz video 2

Within a week he was spoken for by a lovely retiree in Mill Valley, and with the help of his caretaker Lisa, we collected him and I drove him North. His new mom was thrilled to have him in her beautiful hillside home – but there were a few ruffles. As I was in New York last week, both working and freezing my butt off, I got the call that Ritz had bitten her. Also, he was hostile to her other kitty. She was not sure it was going to work out.

Maybe it was being in New York, which I find less wonderful every time I visit, but the news hit me hard. Poor Ritz was so overdue for a break!! And so was I. Mocha was gone; couldn’t I have a trouble-free leave of absence from my life for just a week?

I also realized when I was in New York how dependent I am on the energy I get from animals. Any animals. I found myself chirping at pigeons, and pausing on the rare occasion when I saw a songbird in a rare tree, to stare in fascination. The huge skyscrapers surrounding me at all times no longer impressed; instead I kept angling for a bit of sky. I felt painfully lonely without a cat to sleep with. And the pursuits of ambition seemed less satisfying and more hollow. I felt wildly out of balance.

I emailed Simone to tell her my thoughts and her response was that this is what happens when your heart opens and softens, and there is no going back now. Not sure how I feel about that. Balance is hard enough to come by on a good day. Can’t I go back to being a selfish person who can see a need and not care to fill it?

Once back at home, balance was yet elusive, as I threw myself back into the 90-mph life I’ve created for myself. Things are going better now for Ritz and his new mom – at least she’s giving him some more time – but I craved a sighting of Grace, whom I had not seen since the 16th. For three days I left food without seeing her. And just this morning, there she was: just down the ravine, crouching on the wet earth, blinking a hello after almost two weeks of absence. I sat on the sidewalk, took the first deep breath in weeks, and talked to her a bit. The world seemed to slow down, my deadlines disappeared, and balance seemed like it could just be around the corner.

It’s been a few weeks since I blogged. After Mocha died, I could have taken a break, but instead I hurled myself quickly into the next rescue. (And what’s that about? Do I always need a challenge? Is the best antidote to grief to plunge right back in again?) Anyway, I cleaned out the downstairs bathroom that had been Mocha’s spot since her December stroke, and the next day I brought home Little Maude.

I’d been rehearsing bringing her home by feeding her in the carrier I left in the bushes. Each day, I pushed it a little further inside, until she was aaaaall the way in. And then I closed the gate behind her. She was NOT happy – turned and hissed – but when I got her home she settled right down and took up residence in her new bed.

For two weeks she was my contented guest – always happy to see me when I visited, slept almost nonstop (poor little thing must’ve been exhausted by months in challenging circumstances) purred when she was petted, wriggled anxiously when picked up, and chatted incessantly.

Little Maude video

I took her to the vet, who kindly comped her visit, and discovered that she has no teeth!  “This kitty got some major love at one point – this is expensive dental work,” she said. So then what happened to her family? Why was she wandering alone in the ravine for months? The mystery of Little Maude will have to remain just that, as we move on with her life, and try to find her a good family. She would be great with an older person, as she’s no spring chicken herself.

I say “we” will find her a good home, because I had the incredible good fortune of an offer to foster Maude while one was sought. Robin lives north of here on the coast, and when I took Maude to her, I felt anxious, like this might be too many changes for the little girl to handle. But she has handled it with aplomb and a minimum of complaining. Robin “gets” her already and I know will do the right thing for her.

So… what’s next  on the agenda? Because I apparently can’t stand peace and relative quiet,  I’ve decided to try again to and trap Grace, the mama kitty who has given birth to far too many kittens in the last 3.5 years. She has eluded my traps too often in the past, but it is TIME. Today, as I fed her, I lingered longer than usual, trying to soothe her skittish nerves, making eye contact when possible. “Gracie, you’re coming with me soon,” I whispered to her, hoping some fraction of what I was saying would sink in.

St. Francis, it’s time to end this cycle and bring Grace home to me. Asking for your hand in mine.

It’s been an interesting almost-week since Mocha died. Death can crack you wide open, exposing you to all kinds of thoughts, feelings, lessons, challenges – as turbulent and inevitable as the storms rolling through Northern California. One thing I realized soon after she died was that a song I had chosen to listen to for the first time in many years had significance beyond its aural charms. On my way home from the city a week or so ago, I rifled through my glove box until I found a favorite from the 90s: the British pop band Kula Shaker. Theirs was a fantastic blend of psychedelia and Hindu mysticism; two songs on their debut album were sung completely in Sanskrit.

One of that album’s songs, “Into the Deep,” became an ear worm for days after I slipped it into the car’s CD player.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a3i9icc6iNA&feature=kp The morning Mocha died, it was there again, lifting me up as it soared  majestically in my mind. I only knew some of the words, but the melody haunted me. Days later, I finally looked up the lyrics and was stunned. “Enter your heart, and never let it part / Yesterday was a lie so be happy now. / I know the time has come to let you go / Time to sleep, to sleep…”

Oh my goodness – how great is that. Great and sad and amazing. And a step in the healing process. The jolt of not seeing Mocha has softened, and the flickers of black and white I’ve been seeing since her Dec. stroke have stopped. (More on this later.) I’m not yet ready to take down my Mocha Memorial (flowers and a rainbow card from Carrie, a candle, her picture, a bejeweled tiny box with a bit of her fur) because it makes me smile.

I also sought solace this week in a consultation with a wonderful woman, Suzan, who is an animal communicator I’ve used several times in the past. (Stop reading here if you get hives with exposure to things metaphysical.) I asked her why Mocha went off my back deck – the thing that has haunted me the most since Tuesday – and she sensed that it was because she was disoriented, and wanted to go back to the ravine she came from, to die. That she could smell it on the wind, but did not realize how far the drop was. “She was a very determined, cantankerous old lady, wasn’t she?” she chuckled. I said that captured her perfectly.

Suzan said Mocha was extremely ready to go; that she loved me, and hung around this long because she’d found love at last in my home, but knew it was time. Asked if Mocha was “okay,” Suzan laughed. “She is joyful – just a soul spark now, and long gone,” she said. I thought this was interesting, as every time I’d had a cat pass, I sensed they were still nearby for a while afterward, even seeing them out of the corner of my eye. Not so with Mocha, my tortoise goddess, whose patchwork fur was unmistakable.

I DID, however, see flickers of black and white – going back to when she had her stroke six weeks ago. I would think it was Iggy, my youngest, but it was not him. No, she said – that was Marvin, Mocha’s mate, who had been present since she first almost died, there to make her transition easier. I “saw” him right after her stroke, and then several times this last week. And then nothing in recent days.

“He was there to welcome her,” Suzan said. “And he is conveying his gratitude to you for giving his best friend a home at the end of her life.”

I’d been doing okay until this moment, but it was time to bawl. I hope I adequately conveyed to Mocha how much she brought to MY life these last few years. And how she opened my heart and mind and brought me closer to the source.

“I know the time has come to let you go / Time to sleep, to sleep…”

I just finished cleaning out the bathroom that was Mocha’s home since her December stroke, because I’m not much good for desk work right now. The house seems empty and silent without her puckish spirit in all corners. I am relieved that she’s no longer suffering and is free, but it was a spectacularly awful morning. I’ll share with you just how awful so that you know my “gifts” for animal caretaking sometimes fail me.

No one who knew Mocha would be surprised that the cantankerous, fiercely independent old girl would take her leave her own way. Yesterday I took her out on the back deck so she could feel the sun on her fur. She perked up, despite her dementia, and sniffed long and deep into the wind coming from the parking lot that was her home for almost 18 years until I brought her home two years ago. I wondered then if she was thinking of those years, and her deep bond with Marvin, her mate, who passed before her a couple of years ago.

This morning, she was so frail she could barely walk, and could no longer drink and eat, so it seemed clear that Dr. Sue would need to come over and help escort Mocha into the next plane. So I sadly set about making her comfortable. The sliding door was open to the deck, and when she smelled the breeze, she got up on rickety legs and walked slowly through the door. I followed her, and when she lay down on the deck I put a blanket on her to keep her warm. I went back inside for maybe two minutes, and when I checked on her, was horrified to see she was missing. I frantically searched the deck, and when I could not find her, I looked over the side.

There she was on the pavement, maybe 8 feet below. I shrieked and raced downstairs, convinced she was dead. I scooped her up off the ground, crying, and she looked up at me with the funniest look that was equal parts, what are you crying for woman?! and shit, THAT didn’t work…

What on earth Mocha was trying to do by walking off the deck I had no idea. (I think either follow the scents to the parking lot, or just get away from me, so she could die in peace.) I’ve never heard of an animal committing suicide, but she was such a tough old coot I would not have put it past her.

Tough doesn’t quite cover it. I brought her back upstairs and lay her on the rug, thinking she would die any moment from her injuries, and called the vet, hysterical and begging her to please come. At that moment, she got up and started walking BACK to the deck on wobbly legs. I stopped her, and cuddled her for the 20 minutes until Dr. Sue came. By then she was listless and giving up – almost limp in my arms. The vet said it’s possible she had internal injuries from the fall, and could be in pain, so I said, let’s let her go.

So I held her while the needles did their work, kissing the top of her head and telling her to go find Marvin. I also told her that I was certain that now that she’s experienced LOVE in this life, she will find it again in the next. I wrapped her in favorite blanket and carried her out to Dr. Sue’s car, experiencing again what I noticed when I was there for my mother’s death: once death comes, the body is irrelevant. It looked like Mocha, but it wasn’t my old girl. She is gone now but when I close my eyes I see her as a shining light, and a young cat, prancing freely into the beautiful void.

St. Francis, guide her safely on her journey.

After sinking her claws into life following her Christmas stroke, Mocha has been loosening her grip. In the last five days, her internal fire has dimmed to a pilot light, and she is lost in the strange haze of end of life.

The vet speculates that her renal failure is shutting down her brain as well, because she has been howling mournfully – several times an hour – and wandering around the house like an Alzheimer’s patient. She no longer wants food, so I have been injecting diluted baby food into her mouth with a syringe – after which she stares at me with baleful eyes and hobbles slowly away. And she has developed the curious habit of putting her front legs into the tall water bowl, up to her wee armpits, dipping her mouth down to the water level.

When I told this to Dr. Sue, she said uh-oh, in renal failure they feel compelled to drink, yet they can’t. I noticed, then, that she was in fact not drinking, and it hit me that my dear Mocha is soon to die. I spent the evening fighting tears, cuddling her… and noticing that I could not, for the first time, coax a purr. Her eyes were not focused on me; they were looking out at something distant.

This morning I’m watching her, holding her, indulging her, waiting to hear from the vet. Ready to let her go, if she is also ready to fly. I keep telling her that even though I’ll miss her dreadfully, she should get the hell out of this failing form, and be free.