Jane Ganahl

My phone began to silently ring in the middle of an important meeting at a prestigious new venue in San Francisco, where my arts nonprofit was discussing holding an event. Glancing into my purse, I could see that it was the veterinary office where I’d dropped off Charlie Brown about an hour before to be examined. His appetite had dropped precipitously, and his mouth seemed misshapen to me. I expected he would have a tooth infection, meaning I would have to consider expensive dental work on the sweet stray who had been living on my patio for six years.

I did not expect a call, just a report when I picked him up. And as much as I was loathe to seem unprofessional, something told me this was urgent, so I quietly tiptoed out of the meeting to answer. The next few minutes were a blur. Advanced mouth and jaw cancer, Dr. Lawson was saying. Likely suffering greatly. Euthanasia recommended. Should do it immediately, before he awakens from his examination sleep.

I did the only thing a loving cat guardian would do when suffering is revealed. I gave the go-ahead, tearfully asking if the staff would please hold him close and give him a kiss for me – the kiss I was never able to give him. Then I cried, and by the time I collected myself to return to the meeting it was breaking up. The all-female staff of the venue very kindly asked what had happened. I stammered a response – something about how I’d had to consent to the putting-down of Charlie Brown. “I can’t say he was MY cat,” I said, dabbing my eyes. “He was a feral who set up housekeeping on my patio and wouldn’t leave.”

That was six years ago, when the minor miracle of Charlie Brown came to pass. He was a parking lot cat I trapped, took straight to be neutered, and then rehabbed in a dog crate in my garage for a couple of days before returning him to the ravine.

Charlie Brown in my garage, 2012

He disappeared and then, a week later, I came home to find him sunning himself casually on my front patio – a spot he had never visited at all, having come and gone through my garage. How on earth did he find me? Amused, I reached out to touch him, but he hissed defiantly, so I respectfully agreed to keep my distance, but help him manage the difficult outdoor-only life. Then I brought him some food, and that cemented the deal.

For the next six years he became the class clown cat of my condo complex, refusing to budge from the sidewalk when people would walk by, passing out comically in the flower beds. Not everyone was amused. I received a couple different letters from the homeowners board telling me I was in violation of codes prohibiting the feeding of one’s pets outside. I quickly replied that he was NOT my cat – and would likely be moving along soon.

But of course he didn’t. So I set up a shelter for him and gave him a name: Charlie Brown, because he made me think of the Christmas tree the cartoon character adopted. This was NOT a pretty cat: a fat barrel body sat on short and spindly legs, and his ears were tattered by too many fights before he decided the semi-domestic life was the ticket. But not unlike Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree, with a little love and appreciation, I expected he would blossom.

And so he did, though it took some time. Within a couple of years, Charlie was allowing pets to the head, and within another couple, strokes to his protruding sides and even pats to his ample backside. Still, I could not pick him up or kiss him, and feared what might happen if he did indeed need vet care someday.

I looked forward to seeing his funny face morning and evening when I took out his food, sat with him sometimes while he rubbed against my legs. I loved him in that unrequited way that one loves a cat beyond reach. And when he died, it made me re-evaluate my idea of which cats are mine and which are not. Most of the cats I feed on my morning rounds are touchable now, but even those who still shrink away from me have my devotion, my affection. Does a lack of lap time make them any less a part of me?

I went to pick up Charlie’s ashes last week, and a new counter gal brought me the little cedar box with his name on it. She flashed a look of shared grief. “Awwww, was he your cat?” she asked sweetly. I smiled.

“Yes, he was,” I replied. “Charlie was my cat.”

I’ve blogged so little this year that I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t recall the story of Margaret, the sweet calico street cat with eyes like saucers who was attacked by a predator and almost lost her tail this winter. I took her home after surgery, where she instantly turned into a total love bug, shocking even this veteran rescuer.

She was with me for many months as I got her to be less afraid and more accustomed to being indoors. But then I started getting anxious about the fact that she was proving a challenging placement. (Hey, anyone want to adopt a cat who will be afraid of you for quite a while, not want to be touched and be picky about her food to boot?) When a home materialized in June, my gut told me the home was not quite right for this special girl, but my anxiousness overrode my gut instincts and I delivered her tearfully to her new home in a swanky coastal neighborhood.

And then, four days later, she jumped out a two-story window.

I was beside myself with concern for her, now running loose in a strange area, maybe with injuries. And I was also upset that the new family didn’t seem to care all that much. (In hindsight, I’m not sure I should have blamed them. They only had her for four days, during which time she hid.) So it was I alone who papered the neighborhood with flyers in mailboxes, and drove around calling her twice a day. When days turned into a week, I was tearfully losing hope.

Then I got the call from a complete stranger just a few houses away from her adoptive home. “I think your cat is here on my fence!” said a man named Frank, who had kept my flyer and recognized her. I raced over with a carrier, hands trembling, and called to her. Margaret came out from under a bush, looking scared but otherwise fine. In my anxiousness to get to her, I climbed over a low cyclone fence, jabbing a bare ankle on the wire, but I was undaunted. I approached her, she stood her ground.Then I grabbed her, threw her in the carrier triumphantly, and let out a whoop!

And then Margaret freaked out, literally broke open the carrier door in her mad scramble, and ran off into the gathering night. THEN I was daunted, in pain and beside myself with anguish.

Frank and his wonderful wife Chris said not to worry – they would help me track her down.  So for another 4-5 days they kept watch and would text me when she was sighted. (Talk about the kindness of strangers?! Never have I seen such compassion.) I went to the area twice a day, finding her hideout, leaving food for her (she wouldn’t come close after the betrayal of putting her in the carrier) and eventually I started leaving out a trap. She wouldn’t go near it.

How far would I go to recapture Margaret? It occurred to me that she might be more inclined to go in the trap if it smelled like me. So I sat in my car, checked my mirrors for passing cars or pedestrians, reached up under my blouse and awkwardly pulled my camisole down over my legs. Lifting the front entrance, I put it in the trap. Laugh all you want to, I was able to get her the next day.   😉

  Margaret in trap – note black camisole strap under her foot.

But the miracles weren’t quite over yet. Humbled by my bad decision in taking the first home that presented itself, I decided that Margaret’s happiness was worth waiting as long as it took to find the right home, and I would stop stressing about it and just enjoy having this wonderful kitty in my life.

And just a day or two later, I got the email: we saw an old flyer about Margaret – is she still available? Just chatting with the interested couple I could tell they were sensitive, kind, experienced with challenging cats, and hankering for another tortie like the one they have. Again, it was a lesson in the wisdom of letting go of trying to control the universe, because the universe has its own plans.

I curled up next to her on the bed that night, and told her what was going to happen. She purred and I cried, knowing this separation would be for good.

(I do believe there is an equation at work here: for every month of cohabitation with a cat there is x amount of emotional investment and x number of weeks of grieving when they are adopted. For me, at 5 months, it feels like giving away my own cat – something I could never do with my long-timers.)

Anyway, Margaret has been there a week or so now, and after a rocky couple of days, she is blossoming. She is not only letting herself be petted, but she is purring, and laying claim to her new mom’s computer – something my own cats also seem to love to do.

I miss her terribly, but am so happy that she is being loved for who she is.

Saint Francis, thanks for heeding my prayers. And for making it possible to make a good ending out of a bad decision.

Soon after my dad died, a year and change ago, I was watching PBS, mollifying my grief with a British program of some kind. After it concluded, Rick Steves appeared, touting the most romantic places in Europe. I never watch his program, but something made me this time. Second on his list of places was Assisi Italy, birthplace of St. Francis, patron saint of animals – and this blog, not to mention my rescue work. I leaned forward eagerly and turned up the volume. As I watched him stroll the beautiful hilly streets, he waxed rhapsodic about St. Francis and his impact on the world: an impoverished friar who flew in the face of the opulence of the Catholic Church of the day, challenging its core values, daring to suggest we treat animals as equals, not as edibles.

I have to go, I whispered to myself.

And a year later, here I am. Literally, staring out my window at St. Rufino cathedral, where  Francis was baptised and preached his first sermon. Earlier today I also went to the huge Basilica devoted to the man and his work.

Not being Catholic or even religious, I wasn’t sure how it would be for me. I had visited innumerable religious shrines in my visits abroad in my life, and had come away unmoved – or in fact more skeptical than ever. (My standard complaint being: why the church lets its people suffer from hunger while it builds these enormous monuments with their alms?)

But this time, I cried. I sat in a pew in silence, looked at the giant stone tomb in front of me, encircled with flowers and praying pilgrims, and cried. I cannot tell you why, exactly. I think it’s because his message of universality, tolerance and empathy speaks so directly to my heart.

His writings include this gem:
If you have men who will exclude any of God’s creatures from the shelter of compassion and pity, you will have men who deal likewise with their fellow men. All creatures have the same source as we have. Not to hurt our humble brethren is our first duty to them; but to stop there is a complete misapprehension of the intentions of Providence. We have a higher mission. God wishes that we should succour them whenever they require it.

[Succour: provide assistance and support in times of hardship and distress.]

I’ve been praised many times for my succouring (if there is such a word) – for the occasions when I see sick or wounded cat, and take it upon myself to capture them and ease their suffering. (See previous entry about Margaret, who is doing GREAT these days.) But the praise has always confused me. Why wouldn’t I help? Why doesn’t everyone? I’ve never had the conscious thought, what would St. Francis do?, but indeed that would seem to be an excellent rule of thumb for us all.

Stories abound of his strange powers over animals, from the small (a lamb he’d saved that followed him around like a dog, giving sermons to birds in the field that did not fly away), to the large. My favorite is that he learned of a wolf attacking livestock in a nearby town and insisted, to his followers’ alarm, on approaching the wolf himself. The wolf hung its head in his presence, and then Francis led it back into town, and asked the people to please feed the wolf, because its crimes had been simply out of hunger. The townspeople complied, and it never hurt another creature, and died, more or less the town pet, in its old age. No idea if there’s truth to this but I love the story.

In my early experiences of working with ferals, if I knew one of my group had been carried off by a predator, I would rage against it. Then my friend Carrie asked me if that weren’t a better death than being hit by a car? “The coyote needs to eat – probably to feed its young,” she said. It took me a while to wrap my brain around that, but she did have a point. To have compassion for one animal is ideally to have compassion for them all. No animal is born evil and they all just try to survive. I’m sure Francis would agree.

There’s a plot point in my new children’s novel (soon to be shopped to agents) during which my feral cats strike a deal with a coyote who has killed some colony cats, so that they can live together in peace. It seemed exceedingly fanciful as I was writing it, but one can dream! And one can learn, as I have here.

I leave Assisi tomorrow and head off to Venice and more glittery diversions. But I’ll carry the power of this place and the message of the man with me, to hopefully buoy me as I get back home to the hard work of giving succour. Now, I recognize how bright is my guiding light.

Greetings from cat rescue land! Happy 2018! One of my New Year’s resolutions is to blog more this year, so please hold me to it! I’m starting the year with a harrowing, if optimistic, tale for you. Perhaps a tale of a tail?  🙂

A couple of years ago a petite, young tortoiseshell appeared in the parking lot across the street, looking frightened and out of place. Her ear was clipped, indicating she’d been trapped and spayed as a feral, and her eyes were so huge and innocent I decided to call her Margaret Keane, after the famed artist of paintings of big-eyed children – and often cats as well!

Where she came from I had no idea – did someone relocate her or did she just find me? It didn’t really matter as she immediately captured my heart. (You’re not supposed to have favorites among your ferals any more than you’re supposed to have favorite children, but she has definitely been mine.) Within months she was there waiting for me every morning, and would run up to me when my trunk opened and I started fixing her breakfast, weaving in and out of my legs and purring. She eventually let me pet her, and even pick her up for a few seconds. Our bond grew strong. “Someday,” I’d tell her, “I’ll bring you home with me. Until then I’ll take good care of you.”

I knew that bringing her home was unlikely to be anytime soon, because I [ahem] have a full house these days, with the two kitties I actually chose, and those who came to me sick or injured… and then stayed. And stayed.

Not that I mind; all are precious to me and are endlessly entertaining. Especially Big Mike, whose leg was shredded by a predator and took six months to heal. By then of course I was infatuated. Here he was this morning, in my granddaughter’s chair, waiting for a hand-out. So hilarious.

But I digress.

It’s been hard to keep my promise to take good care of Margaret these last six months or so. She had a comfy shelter tucked into a tall hedge in the parking lot, until the shopping center owner decided to denude the hedge of all its lower branches up to about five feet, and trash her hiding place. After that, I bought a small dog house for her and put it discreetly on city property, just on the other side of the sidewalk in a wild area. One cold morning in early December I arrived to find it had been removed without notice by the city. (I don’t even want to begin to rant about that.) Since then she has had to find her own shelter, even when nights are bitterly cold.

And then a week ago… she disappeared. For the next two days I checked for her anxiously and often. It’s not uncommon to lose cats in that ravine – it’s happened many times, including just recently with sweet Freda the Russian Blue who disappeared. If sickness and cold don’t get them, a predator might. But not my Margaret. Not this time. My Saint Francis shrine got some extra prayers those days.

Margaret finally reappeared at morning feeding time, but my joy was mitigated by the fact that she looked terrible. Sick around her eyes, moving slowly as if she were in pain. And she would not come near me, so I could not examine her. For two more anguished days, she remained beyond my reach.

Finally on the third day, I brought a carrier with me, in hopes I could coax her into it. It was a good thing I did. As I prepared her breakfast she came close enough for me to get a good look at her. Lifting her back leg to lick her backside, I saw a horribly gaping wound, which had been hidden under her tail. About the size of a silver dollar, it was very red and very deep. With trembling hands and feeling nauseous, I baited the carrier with sardines, and to my amazement she walked right in. As I covered it with a towel, and she stared at me with angry eyes, I whispered to her to trust me. I knew it didn’t look like I was taking care of her, but I was.

I sped to Adobe urgent care, where I would end up spending most of the day. They repaired the deep laceration under her tail, which was consistent with a predator attempting to grab her there, hoping to have her for dinner. Somehow she escaped with her life, and her tail.

I set up a dog crate in the second bedroom and carefully put her, in her carrier, inside it. Groggy, she peered out of it cautiously – perhaps looking to see what fresh hell she was now experiencing. I’ve learned in six years of rescue work that even a friendly feral can turn hostile, even violent, after realizing they’re trapped, so I gave her plenty of space.

But it was not so for Miss Margaret. By the next morning, she was out of her carrier exploring, and surrendered quickly to my touch. More than that, she seemed to crave it, rolling over on her side as my arms encircled her, purring as if she were home at last.

Home at last? Oh dear – be careful what you wish for. How I would LOVE to keep her, but I absolutely cannot. The realization of this makes tears threaten. She is supposed to heal quietly for a couple of weeks, at which point the doctors say I can release her back to the ravine. But how can I? It’s a dangerous place – one suited to the more feral cats I feed. But Margaret is… special.

So I’m in a serious quandary. No room at the inn, and few options for a semi-feral who might not bond with anyone else. (When Maggie went to check on her for me, Margaret got very agitated and tried to climb the walls of the crate.)

It’s a tough one, but I have two weeks to ponder the answer. I do think Margaret has had enough of the outdoors, and would like a warm and safe place to sleep.

Saint Francis, help me discover the right path for this sweet kitty so I can keep my promise to take very good care of her… even if that doesn’t include adopting her myself.

This summer I questioned my ability to do rescue work. So did a couple of friends who had noticed how upset – even tearful – I would get when talking about it. “I worry about the toll it is taking on you,” said one who has known me for 45 years. Said another, “You need to draw a protective boundary around yourself and try not to cross it. You need to say no sometimes.”

“No” was not a word that could be said when I got a call in August, soon after the kittens had happily turned the corner. A young woman who had adopted Colby (he of the broken toes http://bit.ly/2z2sO24) a year ago had died unexpectedly in her studio home, and he needed to be picked up or the SPCA would be called in. I raced over to Higgins Canyon, and it took two coroner deputies and two sheriff deputies and me almost half an hour to get poor Colby into a carrier, pushing at him with brooms, scaring him out from under furniture until he peed himself with terror.

I thought losing the kittens to distemper was the absolute nadir of my rescue work, but then this happened. Worse, I learned, he had been there with his deceased mom for several days. And she was only 33. It was a moment of off-the-charts awfulness and grief following grief. (His mom and I had become friends since she took him in.)

And (familiar refrain) I had no room for him. But knowing he’d be traumatized, I made him as comfortable as possible in my walk-in closet. There, I thought, it would be quiet and he could collect himself while I helped him get through his trauma, which was considerable. He refused food, hissed when I came near (probably recognizing me as one of the chief broom-wielders) and in general never left his carrier except to use the cat box.

Because my boundaries with critters have become so porous, I could feel his anguish over all that had happened. Even as my joy was mounting as the kittens got stronger each day, I’d go into the closet, lay down and talk to him and end up in sympathetic tears. What a tainted trajectory this kitty has had! From misery and pain with his crushed feet, to happiness at finding a home, to misery again in the darkness of my walk-in closet. He was due for a break.

I started to get worried when he was still refusing food after nearly a week, and also noticed that his paws were once again swollen. Did his toes re-break in the frantic scuffle with the deputies and me? I called in the wonderful Dr. Sue, warning her that he was a bit volatile, and to be careful when she approached him. But she is fearless, and animals seem to trust her immediately. She pulled him out of his carrier, and looked his feet.

Because of his previously broken toes, two claws had grown into unnatural circles, and were both sticking into the pads of his feet. As she began to clip and clean him, I left to give her space. And when I returned, she was sitting on the floor with Colby in her lap, and she was petting him. I was astonished.

I lamented that even though Colby was a gorgeous cat, he would be challenging to re-home. He is shy to the point of hostile, and takes a long time to warm up. Not to mention he’d always have “special needs” when it came to his feet.

Then Sue surprised me by saying if I could not find a home for Colby, she would take him on her farm. Out of anguish can come miracles.

It’s because of such things I won’t give up the work. It needs me… and I need it. I’ll try to be better about keeping my boundaries intact, but there will also be times when they crumble like sandcastles at high tide.

Now… St. Francis… how about a happy winter?  🙂

Apologies for the long delayed update, but it took a while before I could write about the last month with any perspective at all.

I’m still haunted by an agent’s critique of a memoir proposal I wrote six months after my sister’s death. “Put it away, and come back to it in a year or two when you can write about it without opening a vein and bleeding all over the page.” Point taken.

Blogs are also a bummer when the writing is vein-opening and lacking insight, so I waited a few weeks until the misery had turned to miracle, as happens sometimes. So now that I’ve stopped holding my breath, now that I can exhale, here’s the story.

In brief: two months ago, I agreed to take in a feral mama cat and her seven kittens that had been trapped in a canyon. Exotic and jade-eyed, I named mama cat Isis, and named her kittens after prominent Americans (because really, after a while you run out of themes): Teddy Roosevelt, Jimmy Carter, Quincy Adams, Chester Arthur, Alice Paul, Nellie Bly and Pearl Buck. Taking in the family would overlap with the fostering of Bandita (she of the broken legs) but I thought it would be okay because, you know, I can work wonders! I can!

I decided to take the kittens in for vaccination and sterilization in batches. Three little boys  (Quincy, Chester and Teddy) were first to go. The day after they came back, they all seemed to be getting sick. They were seen by a vet, languished, improved, backslid, for one scary week. Two of them started to rebound, while the third, Teddy, started fading. On a Saturday, he had shut down entirely, not eating, curled in a ball. I rushed him to Adobe, where he died as they tried to tube-feed him.

Stunned and horrified, I demanded to know why. How could this happen?? I was told that sometimes kittens just “fade,” but I had to know, because he was part of a large litter that had been living in close quarters. They ran tests, and the dreadful not-quite-conclusion was panleukopenia – also known as feline distemper. Very rare today, very contagious and almost always fatal. Worse, by cuddling Teddy, the virus could spread on my clothes to my own cats.

Now, a cat’s early FVRCP vaccination should prevent them from getting distemper, but it has literally been a decade since a couple of my older cats had been vaccinated. A vet was quickly called to come and give boosters to all the others in the house. Then I waited, my heart in my throat, for the other shoe(s) to drop.

Next was Alice, a sweet and submissive grey kitten, whose descent was also rapid. Determined to put up a better fight this time (because really, I can work wonders!) I took Alice to my local vet hospital, where they kept her for two days of IV fluids and syringe feedings. And then I got the call. Alice didn’t make it.

Dizzy from crying and incredulous that my tremendous luck and gift of healing was seemingly running out, I steeled myself for the next round. This time, Nellie, the spunky alpha-girl, and Jimmy, the little chatterbox runt of the litter, began to fail. Losing their appetites, they became lethargic and withdrawn. This time I was ready with a protocol the vet recommended: round-the-clock force-feedings with a syringe. I would mix special food, probiotics (they had terrible diarrhea), and water, and squeeze it into their miserable faces every four hours, even setting the alarm in the middle of the night. I refused to accept the idea that I would lose another kitten on my watch. This just didn’t happen to me. Even so, over the course of a week they both dropped almost half their body weight, until they were tiny skeletons of themselves.

And I was a wreck. Anxious, angry and sleep-deprived, I began to question whether I had any skills at all, or whether the praise I’d heard for the last few years about “working wonders” with healing kitties was just wrong, an exaggeration based on a few lucky breaks. In near-despair, I sought the counsel of a friend who is an intuitive. She suggested that I put up an image of Saint Francis in the sick room along with some pink flowers. And she told me quite bluntly that she thought the kittens’ chances were 50-50, that they could go either way – toward life or death – but that I needed to let go of the outcome.

“Sometimes the word ‘rescue’ doesn’t mean saving them from death,” she said. “Sometimes it means loving them as they transition.”

This flew in the face of how I’d been approaching things, but after a good cry I realized she was right. I followed her directions with the flowers and the image, which I pasted on the mirror above the bathroom counter where the kittens tended to sleep. The next day, Jimmy started to show interest in food… and Nellie started to die. Lying on her tucked-in face in a curious pose, she was motionless, breathing lightly. I covered her with a towel to keep her warm, and decided there would be no more forced feedings. And there would be no rushing her to the vet, where she would die like Teddy and Alice, without me in a sterile room. She would die at home with me, her mama and sibs nearby – who seemed to be standing vigil.

I checked Nellie hourly through the day, meditating to St. Francis, trying to let go, holding my hands on either side of her to send her warmth and energy. Sensing the battle was lost, I told her it was okay for her to go, that I would take care of her family, and that she had been loved and would live again.

And then… she didn’t go.

The next morning, when I walked in expecting to find her passed, Nellie opened her eyes and lifted her head. And when I offered food, she perked up and licked at it.

It’s been a month now, and both Nellie and Jimmy have gained back all their lost weight and then some. They are bright-eyed, sweet and playful. And the vet is amazed. (“I’d have given them 5% chance of making it,” she said.)

Nellie and Jimmy today

The two healthiest boys (Quincy and Chester) were adopted to a wonderful home, and I’m working on finding one for Nellie and Jimmy (they are very bonded after their near-death), as well as Isis and Pearl, who are very attached.

So what’s the lesson from this awful experience? Perhaps that I was too proud that I always knew the right thing to do, that my belief in my ability to always heal and transform was arrogant at best. I’ve been humbled by not having the answers, and by how much I still have to learn.

But this is one thing I did learn: that letting go and just letting love guide your actions can work wonders indeed. Saint Francis, thanks for the help.

For four weeks Bandita was in my care, after a crippling accident left her back legs badly broken. After bringing her home from the vet, she flattened her ears, hissed, and knocked the long wooden spoon out of my hands – the spoon that has worked miracles for years now in taming the fiercest of ferals. She was having none of me.

And her eyes: they were hardened by fear, pain and anger at her capture. I would look in those eyes and promise her that I would do right by her. That her crummy life would be better… though I wasn’t sure how.

Over the course of the next four weeks I agonized about what to do with Bandita. If I put her back on the farm, she could easily become coyote bait. And my investigations into sanctuaries that might take a handicapped cat proved fruitless. It seems feral cats are not really welcome at such places.

I consulted with veterinarians, who were also flummoxed at what to do with a feral cat who now had one leg a full 3-4 inches shorter than the other and would likely always walk with a lopsided hobble. One suggested amputation, another euthanasia. But after doing this work long enough, you learn to trust your own instincts, and I just could not give up on her.

I was also haunted by something I’d seen before her accident: Bandita nuzzling with Tommy, the mean old tomcat who ruled the colony. He had a soft spot for the little tortie (probably his offspring) and she for him. Could he protect her if I returned her to the farm? Could she take care of herself?

Heartsick and fearful, I nonetheless made the decision. After one month, during which her bones would hopefully settle and she could regain some of the weight she’d lost, I would let her go.

The day came, and I put up a crate near the ravine at the farm and rested her carrier inside it. (The last thing I wanted was for my crippled kitty to be disoriented and run headlong into the dangers of the creek area.) And I waited, thinking it could take her a few hours before she felt brave enough to leave the protective cocoon of her carrier. It only took minutes.

As her family members gathered around, she rather boldly emerged from the carrier and took a deep breath.

She seemed to remember immediately where she was. I still hesitated to open the crate door – perhaps because I feared it would be the last time I saw her. So I paused and we connected eyes. This time her eyes were soft, unafraid… maybe even grateful.

“See?” I smiled as I felt the lump in my throat growing. “I told you I would do right by you. Now you just have to stay alive.”

I opened the crate door and in a flash she was gone, diving into the thicket on the edge of the farm. It was so fast I could barely see how she walked – it had been a month since she was free and I was anxious about the extent of her limp.

Two anxious days went by and I didn’t see Bandita for the morning meal. Then on day three, this: Bandita after

I was so thrilled. She was walking. Not perfectly, but efficiently, despite the terribly broken legs that bore her up.

Sometimes, even when I fail, things have a way of turning out alright. Thanks, Saint Francis, for the reminder that my instincts are usually trustworthy. Watch over my erstwhile angry girl and keep her safe.

I was finally able to capture the elusive, injured Dita two days ago thanks to the venerable drop trap. Too smart to go into the narrow confines of a traditional trap, she saw the food in the back of the much larger drop trap and walked in. When I pulled the string and the brace gave away, catching her inside, she stared at me with eyes that spoke of both pain and betrayal.

She was quiet as a mouse all the way to Adobe in Los Altos, where we have (thank god) a donor-funded account. And then she submitted, terrified, to the pokes and probing of the compassionate medical staff there. They had to sedate her to take x-rays, and when Dr. Clare (wonderful) called me over to view the results, I could tell by her face that it was not good news.

Dita’s left hip was horribly fractured. The bone that was supposed to connect hip to leg was pointed away from her spine at a shocking angle. On a clock it would be pointing to 9 or 10 o’clock rather than 1 o’clock. The doctor had felt the top of the bone through Dita’s skin, though it had thankfully not perforated the skin. And her right ankle was also broken.

Looking at the x-rays and imagining the unchecked pain she’d suffered, I felt sick. But what an extraordinary critter, I thought, to not only survive this but drag herself back to the feeding place so she could be, if not rescued, at least fed.

How could this have happened? Dr. Clare thought either she was hit by a car or fell a distance to the ground. (Having seen her sunning herself in the highest levels of the farm’s barn, I would not be surprised if it were the latter.) The injury was likely a couple of weeks old, she said, noting that if I’d been able to bring her in immediately, she’d have recommended amputation of the left leg, now several inches shorter than the right. But now, Dita’s frame had settled and she was learning to ambulate with her injuries. One thing for sure: she would be crippled for the rest of her life. No more climbing up in the barn, no more quick escapes from predators.

My house is full to overflowing and I just promised to help socialize some feral-born kittens. My granddaughter needs me and work is harrowing. But I made the only decision I could: I would take her home and let her at least recover a while as much as she could, while I tried to socialize her. (She is already two years old; it will be an uphill battle.) And then I would consider her future.

After a day in the sunniest corner of my house (an western-exposed bathroom) Dita found the courage to let me know what she thought of my attempts at helping her. As I extended a long wooden spoon with tuna on the end, she lunged, planting a claw in the side of my hand, which sent spoon and tuna flying, and me running for the Neosporin. She is just terrified, I told myself, and then backed off on the socializing for a bit, so she could become less afraid and more willing to interact.

Here she was just minutes ago, having emerged from her carrier for the first time. Her eyes are still wary, but perhaps less so after a day.

You can see by the angle of her back legs that they are virtually useless. My heart breaks thinking she might be in pain.

St. Francis, I confess that I am overwhelmed and not sure what to do here. If Dita does not take to indoor living, and eventual adoption, what are my options? Return her to the farm where her injuries will dictate that she will have to live under bushes or in damp basements, where she will be easy pickings for coyotes? I don’t know – perhaps a sanctuary for disabled cats? Any ideas are welcome.

I am grateful to so often be in the right place at the right time to help these deserving beasties, but my heart could use a break.

It’s been a few weeks since my last entry – weeks that have been a blur of newness and crisis and joy and pain. But mostly joy.  🙂

In brief, I am finally a grandma. This is after years and years of wanting a baby for Erin – heck, for ME! I knew Erin would be a spectacular mother, and I had a pretty good role model in my own mom, who was of the “foolishly doting” variety, as opposed to the standoffish, send-a-card-at-birthdays variety I myself experienced. I was ready: poised like a spring bulb stuck in the ground and waiting for that first burst of warm spring sun. And now that she is finally here, I feel everyone in her sphere blooming.

I’ve waited three whole paragraphs to show a photo. Here are a few of my precious Shannon Marie Evans, born May 9, weighing 7 lbs. 9 oz. with a dusting of (gasp) auburn hair. At ten days of age she is already opinionated, hilarious and indescribably sweet. And as expected, Erin is a wonderful, intuitive, deeply empathetic mommy. And Jonathan has taken to fatherhood quickly and efficiently.

During her first week of life, I spent many hours every day in Oakland with the family, trying to help where I could, knowing new babies can really turn life upside down. I was never prouder or happier to be needed. A couple of times I was able to calm Shannon during a rare bout of inconsolable crying. There is nothing quite so satisfying in life… unless perhaps it’s helping another helpless being – this one four-legged – who also needs me desperately.

One such critter presented itself on Mother’s Day. Bandita (Dita for short) is one of six farm cats I’ve been feeding for a year and a half since we discovered them living on beans and rice that farm workers put out. You’re not supposed to have favorites among your kids or cats, and yet she has been mine. She is a gorgeous little calico around 2 years old, very shy, and yet anxious to bond. (When I arrive there every day, she stares deep into my eyes and comes as close as her fears will allow, then skitters away when I try to pet her.)

About a week ago, Dita disappeared. My heart was in my throat every day when I arrived there to feed and I’d fight tears when she didn’t show. The canyon is rife with predators, from bobcats to coyotes to even mountain lions. And then on Mother’s Day, she emerged from the bushes – but something was clearly wrong. She would walk only a few feet at a time on wobbly back legs, and have to lie down again. She had clearly had an accident, or perhaps fallen from her perch in the barn. But she was a wreck – like an old wagon lurching forward with the back wheels coming off.

Dita injury

I raced home to get a carrier, but when I returned, she had eaten and gone. And every day this week I’ve tried to trap her with a variety of mechanisms, to no avail so far. While the other cats scamper up to me and my plates of food, Dita hangs back in the shadows, watching me closely as I carry the trap close to her. If I take one step too close, she wobbles off. I set the trap with great-smelling tuna, then sit in my car and wait while Dita goes halfway into the trap…. and then backs out again. Every day I’ve told her that I love her, and it’s my duty as her human guardian to help her. So she might as well relax and cooperate.

It hasn’t worked so far. But knowing I’m the only human she allows to even get close to her, it feels like an honor to try.

It’s not too different than changing a wailing Shannon’s diapers, or swaddling her when she’d rather fling her arms around like fireworks. I tell her softly in her ear that I am her grandma, and I will someday take her to Paris, and grow a garden with her, but in the meantime I have a duty to help her even when she doesn’t think she needs it.

I won’t stop trying to catch Dita until I do; I won’t stop doing whatever Princess Shannon needs me to do, in order to be a good grandma. It’s interesting to learn that love is love – whether of the two- or four-legged variety. In any form it’s an honor to bear its burden.

Despite the dedication of this blog to St. Francis, I am not, nor have I ever been, a religious person. (With the possible exception of when I belted “Jesus loves me, this I know” in the youth choir at church. Singing always put me in touch with spirit, even at age 5.)

But I had a recent event that makes me wonder if miracles do indeed happen. Miracle is defined by Webster as “a surprising and welcome event that is not explicable by natural or scientific laws and is therefore considered to be the work of a divine agency.” And something I learned on Good Friday might indeed qualify.

My growing awareness that scientific law had been tossed aside began a few weeks ago when I noticed Ginger scrambling around manically on the kitchen floor after a cat toy. With any of my other cats, this would be a normal occurrence. But Ginger, as you might recall, is supposed to be dying. Dying cats don’t play.

Two years and four months ago, Ginger the elderly tortoiseshell appeared to me in the parking lot, scrawny and sick, with discharge coming from every orifice. I trapped her and took her to the vet, who said she was around 13 years old, never spayed, sick with an upper respiratory infection… and dying of cancer.

When they sedated her (she was a wild thing and unafraid to use her claws) they found a tumor in her mouth and had it diagnosed: later stage squamous cell.  The prognosis: a few weeks to live.

Heartsick, I took her home, and installed her in my downstairs bathroom, which I had decked out with comfy beds and plenty of food. I decided against trying to mitigate the cancer medically, but would instead make her last weeks on earth full of love. I’ll show her that her life mattered, I told myself, even if she was neglected her whole life until now.

She slowly began to turn around. The respiratory infection cleared up. She relaxed into her first indoor home and began to welcome my affections. As happens in rescue, it’s nearly impossible to keep an emotional distance from the beautiful beings you’ve taken in. I would look at her sweet face and get tearful, knowing I would have her for such a short time. To deal with the reality of her impending death, I began to talk to her with an affectionate, matter-of-fact tone.

“Good morning,” I would say, kissing her head, “Dying girl.”

The “few weeks” of expected lifespan turned into months, and finally years. She still drooled and had trouble eating, but as time went by, even these issues seemed to lessen. And when I saw her playing, I finally had to investigate.

Soon afterward I was at my vet for a prescription, and took along Ginger’s biopsy from 2.3 years ago. I asked her how many cats she’d heard of with squamous cell mouth cancer who had lived this long. “Zero,” she told me, then examined the biopsy. Mystified, she offered to redo it.

It took me a few weeks to get my sweet little hellcat into a carrier (she was NOT having it) and off to the vet, but I finally managed – ironically on Good Friday. When Ginger was finally sedated, and Dr. Lawson looked in her mouth, here’s what she saw: nothing. Not a smaller tumor, no tumor. She did, she noted, having terrible teeth, four of which need to be pulled because they were infected. This would explain the drooling. As for why the growth in her mouth went away, she could not offer an explanation.

It’s possible, she said, that since the body is supposed to combat cancer cells, and Ginger was so sick and starving when I took her in, her body was incapable of fighting it. But as she regained her general health, perhaps her body was then more able to conquer the cancer? “I’m sure love and good food helped,” she smiled.

Emphasis, perhaps, on love? We’ve heard that it “conquers all,” but now I’ve seen with my own eyes that it can also create small wonders “not explicable by natural or scientific laws.”

Thank you, St. Francis, for guiding me on this little adventure.

I now have to change my thinking about Ginger’s future. My pity and compassion that she is dying has shifted to the reality that this cranky, adorable senior citizen who cuts such a swath in my home will be with me for a while. To help wrap my brain around it, I now greet her in the morning with a new salutation.

“Good morning,” I say, kissing her head, “miracle girl.”