Jane Ganahl

I came home Tuesday around noon after holding Ginger as she took her last breath at the vet’s office, hollow-eyed from grief and disbelief that two days earlier she was purring happily on my lap. The first thing I saw in the garage was a case of her special food I’d bought only days earlier – so unexpected her was sudden downturn. And I felt that surge of anger and bitterness that can only come with a grief pity-party. What is the point of all this work I do? Why does it feel like a bottomless pit? How could I not have known that Ginger’s time was ending?  

That Monday morning she would not come upstairs to the kitchen for breakfast – unheard-of for this extreme chowhound. When she did finally come up, she paused at the top of the stairs, breathing hard and open-mouthed. Alarmed, I took a video and sent it to her vet, who said her lung cancer has grown large enough to compromise her lungs, and I should consider bringing her in sooner than later, to spare her the agony of suffocating.

Even with that dire admonishment, and jolted into realizing this seemingly immortal cat was finally dying, it took me until the next day to bring myself to take her on her final, fateful trip. I managed to take a few photos of my darling girl and I on our last morning together. And then it was time for the honor of seeing Ginger on her way to the next realm.

I’ve been escorting her on that journey for five years – since she showed up in the parking lot, homeless and dreadfully sick, and was soon diagnosed with mouth cancer and given only weeks to live. I made her comfortable, gave her good food and a soft bed to lay her head. And eventually, when she began to trust me, I gave her the love she had never had. When her cancer disappeared, no one could explain why – unless it was that love that had given her reason to stick around.

For the next four years she barnstormed her way into alpha status at my house, wreaking the kind of havoc that only a tortie cat can bring. She was all attitude and cranky stubbornness – the same qualities that no doubt kept her alive this long. When she began breathing harder last summer, and diagnosed with lung cancer, I was upset but also just assumed she would escape this latest assault by the grim reaper.

It was not to be so. And her downturn was so sudden that I barely had time to adjust to the idea of not seeing her on top of the couch anymore, and she was gone. And there I was, staring ruefully at a case of food that only Ginger liked, and none of my other cats would touch, wondering what the hell I would do with it – and wondering what it all meant.

As I left the house the next morning to go on my rounds, I realized it would be greatly appreciated by the feral on my rounds, who normally eat a much lower quality food. So I grabbed the case of food, and when I started dishing it out to the excited felines on my route, I got it. Because of Ginger I wanted to stop all this and close my heart back up; because of Ginger I need to keep opening it… every day. She is in them, and they are in her. What I learned from her is that nothing is impossible when love abides, and I need to keep passing that on.

Thank you, St. Francis, for the reminder.

Rescue work often puts you in the uncomfortable position of all-knowing, all-deciding deity, charged with determining the direction of a cat’s future. The trouble is, we don’t know all, and sometimes our decisions are less than sound.

This is a topic among women I know who work with homeless/stray/feral cats. Each one wishes they had a do-over for a mistake they made, whether in releasing a cat that probably could have become domesticated, or homing a cat who later seemed pretty miserable about it. For me, I think my biggest mistake was not trying harder to bring Prince Harry (https://janeganahl.com/blog/2019/06/22/trying-to-find-the-happy-amid-the-sad/) indoors after he became relatively tame. He was so young and beautiful, but I was dissuaded from trying to find him a home because after he was first trapped and neutered he was a miserable, hissing beast. So he stayed in the ravine, and died there. Some would argue (and have) that this is how Harry wanted to live and die, but I still can’t help but feel I failed him.

Anyway, at least I can claim more successes than failures – probably WAY more, though it’s the failures we Type A’s torture ourselves with. And I think this is because I’ve gotten more skilled over the years at seeing signs that would indicate a cat is suitable for domestic life. It’s an imperfect art, but like watercolors or playing piano or writing, you do improve with time.

Recently a new kitty came to Prince Harry’s turf. As I’ve done every morning since he disappeared, I called out kitty-kitty-kitty as I opened my car door. And then I heard it – a faint, high-pitched meeeow! below the sidewalk in the deep bushes. I froze – could it be Harry?? I put out food for Toby – an uber-feral tuxedo boy who lives there and eats occasionally. Then I hid and watched eagerly.

Emerging from the slope below was a bedraggled grey kitty, with definite Maine Coon characteristics, whose long fur was matted with enormous clumps. She hesitated, then, spying the food, leapt on it voraciously. Observing her, she had a tipped ear – usually the sign of a feral that had been trapped, neutered and returned to the wild. But her eyes were bright and young – an encouraging sign – and when she saw me, she was too hungry (or too bold?) to run away, and just kept eating.

For a couple of weeks I tracked her, got her used to eating in a certain place, and when the day came to trap her, she went right in. Looking deep into her big eyes, I told her I’d call her Grizelda, which means grey warrior princess – because I knew she’d have a struggle ahead and I wanted to bestow some bravery.

“Your life will be better now, I promise,” I told her, while fully realizing that could mean either adoption, or a return to the cold ravine – with at least a morning meal as part of the deal. I would just have to watch for the signs.

I took ‘Zelda to the local vet where she showed me sign #1 that she might adoptable: when they reached into the carrier for her (after I had warned that I had no idea if she would lash out or bite), she submitted fearfully to their handling. She tucked her head into her chest and did not struggle. Soon we were able to pet her as they poked and prodded. They agreed she had already been spayed, and scanned her for a microchip, which she had! It traced back to a rescue group that had found her eating outside the Chevron station in town, with four kittens in the bushes nearby.

All were scooped up, checked out and sterilized. And the kittens all found loving homes. But when it came to deciding ‘Zelda’s fate, her rescuers made the best decision they could at the time: she was too wild and fearful to have a family, and they returned her to the gas station.

How she came to my ravine two years later is unclear – it’s a bit of a hike. But I always figure these babes find me because they need help, so I determined I would make the best decision I could.

She settled into the crate in my garage while I pondered my options and watched for more signs. For days she was a perfect lady – never once tried to bolt, ate heartily and used the cat box fastidiously. I would cautiously reach in to touch her, and was discouraged as she shrank away.

On day four, I persisted with stroking her head. And just as I was about to pull back, she began to purr, closed her eyes and rolled her head into my hand. It was the best sign of all –  and the one from which there is no turning back.

I knew ‘Zelda would not be an easy adoption, being around 3 years old, a former feral, and anxious. So I posted a notice about her, asking someone to give a second chance at happiness to this gas station cat. And, thank you St. Francis, I got a wonderful response right away: a couple who lived on Skyline and had a menagerie of animals. She would let ‘Zelda get used to indoor living without pressing her too hard for affection before she was ready to dispense it. (I loved hearing this – there are far too many stories of cats being returned because the new owner wanted a lap cat NOW, without realizing cats have their own timetables for trust.)

I get updates now on ‘Zelda, who is still getting used to her fancy new digs, even as she is proving an excellent, well-behaved guest. Her new mom eagerly awaits the day when Zelda makes her first foray onto her lap.

I guess this time I made the right decision. Playing God occasionally works out. Thanks, St. Francis, for the silent guidance.

Life handed me a doozy of a lesson earlier this month when I had to undergo my first major surgery in the form of a knee replacement. I’d been feeling pretty cocky that I’d managed to escape any major illnesses or mishaps, but man, did this interject a note of harsh reality. Not only did the surgery and hospitalization prove a lot more grueling than I’d imagined, the entire process – exacerbated by my intolerance of pain meds – messed with my head. Or more accurately, my sense of myself as a vital, energetic and INDEPENDENT person.

It was humbling having someone here when I got home (mostly my wonderful daughter Erin) to help me with everything from medications to potty breaks. Ugh. Thankfully that phase didn’t last long, and soon I was able to do most things for myself. But it was a sobering reminder of aging and the fragility of life. I found myself feeling anxious about everything: where I was going with my life, what could go wrong – even my cats’ health.

Ginger, the ancient (probably 18) street cat I brought home five years ago, has lung cancer. I’ve known this for months now. They say it’s a slow-moving kind, and she could be around for a good while yet, but I was looking at her with new eyes. The restless and unpredictable tortie decided to claim an empty ornament box at the base of the Christmas tree for her new bed, and while I lay on my sofa, I would watch her sleeping.

“How many more Christmases do you have left?” I asked her softly. “I think maybe this is your last one.” And then, as befitting my exhaustion and sober mood, I burst into tears. Hearing me, she rose on stiffened legs, walked over and climbed up onto the couch to get in my face, rubbing hers on mine.

In five years, she has never done this once.

I chuckled. “Thank you,” I whispered. “Thanks for the reminder.” If we can just rise above temporary setbacks, crummy diagnoses and even physical pain, what there always is, is love and connection. And being present in the joy of NOW.

Happy holidays and and excellent critter love to all.

If you’re a regular reader of this blog, you know how emotionally ill-equipped I am at times to accept the ground rules of feral cat care:

1. you can’t take them all home with you.
2. some of them will n-e-v-e-r let you touch them.
3. many of them will die.

I’ve ignored all these ground rules frequently, but none more than accepting that many of them will die. My last post was about Tom, the alpha male at the farm, and how he was starting to fail. Just a few days after writing, he disappeared and in my heart, I knew he had passed.

I am told that ferals will decide when it’s time, wander off to a favorite quiet place, and let go. If THEY should accept this passing easily, why can’t I? I realized the other week that it had been a stunning five months since Prince Harry showed up sick and then disappeared, and still each day when I go to his spot to feed a new kitty there, I well up with tears and get a knot in my stomach, thinking that perhaps I failed him somehow.

Simone suggested a meditation I could do at the two feeding spots: thank Harry and Tom for the good times, tell them I love them and tell them they should go, and not linger because their time here was done. It wasn’t as hard to say goodbye to Tom – I expected his passing for weeks before it happened. But Harry’s departure was such a shock. I had fed and sheltered him for three years and had been unable to say goodbye. And as I choked on my words of benediction, a moth fluttered in my car window and sat on the steering wheel, flexing its wings in a friendly hello. It took my breath away; I really sensed that Harry was sending me a sweet message. And when I finished, it fluttered away. And with the moth, my feelings of heaviness departed.

At the same time as I was trying to let go, I was also trying to connect. Mr. Tux, the handsome new youngster at the farm (now fixed and vaccinated by my group), has come tantalizingly close to letting me pet him, only to get spooked and duck away from my touch. In my emotional mind, I think if I can get him to love human interaction, perhaps I can find an adopter, and he won’t end up like so many others – dying prematurely from illness or predators. So I persist. And persist. Every day he’s there, I extend a hand, and the dance begins. He ducks and parries, even as he purrs and kneads the ground happily.

And finally, I get what I’m looking for: IMG_2343

(or here if the video doesn’t play: https://youtu.be/YQiIDjxslD0)

Is it any wonder we rescue types lose perspective and ignore the ground rules?  🙂

Thanks, Saint Francis, for the reminder that even as feline relationships dissipate into treasured memory, new ones can be born. Just remind me of the ground rules occasionally before I bring another one home.

With the festival starting later this week, and my hair on fire with stress and last-minute details, I need the entertainment value of my strays more than ever. The first two stops of my daily three are low in EV, but my third stop – at the farm on Higgins Canyon – never fails to amuse.

There has been some serious heartache there to be sure. I blogged this winter about finding the body of one of the seven cats – a beautiful Russian Blue – after a mountain lion boldly came on the property and got him. It was an incredibly painful reminder about the perils of getting attached. And now, the alpha male of the group – cranky old Tom, the brown tabby – is on his last legs. He is frail and forgetful, has little appetite and seems to sleep most of the time. I keep thinking any day I’ll arrive in the morning and he will be gone – perhaps having found a quiet bush or creek bed to surrender himself and shuffle off this mortal coil.

Tom, it must be said, has been a serious jerk to any new cats who venture onto the farm. I’ve told myself often: it’s not his fault. It’s in the DNA of an alpha male to run competitors off. Many people don’t realize feral cats colonies operate like prides of lions – though I have yet to see a gazelle carcass nearby. They are slightly more subtle, but only slightly.

Which is why it’s been interesting and kind of poignant to see Tom relate to a new kitty who suddenly appeared at the farm a couple of months ago. At first he was fiercely indignant, sending the interloper scrambling for safety. But because of his waning health, and after trapping Mr. Tux and having him neutered, Tom has softened a bit. I’ve been feeding Tux on the far side of the farm, and have been greatly amused by watching their pas de deux. First the ears are flattened and the backs arched. Then they sit, acting nonchalant. Then Tux keels over on his side in total submission. Finally, Tom sniffs at the food, maybe takes a few bites because he can, and lopes off, leaving Tux confused but pleased.

 BACK OFF, INTERLOPER!

 OH, UH… I GUESS THERE’S ENOUGH FOR US BOTH.

 I’M JUST GOING TO LICK THIS TO MAKE IT CLEAR WHO’S BOSS.

Honestly, it’s about as exciting as Wild Kingdom ever was – and twice as cute! Mutual of Omaha, give me a call!

Perhaps I’m stressing the amusement of the situation because it’s less painful than dealing with Tom’s impending demise. He seems to get more frail every day. There’s a whole other blog entry that I could write about the struggle I go through, not knowing when to intervene in a stray’s failing health. I vowed to help cats; that also means not letting them suffer, but farm cats have been living and dying on their own terms forever. So I continue to fret until such time as the course is abundantly clear, love them from a distance, and chuckle at their wild ways.

All week long I’ve been intending to write the spring newsletter for my nonprofit, Coastside Feral Care, but I’ve been having trouble getting started. I’ve done enough of these to know that most people want to hear the glad tidings! The happiest stories – not the failures or the heartbreaks of your rescue work.

But this week I’ve also been dealing with a disappearance, and that has derailed me and made it hard to “think happy.” Beautiful Prince Harry (see two posts ago) showed up Monday looking like he felt crummy, and then vanished. This is after more than three years of rarely missing a meal. His faltering came on the heels of someone writing a complaint about him on Next Door – saying cats should not be fed “so close to restaurants”… which are way across the parking lot. I did my best to answer civilly, and got a lot of supportive comments. Then Harry turned up sick. And by the next day, when I brought a carrier to take him to the vet, he was gone.

I’ve never thought much of human beings in general, but even I can’t imagine someone poisoning Harry, a homeless cat who minds his own business except for the occasional nap on the sidewalk on a sunny afternoon. So I choose to think something else has happened. What I also refuse to consider is that I won’t ever see him again. He has always been such a bright spot in my morning. And he has many fans – people who work in the offices nearby and delight to see him waiting in the tree for his meal. So I posted a flyer on the fence for my missing boy – something I’ve never done before – and hope maybe one of his fan club will spot his strawberry mane amid the brambles of the ravine.

I talked to a friend who does rescue, and she wondered if such disappearances – and I’ve had dozens – have gotten easier since 2011 when I took up this cause. I thought a moment and then tears welled up. “No,” I said, “they never do. And goddamnit I wish they would.”

I go through the classic Kubler-Ross stages of grief each time. Right now I’m in anger – that there are still no adequate facilities for homeless/feral cats (except the pound, where they wouldn’t last a day), and that I get harassed sometimes for keeping them alive and showing them kindness.  But mostly I get sad, as I am right now, that once again a cat in my care may have perished, and that the “care” I give them is so limited in scope. Then again, if he really is gone for good, I am comforted in knowing I did my best for Prince Harry. And I’ll get back to the happy stories eventually.

Like Frodo, the kitty who was abandoned on the farm where I feed. He went from getting whomped on by the farm cats to sitting on the lap of an elderly woman who cherishes him… Now, if I could only focus on such things…

My two favorite days of the month are when I have Shannon (almost 2!) to myself on every other Friday, when Erin has to work but doesn’t have daycare. They spend Thursday night here so I get some mom-daughter time as well. And on Friday mornings Shannon goes with me on my rounds. It really is a collision of the two passions in my private world, and sometimes the joy is almost overwhelming.

We’ve been doing this almost a year, and I wonder what her toddler brain processes. Let’s see… “Nama” has a bunch of cats at home that it seems like she feeds all day… but then we get in the car… and drive into some woods and to a farm and a parking lot… and she feeds some more? As she gets older, she’ll start to understand what it’s about: compassion and love for all critters, especially those without a home.

Right now, though, for her it’s just an opportunity to go for a drive to pretty places while eating snacks in the car (always snacks!), singing songs at top volume (“Old MacDonald” and “Happy Birthday” are favorites) and seeing kee-tees! which she adores.

(The kee-tees are less enthused; they scatter when she bellows “HI!” at top volume.)

There are moments when I see in her clear and open eyes a glimmer of understanding. The other day, I opened the garage door and was about to put her in her car seat when I noticed a snail on the driveway behind the car. “Oops,” I told her, “Let’s put the snail where it’s safe.” I picked it up and she followed me over to the bushes, where I lay it gently down. She pointed to it, and looked into my face. “Snail,” she said. “Safe.” She lingered another minute, looking at it in wonderment.

And I felt a moment of hesitation. I was n-e-v-e-r as tender and woke as I am now; as a child I remember pouring salt on snails and watching them curl up and foam. I don’t expect her parents (especially her father) are at all concerned about snail safety. And maybe there’s a reason it takes most people until their senior years to have their eyes and hearts pried open; maybe children need a tougher skin to get through those critical early years. Am I doing her a disservice to model such bordering-on-neurotic reverence for life?

I suppose it’s possible, but I choose to see it as teaching her quietly, from my grandmaternal pulpit. And any minute now, she could decide I’m completely nuts, which is what kids do in every generation. I just hope some of it sinks in.

In some cultures, the grandparent is the family member charged with a child’s spiritual growth. In this one, grandparents are often not part of that inner circle, and shunted off to the side, where they’re held in the same regard as DeSoto cars and Jello-and-tuna pie. I’m lucky to be trusted enough to be the kind of hands-on grandma I always wanted to be; the kind my mother was.

I have said for two years now that nothing would make me happier than to retire and be Shanny’s nanny. But that will take a significant change of fortune (or perhaps the sale of my kids’ book?) because I live in the Bay Area and can’t afford to retire. In the meantime, I get her every other Friday and can fill her little brain with my well-meaning propaganda.

“Where kee-tee go?” she demanded one rainy morning, after Prince Harry disappeared into the bushes after his breakfast. “Wha’ happened tee-tee?” She peered into the ravine searching for a glimpse of his blond mane as I held an umbrella over her red head.

“Harry went to get out of the rain,” I told her. “Harry doesn’t have a home. It’s why it’s good that we feed him.”

She looked up at me with a wide stare, and took my hand to walk thoughtfully back to the car.

My granddaughter Shannon has arrived at the age (20 months) where she knows what feels right… and what doesn’t. She asks for pear slices, devours them hungrily, and then looks in distress at her sticky hands, which she raises up to me anxiously. “HENS!” she cries. “HENS!” Then I take a moist dishrag, wipe off her “hens,” and all is right again with the world.

I wish it were that easy with some of my ferals.

Prince Harry (so named for his strawberry mane) has lived for 3-4 years now at the Stone Pine ravine – a pretty rough place that has “disappeared” so many cats that I’ve loved. He is a darling boy – chatty and boisterous, and it took a few years but he’s now affectionate as well, greeting me every day with purring, rubbing and rolling on the ground.

I have written previously about the challenges of sheltering him near his feeding area, which is an ongoing source of frustration. (The city adamantly refuses to allow a shelter because of the sensitive habitat, which I salute… except that the homeless use the creek area for a latrine every day.) So Harry is literally left out in the cold.

Every day I feed Eddie behind the Post Office, where he can dash into a manufactured shelter anytime, and that feels right to me. And I go to the farm where I feed 5-7 hungry cats, and they come running out of the barn, and THAT feels very right to me. But then I go to Stone Pine on a rainy day, and there is Harry, his fluffy coat slicked with rain, up in the tree. (Yes, he has found a spot that is at least a little bit sheltered in a box hedge.) And it all feels completely, totally wrong. So wrong that I sometimes choke with tears.

It’s been a bully of a winter – with record rainfall, snow on our lower peaks and incessant cold. But Harry continues to bring his happy-boy routine every day when I arrive. His spirit is an amazing thing, even if it falters in the cold sometimes.  It’s been enough to make me start thinking maybe I should relocate Harry; maybe there’s a better place for him somewhere. I hesitate when remembering the one time he was confined a few years ago. He spent a month of rehab time at my friend Caitlin’s indoor enclosure after being badly mauled by a predator, and although he was sweet in the beginning, as soon as he started feeling better physically, Harry got pissed, and was soon hissing and swatting at his caretaker. We reluctantly put him back by the parking lot, where he has remained mostly happy since.

Then we were approached by someone wanting a barn cat, to replace one who had recently died. My heart leapt up – could this be the break Harry needed? I envisioned a big, warm barn – the likes of which I spent time in during childhood – with an enclosed tack room they could enclose him in while he got his bearings. I asked to visit the barn, but it was really more of a stable with corrals – very small inside (really, more like a shed) and the tack room could not be closed to the outside, so Harry would have to spend weeks in a dog crate, with horse noses just a foot or two away. Envisioning my freedom-loving boy in such surroundings made me feel like Shannon with sticky hands: it just felt wrong. So I thanked her for her kind offer, and went home to feed Harry an early-evening dinner.

“Sorry, Harry,” I told him. “But I think you would have hated it.”

So the search goes on for a place for my princely boy. But I’m grateful to have done this enough years now to know what feels right and what feels wrong.

I vowed to not blog again until I had something cheerful to say, after my last grief-stricken entry about Iggy’s sudden-ish death. But it’s been a rough 6-7 weeks since his passing, and I feel like I should report regardless of my blues. Two more cats in my care died a few weeks ago: Nieblo (fog), a beautiful grey fellow at the farm where I feed, whose predator-ravaged body I discovered on New Year’s Day, and McGee, Erin and Jonathan’s elderly cat, whom I volunteered to catsit at my house the week after Christmas so they could take a little trip. Not unlike Iggy, McGee’s cancer was an insidious, undiagnosed-but-speculated ailment, and it also took him quickly – so quickly that the mobile vet didn’t make it to my house before he passed on his own.

Those weeks were, in a word, awful. I felt punch-drunk from loss and the weight of what I could have done differently.

But, because it was the holidays, I also got some wonderful cards and emails from people who have adopted from me. The two rowdy little black girls I blogged about this fall (Lizzie and Emma) are now fully running their new home, and much adored by their new empty-nest family.

All four kitties who had been turned out when the county took away their owner with dementia in November are now in homes – a resolution that fills me with great pride. The oldest of the four, a black female named Sheba, hid under her new mom’s bed for weeks, coming out only for meals and box use. And I got this the other day: “Guess who is sitting right next to me purring her little heart out? Yep! Sheba!”

So… miracles do happen, which keeps my chin off the ground and keeps me in the game when I question whether I have the heart and the gumption to keep doing this after such a series of losses.

Without Iggy, things have shifted among my indoor brood. Big Mike – always the lowest on the totem pole despite being the largest in size – is making a run at the alpha male position. I can’t sit on a comfy chair for more than five minutes without his bulky frame filling my lap… and then some. He keeps me in constant giggles and lifts my spirits

My wish for 2019 is to do a better job at walking the fine line between compassion and an aching heart, between strength and coldness. In other words, I need to find a way to do this work without it taking such a toll. It’s a challenging “sweet spot” to find spiritually, but I’m confident I can get there. I need to; both Lena and Ginger might not be with me long. (Lena, Iggy’s mom, might have the same disease that caused his death, and Ginger’s miraculous remission from mouth cancer might be ending.)

St. Francis, guide my gaze toward the wonderful things that come from my efforts, and help me understand that helping animals cross the bridge is one of the greater services I can provide in this lifetime. And while we’re at it, help me make 2019 a year of more happy stories than sad!

Iggy was the kitten who convinced me to never adopt another kitten. Rambunctious, too smart for his own good, fearless, the white-with-black mini-monster earned the name Iggy Pop within days of being adopted 12 years ago. I’d be plucking him off a high shelf one moment, dragging him down from drapes the next. I’d watch, heart in throat, when he’d leap from dangerous heights just for the rush it gave him.

He took some nasty spills too. I watched him disappear off the top of my tallest armoir after he jousted with a leaf on a tall plant, and heard him hit the ground – splat – only to pick himself up, shake the dizziness from his head, and dash toward the next adventure. I love these photos of him being adorable one moment, dangerous the next.

He was wiry like a cheetah and just as strong. And announced himself as the alpha of the house the moment he dashed in the door, much to the consternation of the much-older (and thankfully circumspect) Claude. His mother, Lena, whom I adopted at the same time, taught him tough love by giving him rabbit kicks to the head when he tried to nurse; she also let him cuddle as long as he didn’t crowd her.

He swatted at stranger’s dogs, and even at strangers, was a picky eater and in many other respects a maddening cat. But he also became my baby. The flip side to the alpha rascal was that when he wasn’t tearing up the house, he was demanding cuddles. So many emails had to be rewritten when he leapt onto the desk and tiptoed across the keyboard so he could get at my lap, where he would sit, purring for hours.

For 12 years, I adored him. I thought that a cat so athletic and full of joie de vivre would live to be 20. It was not to be.

Two years ago he was diagnosed with inflammatory bowel syndrome, which caused him to lose weight and have intestinal issues. We were dealing with it, though it was scary at times. A week ago yesterday he began to spiral downward. An x-ray found fluid in his abdomen, which meant either cancer or peritonitis. And during the course of the week I watched my rambunctious boy become a shadow – one with wide eyes that spoke of both pain and withdrawal. I spent as much time with him as I could, scooping his weak and skeletal frame up and onto my lap, where I cradled him in a blanket and kissed him while he purred. As long as he purred, I could convince myself that he’d recover and we have more years together. “Remember,” I whispered, “it’s only been 12 and you owe me 20!”

And then the purring stopped on Thanksgiving evening. When I scooped him up to cuddle with me in my chair, he weakly tried to get away. I tearfully let him down, and he wandered off on wobbly legs to sit in the dark closet. Nothing I could do would coax him out. Friday morning, when he refused all food, I made the call.

Dr. Sue, who does house call euthanasia, was kind and gentle as always. I held Iggy and cried like my heart would crack in two as he moved gently in arms, and then was still.

Some animal deaths I take better than others. This one was beyond devastating, partly due to the suddenness of it and also the maddening lack of a definite reason for his rapid decline. I was angry, I wanted answers. His vet is lucky they were closed for the holiday weekend.

And so am I. At this point I’ve had at least a little time to try to put Iggy’s passing into perspective and sorrow and reflection have replaced anger. If there was something to learn, I think it might be that animal relationships are sometimes like human ones. Not all of them are meant to last forever – or even for very long. And sometimes the ones that burn the brightest and hottest are abbreviated. That doesn’t make them any less profound.

Saint Francis, thanks for cushioning the pain with the reminder that I might not have gotten the 20 years of love and happy times I was hoping for, but these 12 were beautiful just the same.