Jane Ganahl

The stars must have been in turbulent places this last week, as everywhere I turned there was drama and uncertainty. Starting with a completely unnecessary war of words with the head of a prominent animal welfare organization, continuing through Mocha’s downturn (she is mostly refusing food again), and further torpedoing my equilibrium by discovering a terrible skin condition on Pokey that I somehow never found, and concluding with major disappointment that someone who was interested in adopting  Little Maude is now waffling and unsure. I suppose that without these tests, we’d take our successes for granted. Right? RIGHT?  😉

I’ve also found myself lately wishing I had a switch to turn my heart off and on, from “full reception” to “tough nut to crack.” I was at the nursery today – a place I’ve been going for 25 years – and asked the woman owner if she still had a kitty hanging around the place. No, she said – “only this one feral one who lives in the greenhouse, but we can’t get near it.” I asked if she fed this kitty and she said no, that it fed itself on rodents and whatever else it could find. She seemed to think this was an okay arrangement, but I find these situations awfully damn one-sided. Their rodent population stays down, and in exchange the cat gets… nothing. I found myself growing angry before I paid for my daffodils and left, worrying about this anonymous black cat I’d never seen. Damn these critters for making me worry, and for making me care. (Would I have it be any other way? Probably not, but it can get exhausting.)

Little Maude might still have a home with an elderly woman who saw her in the parking lot, but she is concerned about her age (85) and about her ability to care for Maude. I told her I could put it in writing that I would take Maude back should something happen to her, but she is understandably concerned. Maude was on her best behavior when she met Geri: when I picked her up, she was quite content for quite a few minutes. She’s such a sweet girl and I worry about her (are you getting a theme here?) living in the parking lot.

If Geri decides she wants her, I would have to take her home with me for a few weeks to make sure she is socialized enough to be able to use the cat box and not try to escape. But the inn is not only FULL, it’s full of special-needs creatures right now, with Mocha needing constant care, and Pokey eating himself alive because of his skin condition. Sigh.

I won’t even go into the fracas with the animal welfare executive, it was so ridiculous. And I still have hopes of working with this person in the future.

In the meantime, I tend the morning flock, and worry about finding a petsitter willing to take on what it is I do every day. I have one month to find one before I need to go to L.A. for Litquake. Let me know if you have ideas! And St. Francis, I’m holding out my arms for guidance and help.

I took Mickey to his new home on Saturday, after three months of getting him used to indoor living again. I was fairly confident that he’d be fine in his new digs in Redwood City, with his wonderful new mom, Nancy. But I’ve learned that my own confidence does not always translate to sureness on the kitty’s part.

Pokey’s one and only adoption attempt crashed and burned when he lashed out at his new adopters; Lizzie spent the first several weeks hiding behind a washing machine, necessitating many emails with her new mom who understandably felt rejected; even Charlotte and Wilbur had some rough days after their transplant this summer. Etc. Etc. So you kiss them goodbye, deal with your own anxiety about how much you’ve asked of these beings – human and non – and hold your breath until you get the email or text that tells you things are going to be FINE.

I got mine Monday. After a day and a night of hiding behind a toilet, Mickey shyly climbed in bed with Nancy on night #2, who managed to take this precious picture with her spare hand. It’s fuzzy, but you can see how content my little guy looks.

Ahhhhh, now I can breathe again. And another miracle of connection occurs. So grateful this sweet boy is HOME!!

I read once that unless you spend at least a few minutes every day giving of yourself in a situation where no one will say thank you, you’re not maximizing your time on the planet. Just this morning, when I got too close to Diego, my beautiful Russian Blue fellow, he gave me a hearty hiss, just as I was putting down his food in the meadow. And then came home to Mocha’s projectile poopage. Don’t ask. Anyway, if working for zero thanks is good karma, I’m thinking I’m paid up for the next several years.  😉

At the same time, I got a beautiful thank you this Christmas in the form of a necklace, made by hand by my enormously talented sister-in-law, Julie Buelteman, which features a St. Francis medallion. Beautiful, eh?

When I read the words on the back of it – “It is in giving that we receive” – I got choked up. These were not only the perfect words on the first spiritual talisman I’ve ever gotten, the necklace itself was the first tangible evidence that my family supports the time and energy I put into this work. I generally don’t talk about it much, because of the inevitable teasing I get at times. But this represents a corner turned.

Here’s to not only more productive work for Earth’s critters in 2014, but to more thank yous for all the wonderful people who give their 15 minutes a day – not just to the critters but to make the world a nicer place for them and for you. And thanks to St. Francis for the inspiration.

My holiday week was a bit on the chaotic side, with family members visiting the coastside, every day Christmas commitments, Mocha drifting between comatose and perky, Mickey finding a home (!) and a new tabby who showed up at the parking lot, a sweet little lady I started calling Little Maude.

She is a petite little thing, and thanks to Caitlin’s portable microchip scanner, we learned that she had been spayed at Main Street Vet, but that no one had ever really owned her. Her medical records gave her name as “stray,” which tells me she was a TNR (trap-neuter-release), but none of this explains how she became so sweet, so tame, without every having had a home. She is eight years old, and I’d say she’s overdue for some TLC.

But my inn is full!! As is Caitlin’s. So I guess she’ll have to remain a parking lot kitty for the meantime. It bothers me to see ANY kitty living in those conditions, but those who could be lap cats especially. For now, Little Maude will just have to get a few minutes of TLC from me each day.

And this week, Mickey goes to his new home!! Thank heavens (or at least one saint) for Facebook, and the powers of connections: someone I know on FB posted Mickey’s information, and his friend Nancy replied: “Uh oh.” She had been cat-free for a year, since losing two geriatric cats, and knew the right cat would show up at the right time. Seeing Mickey, she knew the time was now.  🙂

I shall miss his sunny, shy presence, and his gorgeous silky fur (so transformed from the thin, matted coat he had on Sept. 1 when I trapped him) but he needs someone to give him a lot more attention than I’m able to.

In the meantime, I marvel at watching Mocha’s journey. So feisty one day, so exhausted and spent the next, I pray for the guidance to know when her time truly comes.

A quick update to say that the old girl is still with me. She has had moments where I had to check her breathing to see if she was still alive, to moments when she stands on wobbly legs in order to drink lots of water, to growling at me when I move her to make her more comfortable.

I spent the first part of Monday sick with stress about making the decision as to whether to let Dr. Sue give her the needle when she came for an afternoon visit. I decided I would let her opinion guide me. And she said that although Mocha was likely in renal and/or heart failure, as long as she was eating, using the box and drinking water on her own, her quality of life was still good. As for QUANTITY of life, who knows? A week? A day? I know now to watch for signs – her inability to toilet herself, her refusal of food, her lack of interest in being cuddled – that will tell me she’s had enough.

Elizabeth Kubler Ross had it so right about the stages of grief. When I realized Mocha was “going” I was devastated – felt utterly disabled by sadness. After a couple of days of grieving, and realizing she could be in this diminished state for some time, I’ve accepted – and adapted. When I leave the house to go to the store, I give her a kiss and tell her it’s okay to go if she wants to. I’m trying to sleep in my bed and not next to her on the floor, knowing I’m no good to anyone in the current catatonic state I find myself in. When she howls at me in indignation for moving her listless body out of the cat box she’s lying in, I tease her. “Just try to find someone else who will brush litter off your butt!”

She’s like a senior citizen losing her dignity, and, like I had to do with my dad, you learn to smile through it and accept it. Her eventual death – that will be hard. In the meantime, I try to love her every remaining moment I can. And keep accepting.

Friday morning she was fine; Friday night she was not. Mocha started refusing food, and then just lay down and stayed there. Immobilized by unseen forces that dimmed her bright eyes and sapped her strength, it was like a light had gone out in my sweet old girl.

By Saturday morning I finally allowed myself to realize what was happening: this was not a setback in a 20-year-old kitty’s fragile health, or a one-day hunger strike. Mocha might be dying. I spent most of the day doubled up in grief, hovering over her, stroking her along the jawline the way she likes while a familiar purr rumbled quietly under her shallow breathing, trying to coax her into letting me feed her by hand, wetting her fur with tears.

As the day passed into evening, I came to grips with the fact that I was losing her. I spent the night on couch cushions positioned next to her still body, and tried to sleep with one hand on her fur, so that I could hopefully feel it if she took her last breath.

This morning, when I opened my eyes, hers were staring back at me more brightly than before, and when I offered food she ate it. My heart leapt up, thinking perhaps she was on the mend and that this was all a big charade she was pulling just to make me crazy. But tonight, she is lethargic again, refusing food, and complaining loudly when I try to move her a little to be more comfortable. As Barbara, my cat-care guru, reminds me: sometimes a kitty’s natural-cause death can be a halting process, with moments of hope interspersed with the grief.

Having ridden the roller coaster this weekend, my most fervent hope is that my darling old girl goes easily on from here – whether that takes an hour or a week. I hope she goes, feeling loved and comforted, to where her failing body falls away and leaves her free.

It’s been a while since I last blogged – almost two weeks – but I’ve been busy trying to find a modicum of balance in my bursting household. And among the restless denizens thereof.

I decided that if indeed Pokey was going to be with me perhaps forever, I would need to start integrating him into the rest of the house. I simply can’t imagine going another 7-8 years of his life with him shut off in my bedroom. (I’m going to keep trying to find him a home, but I have to be realistic.) So I thought I’d see what happened if I left the door open a crack to the rest of the house. Claude, who’d been enjoying the swanky digs of my bedroom while Pokey was enjoying his vacation in San Francisco, barged right in on him, and the results were not pretty. A MAJOR howling fight, with Pokey getting the worst of it: a claw stuck in his nose, right between his eyes, like a tiny unicorn horn.

Okay, that was another failed experiment. Door is closed again, and Pokey is now being let out in small bits, separated from my own felines by a collapsing gate. Live and learn.

My small joy right now is the transformation of Mickey. It’s subtle but substantial. He was so sick with parasites when I trapped him two months ago that his eyes showed pain and illness. And now look at today’s photo. His fur is lush, his eyes clear, his purr ever-ready. Such a beautiful boy.

I am starting the full court press to get him adopted, so that I don’t have to worry about him during Christmas week, which is chaotic around this house already. If you know of someone who wants a loving, gorgeous, sweet little guy, please let me know!

Feeling a lot of gratitude for what I’m coming to believe is a new gift in recent years: learning how to tend these neglected roses so that they bloom anew.

I got the fateful text on Saturday: Pokey had lashed out again at his new people, and perhaps it was time to come and pick him up. I was in tears – I had such hopes that this would be a happy outcome for all. But at the end of the day, I didn’t want to force a square peg in a round hole, which is what this seemed to be.

I was concerned that Pokey might have forgotten me in three weeks. But when I entered his room, and asked to be alone with him, he meowed balefully as I approached, then quieted. And when I reached toward him, he rolled his head to the side in a display of recognition, and desire to be petted. Then he started to purr.  Oh my.

I got him home and had fenced off my bathroom area, thinking that A) he would need a quiet spot to get his sea legs back under him, and B) my longterm kitties were not going to give up space on my bed so easily. Within 20 minutes he was chirping at the gate, complaining about not having access to his usual space, directing his pointed remarks at Claude, who was sleeping on his heretofore bed throne, utterly ignoring him. So hilarious. He now seems to have completely forgiven me, and is back to his affectionate self.

I don’t know if this disastrous attempted adoption (my first failure in three years and 18 cats) means that Pokey is not adoptable? Or whether he needs a home with people who are truly “cat people” and know the drill with ferals – something I feel like I failed to stress adequately. I don’t know. As much as I adore him, he definitely feels like one cat too many when it comes to my longterm kitties. But I’m done for a little while trying to find him his own home. I feel bad that he clearly was unhappy for three weeks, while everyone tried to make this fluffy square peg fit in a round hole, and think he’s earned a rest. But what of his future?

Saint Francis, a little direction here?

I got home Monday but it’s taken me several days to catch up to my life! Iggy and Lena were of course fine, but on day 2 when I brushed Claude, I noticed some pretty awful scabs on his back – bad enough to bleed when I touched them with the comb. Somehow my petsitter had not noticed. (Don’t get me started.) The vet paid a visit and said it was extreme flea allergy. (How did fleas get in my house?!) I bought a round of Advantage – much as I hate to put that toxic potion on anything, let alone my kitties – but it has to be done. And as I went to apply to a sleeping Iggy, he jerked his head up, knocking my hand and causing a drop to go into his EYE. He raced around the house in pain and fear, and I felt sick with remorse. Call #2 to the aforementioned vet, who said he “should be okay, but flush his eye with saline and put Neosporin in it.” I said that was unlikely to happen, as Iggy is my ninja kitty who can elude me easily any moment of the day. (Three days later, his eye is not blind and has finally stopped weeping.)

Good times! Welcome home!!

I also learned that Charlie, my patio kitty, had gone missing in recent days. Charlie is an independent contractor among strays – portly enough that I suspect he’s pawning food off unsuspecting neighbors – but I was still worried about him, and delighted to find him the next day, hanging out in the parking lot where I had originally trapped him. (The ferals over there don’t like him and steer clear; he’s like the Kiefer Sutherland character in “Stand By Me,” with Elvis hair and a sneer.) Since that morning he’s been back and napping on the patio chair in front.

Anyway, it was a rough homecoming, mitigated only by a text from Pokey’s new family on the eve of my drive to SF to bring him home: “Can he stay one more week? He’s doing better.” My spirits soared, even as I realized it was likely only a temporary reprieve. We shall see how he continues to do in the next few.

And I was finally able to spring Mickey Blue eyes from his temporary digs – a cage in a horse trailer – where my kind rescue colleagues had kept him while I was away. I wasn’t expecting a cage, but apparently he… uh… could not be trusted to run around loose, as he ate everyone else’s food. (In his defense, he was only trapped a month ago, and had clearly been starving. So he was just making up for lost meals.  😉

Here he is today, clearly enjoying being back in my fold.

He is absolutely precious – very eager to be loved, and already quite socialized. He’ll only need a week with me, and then I’ll start the full-court press to find him a home. He’s another one I’d keep in a heartbeat if I lived in a real house and not a condo, with a yard instead of a 3 x 12 deck. But perhaps the restrictions are good in that they keep me from becoming a full-on halfway house for abandoned critters.

As much as I loved my time away, I missed these guys terribly, every day. Not having something to take care of made me feel useless and self-indulgent. But don’t you suppose Saint Francis himself had a cocktail, took in some theater and got a massage once in a while?

Litquake is over – it was a huge success – and I’m now in the Pacific Northwest at my friend’s cabin for decompression, writing, recovery from a year that has absolutely crushed me with stress. As thrilled as I am to have a week to myself, not having feline energy around me leaves me feeling slightly bereft and at loose ends. And I’m spending way too much time checking in on the ferals, the housecats, Mocha and her raw food diet, Mickey and his babysitters, and of course, my dear, departed Pokey.

Before I left, I took him to his new home. As thrilled as I was that someone other than me was opening their heart to my cranky old foster, I was anxious for his future. We agreed that it would be a trial placement, and I was encouraged that he immediately allowed them to touch him without hissing.

It’s been about a week now, and based on frequent texts and emails, his adaptation to his new home has been… rocky. And painfully slow. After a few quiet days, he got pissed. And has, on occasion, hissed and even swatted at his new parents. My girlfriend was upset about it; she has been dealing with a lot in her life, and I think had hoped that Pokey would be something she could cuddle – and quickly. Instead, he had other ideas. He’s not succumbing quietly to their efforts at charming and calming him. Pokey’s new dad apparently even slept in Pokey’s room last night, and said he was up for an hour, roaming around and meowing loudly.

Was he looking for me? The idea of it makes the lump rise in my throat as I write this. I facilitated this adoption so Pokey could be happier: have more space, more people to love him, fancier digs. I know if he stays there, he’ll forget the 18 months he spent in my care and indeed forget about me (hooboy there goes the lump again) but the transition is bound to be rough. Seven years feral and I was the only human he had bonded with. But we shall see – animals never cease to amaze me with their ability to adapt and open themselves to love.

In order to make life easier on my petsitter, I also installed Mickey Blue Eyes with a coastal rescue group before I left, and he is doing fine! Not happy about being in a confined area, but allowing himself to be petted and cuddled. I’ll take him back when I get home so I can finish the socialization process and help find him a home. He’s so darling and healthy, I can’t imagine it will be too daunting a process. The thought of him makes me smile, gives me purpose, makes me feel less blue about The Pokester.

Saint Francis, watch over my old boy, and help him calm himself long enough to open his heart to be loved again.