Jane Ganahl

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.

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?  😉

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!

I woke up this Sunday morning at 6 AM with a fluffy and sweet grey-and-white face looming above me.

As as I opened my eyes and started to focus, the Maine Coon chirping began. wake. up. now. please. hungry. i.  It was both irresistibly cute and incredibly annoying. Without Pokey, I could actually sleep in once in a while.

Then he drew a breath and I knew what was coming. He began his morning sneezing fit, spewing pink mucous like a machine gun, as I held my hands up in an attempt to keep the flying grossness off my face. Without Pokey, I would not have to launder my pillowcases as often.

My decision-making process has changed in the 9 years since I brought Pokey home from the parking lot, where he was the alpha male of the colony under the bridge. He walked with a limp – which I learned was the result of being hit by a car when he was very young, an injury that went untreated. A limping cat would be considered fair game for predators, though Pokey was already a mid-aged adult, maybe 6 years old, and had cheated his fate so far. But still, I decided to take him home, with the intention of finding a home for him after neutering.

And I did – making the terrible decision of giving him to friends who had never had a cat before. (Ten years into my rescue pursuits, I wonder now what in God’s name I was thinking.) He of course was miserable, refusing to come out of hiding and lashing out when attempts to pet him were made. He soon was back at my house where he would remain.

In the almost ten years since, he has been my joy and my challenge. Because of his cracked pelvis and the arthritis that followed, he developed megacolon, and was hospitalized twice before we got a handle on treating it with meds and food. Because he is also FIV-positive, he also developed a chronic upper respiratory infection which continues to plague him today.

All of that would be one thing, but oh, the personality of the alpha male… I have to feed Skeeter (his bunkmate) in a separate location because he headbutts her out of the way to get to the food, even though it’s the exact same as his. And I can’t have him around other male cats (unless they’re kittens – see here: https://janeganahl.com/blog/2021/01/17/pippins-first-purr/ ) because he would immediately charge them with intent to fight and dominate. Without Pokey, I would not have had to install this gate to keep him away from Big Mike.

His most recent physical challenge was was dental infections so severe that six teeth had to be removed, leaving him with maybe two left. Still, I was elated when the giant expense ($1200) seemed to leave him with less congestion and breathing more easily. That relief lasted only a few weeks, and now he is back to spewing pink snot-rockets. Even without the most recent surgery included, Pokey’s medical bills have surpassed all of my other cats combined.

Without Pokey, I could have gone to Europe twice over. In style.

And yet, what would I do differently? Even before I brought him home from the parking lot, I adored him – his hilarious, Falstaffian presence, his utterly assured way of always getting what he wants, his extreme beauty. I can say that today I would return an FIV+, handicapped cat to the wild, but would I, really?

What I HAVE gotten better about is not feeling like I have to take on every hard luck case myself. Since I brought Pokey home I have a much better and bigger network of helpers. Perhaps I’d have found him a different good home – one that had deeper pockets for his ongoing medical issues?

But if I had not taken him in, I’d have missed his sweet purring, his endless capacity for cuddles, his excellent babysitting skills, his A+ entertainment value.

Without Pokey, I would have missed all this and more. I would have missed the love.

In my ten years of doing this work, I’ve learned there is  definitely an equation that tells you how upset you’ll be to adopt out a cat, based on length of time you’ve had said kitty and how difficult they were to tame. The “problem children” always take the longest and are always the hardest to part with, because you’ve seen their amazing transformations and those create bonds as deep as the ocean. I find it very hard to let these cats go.

And yet, these are bonds that were always intended to break. They have to, so kitties can move on to their forever homes. You as a rescuer are merely a way-station, a hospital ward or in some cases, a finishing school. You do your best to make a cat presentable, and then grieve when they go on their ways.

Such was the case with Pippin.  If you read the last installment, you know that I was worried about finding a great home for this stubbornly feisty and stand-offish kitten who had feral roots that went WAY back. He had come light years from the angry, swatting boy that graced my walk-in closet for a full six weeks, and I adored him.

One morning I woke up and found him curled up in the curve of my arm. Dissolving with love and on the verge of tears, I started petting him, and whispered, “don’t make me fall in love with you. Your future is not here in this house…” whereupon he grabbed my fingers and chewed on them. After what we’d been through, it all felt like a miracle.

But I knew that the real miracle would be needed soon. When he was introduced to a new home, he would probably go through the same routine – or at least hide himself away… maybe for weeks. It was going to take a very special and patient family.

I lit candles days in advance of posting Pippin (now renamed Sparky because he was such a firecracker) on our local online community bulletin board, struggling with what to write. I worried that if I were completely honest about Sparky, people would be put off. “Please adopt this adorable little menace, who climbs drapes, knocks over flowers, and oh yeah, will not want you to touch him for a long time.”

So I chose my words carefully, noting that Sparky was a hilariously outgoing little personality, but because of his very rough kittenhood, was also very shy around new situations. And that he would need a special home where the adopters would understand that he just needed TIME and would not immediately be purring on their laps.

(We should not need to say this, right? And yet there are far too many stories out there of cats being returned to agencies because they were initially shy. Classic narcissism of the human species: everything and every animal on the planet is there for our gratification.)

So I posted him on a Saturday, lit a candle and held my breath. And by Saturday evening had a fervently sincere offer from a married pair of geologists to give him a home. They didn’t ask for a preliminary visit (probably realizing he would hide anyway), and said their other cat, Ruby, had been a feral kitten plucked from the side of the road after being injured by a car and losing 2/3 of her tail. She did not let them near her for a month, and they knew that Sparky would be, like Ruby, a “project cat.” And they would be honored to offer him a home.

I gasped, fighting dueling urges to drive him to their house before they changed their mind… and withdrawing my request because I didn’t want to let him go. But I kept cool, and four days later I was packing him up, feeling sad and anxious. I dropped him at his new home and waited for bits of news. His new parents are awesome – keeping me up to date with every little development, even when the only news was that he was still under the bed.

But he came along, slowly but surely – starting with appearing to play with toys, taking food from fingers (which he brattily then swatted) and finally, allowing physical closeness. And on the two week anniversary of his adoption, it happened. IMG_1121 Purring and petting, oh my!

I know now that I can let go – that Sparky is going to be fine. And he will bring his new parents a lot of happiness. So I’ll dry my tears and get ready for the next project cat, and the next equation of hurt and joy. Thanks, St. Francis, for having my back.

You rarely hear anyone dismiss the canine species by saying an individual is “just a dog.” And yet you hear it all the time about cats. Why bother feeding homeless kitties? Why keep their population down? Why not just exterminate them like one East Bay animal control department tried to do?

I think it’s because cats are such an enigma to so many people, they are not truly SEEN, let alone understood. What we can’t easily understand, we dismiss. And yet each one is as different as every child, with its own complicated set of genes – and whatever nature has thrown at it.

Two perfect examples showed up in vivid color these last couple months, as I was deep into my busy fall of trapping and rescuing. One very unhappy feline was Archie, a two-year-old blond tabby who ended up having to remain in a dog crate for several days thanks to the scarcity of neutering clinics. He was fierce – hissing and growling at me, not moving an iota in my direction during that long week.

I would carefully push food into his crate, closing the door quickly, then retreat to my happy place: the double-sized armchair I share with Big Mike. As he would nestle close and rest his head on my arm, I remembered how he was in the exact same situation as Archie: a two-year-old feral with no experience of humans or indoor living. And yet, unlike Archie, Mike took to his new life with lightning speed.

And more recently, I agreed to take in a kitten who had not only crashed a friend’s garage, but had climbed up inside her car engine seeking warmth and had to be roughly extricated by a firefighter – a kind person who came away from the experience with deep scratches. At only 10 weeks or so, Pippin was a spitfire – literally – hissing and lashing out, his tiny body convulsing with rage. I didn’t blame him; his short life on this planet and only contact with humans had been cold and terrifying.

And yet I still fell prey to the group-think I rail against: this is just a KITTEN, the likes of which I’ve had dozens of over the years. In one week, I told myself, Pippin will be purring, letting me pet him, and well on his way to a lap of his own. EVERY kitten can be socialized.

That was… uh… six weeks ago. Where the other kittens I’d socialized this last year were sleeping in my lap after mere days, Pippin has been recoiling and hissing if I even tried to get near. It got to the point where I was wondering if I’d made a mistake – if maybe this would be the first kitten I would have to release him to a barn existence and forget about him someday enjoying a lap. It grieved me to think of it, so I stubbornly kept going, offering food on outstretched fingers… which he whacked.

What made Pippin different? Genetics for sure (I’m quite certain Pip comes from a long line of ferals) but if nature played a big role, so did nurture. I kept reminding myself it was just going to take a while (and maybe a little magic) for Pip to get past his early weeks of starvation, fear, car engines and cages.

Thankfully, I have a magic cat at home. Ready to “try anything” after six weeks of no progress, I thought I would see if being around another cat would model domestic behavior to him. So opened the door to my bathroom and walk-in closet, and let him out into my upstairs area where Pokey hangs out. (My reluctance had been based on fear that Pip could burrow under my bed, where I couldn’t reach him, and never come out.)

Pokey, my old, fat, sick boy who was plucked from a parking lot at 7 after being hit by a car, has always had a knack with kittens. He grooms them, gives them a gentle thump when they get too rowdy, and generally brings out the best in them. Pip took to Pokey immediately, and has absolutely blossomed under his tutelage. After only three days in his company, the transformation has been amazing. Pip has stopped hiding, has become a confident and playful monkey like most kittens… and is driving Pokey crazy with fan-boy affection, pestering and leaning on him hilariously.

CAN SOMEONE REMOVE THIS BARNACLE FROM MY BUTT?

TELL ME AGAIN WHY YOU BROUGHT THIS MONSTER HOME?

I get choked up when I watch their interplay; it seems Pip (who was likely separated from mama too early) was just starved for feline affection. And the best magic of all: today as I was petting Pokey on my bed, Pippin came close, started to purr, and then tentatively accepted some gentle pets on his back. Big corner turned, future lap nap ensured.

Now, how to find a super special home where they see Pippin as the unique, rare flower he is, where they want to tend and nurture him as I have? That will take a little more magic. But it will happen, as beautifully as Pippin’s first purr.

This summer and fall I embarked on perhaps the second-biggest rescue/trapping project yet – the biggest having been the farm where we found 21 cats running amok a few years ago. This one was still sizable – 12 or 13 (number TBD since I’m not done yet) cats and kittens in a backyard colony near the harbor that were being fed by the homeowners.

Anytime you’re helping people who love the cats in question, things can get complicated by  their concerns for the cats’ well-being vs. your need to do things the way they work best – at least, according to your experience. The results can be fractious – even explosive – as I learned this summer. (I’d never the term Cat Nazi before and hope I never do again.) But as with every project no matter the size, there are tiny moments of huge inspiration, and this one was no exception.

It was overwhelming at first so I asked the couple to make me a chart of cats. I ended up living by this chart for the next couple of months, crossing off names as they were trapped and fixed, or caught and adopted.

The chart began to represent triumph (all four kittens in one litter adopted to great homes) and heartbreak: two or three kittens born to another mother, who were spotted briefly in the yard, then further away from the yard where mama had moved them, and then disappeared completely. (The harbor has seen its share of coyotes and foxes.) And one of the juveniles I TNR’d (Benson) was hit and killed by a car soon after his release.

It felt, at times, like I was running up a sand dune, unable to get a handle on, let alone complete, everything I had to do.

I thought I was at least done with the kitten wrangling when yet another fertile mom-cat showed up with just one kitten in tow – a tiny heartbreaker fluff-bomb who walked with a limp. The homeowners were able to catch him quickly and I took him straight to urgent care to see if he was nursing a broken leg. He was a cheerful little scamp, hobbling quickly on his bad leg, and I, along with all the hospital staff, fell in love with him quickly.

At my granddaughter’s urging, we called him Lion. And the diagnosis was swift: Lion was missing all his toes and part of his foot on a back leg. The doctor explained it could be a birth defect, or perhaps the cord was around his lower leg in utero, cutting off circulation. He seemed fine ambulating on part of a foot, but the doctor warned that in the future, he could develop bone sores and need surgery – or at least a special, fitted boot.

It was a fairly devastating diagnosis. Who would want to adopt a kitten that could need expensive surgery someday? And as much as I coveted him, I could not keep him myself. Then, I got a St. Francis-inspired idea. I remembered being told how the staff at the hospital fell in love with him, so I emailed and asked about potential adopters. The next day, I got a text: a vet tech wanted him, fully understanding the potential challenges ahead. A minor miracle, but one I was happy to receive.

This year has been horribly challenging for so many reasons – the pandemic being chief among them – and my own perspective has suffered greatly. I have sometimes felt adrift in a sea of loneliness, anxiety and grief for our country.

But there was something about this kitten that filled me with joy… and even hope. Watching him cheerfully hobble around his bathroom home, climbing up my pants leg, puffing up his tiny chest and growling at Big Mike (!), who is easily 20 times his size…  well, it was a much-needed dose of sunshine and light.

The project is not yet over, and it’s been exhausting and painful. But on we go, knowing that with each rescue situation, along with the heartbreaking moments there will be transcendent joys as well. Thanks, St. Francis, for the reminder.

My sheltering-in-place bubble was burst in early May, with my granddaughter’s third birthday. I was so miserable with loneliness that we decided we would do what it took to resume visits and continue safety measures when out in the world. Having my daughter and granddaughter back in my life was like a magic potion for my heart and soul. It had been two months, and my grand-toddler had changed so much.

The uncontrollable bounces of a two-year-old had smoothed out, and her interactions with my cats became an amazing thing to watch – especially with Lena. Knowing she was sick and frail, S would tilt her head to get close to her, and then speak soothingly. “Hi Lena, hi,” she would coo, “are you feeling okay? Are you?”

She was also able to get the more standoffish Big Mike to sit still for her affections – especially after she learned the way to his heart was through treats, which she would offer so liberally I would have to limit her to a couple little hands-full.

I should not have been surprised that her empathy and compassion had grown. She has always asked to go on my morning rounds with me “to feed the homeless kitties.” And months ago, she told me that I should still be putting out food for Prince Harry, the feral I fed for years who died of a sudden acute illness. “He’s still in the TREE,” she would insist, looking upward into the cypress hedge he used to perch in. And when I told her that one of the kitties at the farm had died, she was thoughtful. “I think he’s still walking around,” she offered.

To me, these utterances were not the fantasy yearnings of a toddler who doesn’t know or fear death, but things she felt in her heart were true.

Between Tuesday and Friday this week, I thought of my inadvertent angel often, wishing she were here. On Tuesday, alarmed that Lena had lost more weight and become weaker, I took my darling cat in for an ultrasound. A jet-black, year-old mama cat I adopted along with her kitten Iggy, Lena had  been an elegant, loving and calming fixture at my home for 15 years.

They found cancer in a five-inch section of her gut, which had spread to her lymph system. I sobbed in the car on the way home, and resolved to make her remaining months wonderful. By Wednesday, when she began refusing food, it became clear that those months would be days; by Thursday I realized it would be hours. I spent the night on the couch with Lena tucked in next to me – something she was normally too independent to do. And Friday morning I made the call. Friday afternoon, I said goodbye in the beautiful garden of my vet clinic, with blooming flowers, butterflies and birds all around.

(The only silver lining of this entire Covid crisis is that although my vet clinic cannot allow pet owners in the rooms, they will do a euthanasia on a table in the garden, where you’re able to hold them as they take their last breath.)

But despite the beauty of the sendoff, I imploded. Perhaps it was the accumulation of months of isolation, anxiety and societal upheaval, and perhaps it was the loss of Lena herself, but I just retreated to my comfy chair with cocktail and tissues and didn’t care if I got up. My daughter asked if I still wanted to keep a planned visit the next day, and though I had my doubts as to how social I’d feel, I wanted the boost of their company.

Erin told my granddaughter about Lena, and where S is always fearless in talking about things, she was shy this time, as if sensing I was an emotional minefield she dared not step on. One thing I did notice was that Big Mike was beginning to suffer the effects of Lena’s passing as well. He was withdrawn, a bit spooked, and not very hungry.

As my granddaughter hovered over his sleeping figure, petting him softly, she turned to me with big and knowing eyes. “Big Mike misses Lena,” she stated matter-of-factly. “But he’ll be alright.”

And so will her grandma. Once she gets that Lena is still here, “walking around” and maybe “in the trees.” Thank you, Saint Frances, for the reminder than big truths come in small packages.

Since returning on March 8 from a brief trip to Oregon, I’ve been marooned on the Island of Misfit Toys – AKA the Island of Unadoptable Cats – trying to keep my sanity while missing family hugs desperately. And make no mistake – I consider myself LUCKY: my health is fine, I have nice surroundings for waiting out the pandemic, and a plethora of cat-characters to occupy me. In fact, the timing of the shut-down is “good” in the sense that at least one of my fur-kids is changing in some ways that warrant attention.

Lena, my oldest at around 16, has been on prednisone so long that she is losing her fur. But her inflammatory bowel disease has advanced to where she cannot live (literally) without it. She’s a frail mess – a shadow of herself at only 5.5 pounds, with bowel movements so odiferous that they could be used to bring a foreign army to its knees, and her ears are bare enough now that she almost looks like a bat. But she is plucky and loving and dear, and I’m grateful for this extended time with her, as I expect she doesn’t have a lot of it left. So she is a frequent occupier of my lap as I catch up on sitcoms that I never saw when they were new. (Ask me anything about Pam and Jim’s romance on “The Office.”)

Because of the shelter-in-place order, the rescue “business” has been relatively quiet. But I got a call recently that proved to be another example of fortuitous timing.

A woman called who had been feeding a neighbor’s cat ever since the kitty was abandoned by its family two months ago. They gave the kitty space in an outdoor shed and let her spend nights there after giving her dinner. She is a beauty: jet-black like my Lena, and friendly and sweet. It crushed me to think someone could leave her behind, and imagined her family to be heartless and mean.

So we did a “remote rescue” by posting her photos on Next Door and asking for a foster or forever home for her. Because she did not have a name, I called her Bella. Possibly due to the lockdown, and people have time on their hands, I got quick responses from three different people who wanted to adopt her! I chose the first one to reach out (after emailing to make sure she was able to give her a good home) and made a plan to go to where Bella was being fed, with a carrier to take her away with me.

I arrived in mask and gloves and greeted the kind people who had been feeding her (also in masks and gloves). As we chatted and I prepped the carrier, there was a knock on their gate. It was Bella’s family, who had come looking for her after two months! When I heard this, I charged out to give them a piece of my mind, and possibly refuse to hand her over…

… and standing with the father of the family were two small children, maybe 5 and 8, looking so eager and excited. So I took a deep breath, swallowed my righteous indignation,  and quietly questioned the man as to why they left her behind. I told him I was there to take her to her new home, which stunned him; he said it had always been their intention to come back for her once they were settled in, and that he had come looking for her twice before. I was torn – not wanting to put her back in an unsafe situation, but seeing the sweet faces of those kids who had nothing to do with their parents’ bad decision-making.

And then their neighbor woman walked out the gate holding Bella, and it was all over. The boy smiled hugely, and the little girl gasped and held out her arms. The neighbor deposited Bella there, and I watched her knead her paws with joy, as the little girl kissed her head. So I let go of my anger. I think my point had been made and the bottom line was that this was where Bella wanted to be.

In hindsight, the timing had been nothing short of astonishing. After two months, her family arrived on the very moment when I was there to take Bella away. An hour later on either side would have made for huge problems – and tears on the part of those sweet kids.

I realized that as much as I thought I was the boss of that situation, it was out of my hands completely. Thanks, Saint Francis, for stepping in and facilitating the happy ending.

After Ginger’s death, I started looking at my remaining four cats with renewed scrutiny, not wishing to be sneaked-up-on by another sudden meltdown. Three of four have physical challenges: colon blockages, restricted sinuses, inflammatory bowel disease… it’s all worrisome and keeps me hopping. But, I thought, thank god for Big Mike! My beloved goofball and only cat who is easy, youthful and loving.

Then I took another look. Was it my imagination, or did he seem a lot thinner than he used to be? And what about his occasional bout of barfing? And his incessant hunger, despite only picking at his food?

I brought out the scales that I purchased a few years ago when I had sick kittens. Mike weighed in at around 11 pounds. I emailed his vet to see what he weighed a year ago at his last checkup, and my jaw dropped at the response. A year ago he was 17 pounds.

You get so used to seeing them every day that a loss of four ounces is imperceptible, as is the next four ounces, and so on, until suddenly you can feel his spine like you would that of an old cat. But Big Mike is young, right?

I scrambled to find his records. Mike was trapped in the parking lot six years ago, after being attacked by a predator that shredded the fur on one of his front legs, and severely scraped his face and eye.

  Big Mike, pre-trapping

With his life in the balance, getting an accurate sense of his age did not seem that important – the vet could only guess that he could be around 2 years old. That would make him around 8 years old now: no longer a youngster but hardly a senior.

This is the narrative I was telling a different vet six years later as I dropped him off last week for tests that would hopefully explain his extreme weight loss. It was the beginning of a harrowing day. Almost as soon as I left him, Mike began open-mouthed breathing, his heartbeat accelerated to a dangerous level, and the clinic scrambled to give him oxygen, fluids and tests. It was a white knuckle day for me with a lot of tears; I could not believe that only three weeks after losing Ginger I could easily be losing another.

I picked up a very drugged Mike at the end of the day, despite the vet’s admonition that I should consider leaving him there in case he was headed for heart failure or a stroke. I wanted him home with me. And if he was angry at me for putting him through the grueling day he didn’t show it, and slept off his hangover on my lap, his impossibly long legs dangling like stilts,  completely unaware of the lump in my throat each time I thought of all the things that could be wrong with him. Heart disease? Cancer?

The call came the next day: Mike has hyperthyroidism – which would explain the weight loss, the decreased appetite, the accelerated heart rate. And it can be treated with a daily pill. I almost couldn’t believe it – after my string of losses in the last few years (Claude, Iggy and Ginger at home; myriad ferals) I just assumed this would be another huge one. After a week on his pills, Mike’s appetite has improved and he hasn’t barfed once.

The other big surprise that has come from this: it seems Mike is much older than I thought. The vet tells me this disease only strikes cats in their early teens. Which means if he is approximately 12, he was already around 6, not 2, when I rescued him. It seems my narrative about Mike is changing. He is not my strapping, healthy, young guy; he is approaching seniorhood and has at least one major issue. Do I love him any less? If anything, I love him more, knowing I have fewer years with him than I thought I would.

For now, it’s enough to know that this is one bullet I’ve been able to dodge. And that this episode ends in hope rather than despair. Thank you, Saint Francis, for the break!