Jane Ganahl

When Ginger first showed up in the field behind the Post Office, a scrawny and beat-up geriatric tortoiseshell, I could tell she was sick. I was still in the throes of seeing Big Mike through his grueling skin grafting surgeries, so I was not excited about adding a patient to the hospital. But she looked so pathetic, oozing crud out of her nose and eyes, and it was such a cold December. I could not turn away.

Two weeks later she was in a crate in my garage, getting used to her first human relationship at the age of 13-14, awaiting her first encounter with a veterinarian. She was too sick to be feisty with me (she is a tortie after all) but she absolutely destroyed the veterinarian’s office when they let her out of the carrier too quickly for an exam. She had to be corralled and sedated, and the sleeping exam turned up very bad news: Ginger was dying of mouth cancer. It was determined that there was no need to spay her, and she was returned to me in the carrier, with the vet soberly prognosticating that she had only “a few weeks to a few months” to live.

I took her home, set her up in the downstairs bathroom with luxurious bedding, all the tuna she could eat, and told her I’d be her friend, and make her life wonderful, until she passed. Having just lost my beloved tortie Mocha a year before, I girded my heart, telling myself that “a few weeks to a few months” was not long enough to develop a deep love – the kind that would result in more heartache and tears. In that amount of time, I could show her the kindness she’d never had: a compassion that stopped short of love.

That was 16 months ago. This was Ginger today. How am I doing on keeping a distance?  😉

The truth is, when you love animals, sometimes a split second is all it takes for your defenses to crash to the ground. I did my best to keep Ginger at arm’s length; keeping her in the downstairs bathroom, where there’s no room to stretch out and cuddle up, helped. But when I realized she was NOT going to die imminently, and let her out to become a free-range cat, it was all over. She has become a major cuddle-bug in the upstairs bedroom she claimed as her own. Her hilarious bow-legged trot fractures me, as do her clumsy (and futile) attempts to integrate herself into the downstairs clan. She is finally learning that crouching at the bottom of the stairs and yowling angrily at the others is not a good way to make friends. But it all endears her to me, gets her further ensconced in my heart.

Yes, it will now hurt like hell when she does pass, but it really could not have gone any other way. As for why she’s living so long, who knows? I don’t think love can cause cancer to go into remission, but it certainly helps give one reason to live.

St. Francis, thanks for the graphic reminder that we can neither hurry nor deny love in any of its forms. And guide my sweet girl toward her life’s conclusion with love and strength from her adopted mom.

About a week after my last post, as I was leaving for a work week in New York, Caitlin started to become afraid of Prince Harry. He was so miserable that he would hiss, spit and swat at her even before she entered the aviary. He was not only NOT making progress, he was regressing in a scary way. The decision was made (tearfully) that he needed to be let go.

This was not at all what I planned, as evidenced by my “cat to-do list” that I carry around with me in my ubiquitous notebook. But ten days ago, after Caitlin told me she watched him fly out of the carrier and into the jungle of the ravine like a genie from a bottle, I sadly crossed off one important item.

I never thought for a second that Harry could not be turned; that he would rather take his chances in the ravine than stay any longer in the company of humans. But it just shows how A) cats have their own minds, and B) my own evaluations and plans often miss the mark. By miles.

Every day that I was gone, I would get a text from Caitlin, who kindly went by the ravine daily to check on Prince Harry. Nothing, she reported. No sightings. We were both in grief. Then after resuming my feeding duties yesterday, and calling my here-kitty-kittyies, I heard it: a plaintive meow that I recognized.  I called louder, the meow got louder.

And then, there he was: handsome Prince Harry, curling his toes happily at the ground, rubbing comically up against the hedge, and begging for food.

   IMG_5189.MOV

His forehead is still a little pockmarked from his wounds, but he otherwise looked beautiful and healthy. He came within inches of my anxious fingers before spooking and pulling away. But he was sweet, and trusting, and goofy – the way I remembered him before his terrible fight.

And this morning, he was sitting on the sidewalk in the sun, waiting for me, establishing what I hope is a daily routine. As I watched him prance around, head-butt Margaret out of the way and gorge himself on the food, it struck me: Harry IS home now. He’s where he feels happy, comfortable and free. It’s not the home I’d planned on, but my wishes are not part of this equation.

It will be hard not to worry about him – he’s NOT a very expert stray. He’s very noisy, can be seen from a hundred yards away, and is too trusting. But I have to be okay with his choice, and let it go… let HIM go.

Saint Francis, watch over this sweet boy. And let him know the door isn’t closed. If he changes his mind, and wants a lap instead of a log to sleep on, I’m very happy to try again.

One has turned the corner, another has put it in reverse, a third has left us.

The challenges of the young year that is 2016 continue. The extremely happy news: Robbie, my farm sanctuary reject, has found a wonderful new foster (and hopefully forever) new mom in my friend Gail. Despite his disastrous introduction to being an indoor-outdoor cat on the farm (http://tinyurl.com/zav85jz) Gail decided to give him a chance. And things are going very well in the last two weeks; the main hurdle remaining is achieving a detente with her current cat, who is not happy about the new addition. She had to leave town for work and asked if I could keep him. No problem – I have a very soft spot for this sweet boy. Here he was tonight, reminding us all that he’s not a psycho-kitty after all.

The strange news (tho I refuse to be daunted by it) is that Prince Harry has regressed, even as Robbie has progressed. About two weeks after his trip to the ER for wound care, and looking and feeling much better, Harry got pissed. Every time Caitlin would go in the aviary to feed and take care of him, he would get progressively more defensive and hostile, even hissing and spitting. I went over to see if he would be less hostile with me, but sadly he was just as upset. It made no sense. The kitty I was feeding in the parking lot was a love – rubbing up against me happily.

The problem with his regression was that he had an appointment to be neutered, and Caitlin realized there would be no way to get him in a carrier. So it took two of us, and two different medications, to get him limp enough to transport. I felt terrible for him, but was so puzzled. I sought a reading with an animal communicator I’ve used in the past, and she said Harry wasn’t angry, he was just scared out of his mind. But why now? I asked her. She said animals, like humans, have the ability to block an awful incident out of their minds… until they can’t anymore. And Harry was remembering his attack, and scared to death that in this confined state, he couldn’t defend himself if he were attacked again.

Post-neutering, he is still upset, though today when I visited I was able to feed him off a spoon. I refuse to give up on him – partly because he was NOT an expert feral cat (loud and too visible and clumsy) and putting him back where he was would probably mean he’d be easy pickings for a predator. So I’m a little stuck, but still committed to giving him more time, and more chances for a happy life.

I also have to own that my decisions about Harry are impacted by my grief over the disappearance and almost certain death of one of my favorite colony kitties, Dorian Gray. http://tinyurl.com/hd9g4d5

I kept him for two months last spring when I trapped him and he was so sickly, so of course I got very attached. I released him sadly, but was so thrilled that he was there every day for food, even letting me pet his head. But a month or so ago, he disappeared. I knew almost instantly in my gut that he was no longer with us. Every morning he did not respond to my call I have choked back tears of sorrow and rage that this is the best I can do for these gorgeous beings: patch them up and then throw them back into the wild, where their chances are grim.

So will I give Harry more time to learn to trust and love? Or will I put him back in the ravine? There is only one answer. I can’t lose another so soon.

St. Francis, welcome the spirit of my beautiful gray boy. Bring them into the embrace of Grace, Diego and far too many others I’ve loved and lost. I derive only marginal comfort in knowing they’re in a place of quiet and calm, where no coyotes or speeding cars can hurt them anymore. And send your blessings to Prince Harry! Tell him to open his heart and welcome the life we’re trying to give him.

Just a week after my last post, the blessed/wonderful situation with Robbie went to hell in a hand basket. His new parents, wise in the ways of socializing ferals, kept him in his dog crate for a few days, until he was purring when they reached in to pet him. Then they logically let him out, to explore the garage that was to be his first version of a home space.

That’s when the train abruptly ran off the rails. Robbie, terrified, went up into the rafters or a crawl space, and when they tried to bring him down, he freaked out, and bit and scratched them both – badly enough that his new mom had to seek medical treatment on a Sunday. To say I felt horrible about the situation was an understatement. The salt in the wound was that Robbie had to be quarantined, put back in the crate he has come to hate, for ten days. And of course, his new parents no longer want him. Or I should say, they have come to the conclusion that their set-up is wrong for Robbie, and that he likely will never adapt to indoor living. I absolutely can’t blame them, but needless to say, this flies in the face of what my impression is of this sweet, shy boy.

I’ve had an awful week just thinking about it, and him. Did I do a terrible job of placing him? My intuition about such things is usually so good. I can only start over from scratch when he comes back to me in a few days. Thankfully, because my inn is overflowing, a friend has offered to foster this waif in a week or so, and see if she can bring him along slowly and build up his confidence.

Oh, but that major drama was only the first of the week. Two days after Robbie’s meltdown, a beautiful strawberry blond tabby who had started coming around the parking lot (a 1- or 2-year-old I named Prince Harry) disappeared into the bottom of the ravine, where I could hear him crying.

 Prince Harry pre-mishap

My gut telling me something was very wrong, I went across the street with a carrier four times that day, once even climbing through the brambles to get down the slope of the ravine. When I got there, I saw a flash of his blond fur, then he disappeared.

Close to sunset, and ready to give up, I finally saw him trotting down the sidewalk in my direction. The sight of him stunned me. Harry looked like a prizefighter who’d lost the big bout – lacerations of his face and head abounded. Nonetheless, hunger overrode his pain, and he rubbed up against me, meowing for food. My heart pounding, I positioned the food at the back of the carrier and gave him a little push, and he was in. And then he thrashed around like a mad thing, making his wounds worse. The sight of him brought me to tears.

With the vets in town closed, I rushed him to urgent care at Adobe in Los Altos, where they did such a superb job with Big Mike’s wounds. And again, the people there were just wonderful. They sedated Harry and cleaned both him and his carrier (which was splattered with blood, tuna and worse) up. The wounds, they said, were no doubt the result of a fight – either with another cat or perhaps a raccoon. Thankfully, the wound above his eye did not impact the eye itself. Exhausted, we got home by 11 p.m.

I was elated when my friend Caitlin (an experienced rescuer with her own organization) said she had a “vacancy” in her home rehab unit – a wonderful “cat aviary” built floor to ceiling in her garage, complete with climbing trees, many places for cats to nap and hide, and heated beds. I took Prince Harry there and he settled right into the highest napping spot – a window box nailed to the wall – and basically passed out for two days, sleeping so deeply he almost lost interest in food. I visited him to see how he was doing, and literally two days after his ordeal, he was purring and “making biscuits” when petted.

Harry post-fight  (this is a video – turn it up and you’ll hear him purr)

  Prince Harry in recovery

Cats are absolutely, undeniably, incredible beings. Their resilience is humbling.

He still looks like hell, but hopes are high that he will make a full recovery and will take to being an indoor cat. (He tested positive for FIV, so we want to make sure he stays inside.) If anyone is interested in this darling boy, let me know and let’s help continue turning his luck around.

St. Francis, thank you for putting me in the right place at the right time, but please… no more scary challenges for a while, okay? Only good and happy developments if you don’t mind.

Two weeks ago I blogged that Robbie, newly trapped, was in “critical” mode. He was growling, angry, resistant to my affectionate, food-in-spoon advances. Then I had what turned out to be a brilliant idea: I would take some drops of Rescue Remedy in my hands, rub them together, and apply the warmed floral essence to a piece of fleece tied to the end of a backscratcher. And then I’d reach into the carrier Robbie was hiding in, and rub him with it.

I started hesitantly, reaching for his crusty head and ears. He shrunk away. I tried again. And this time, he leaned into the fleece-covered backscratcher, tentatively at first, and then whole-heartedly, rolling his head to the side in ecstasy. As I continued for a long time, my arm starting to ache, he emerged from the carrier to lie on the floor of the dog crate, writhing around with joy. I was speechless at the display – no cat has e-v-e-r gone from growling to showing his belly so quickly.

I slowly put the backscratcher down and substituted my hand for the rubbing, which he loved even more. I took my time, exploring the awfulness of his skin, which was so crusty it was like he was wearing a hat, and getting a close look at his chin, so enflamed. (The vet says it’s either an allergic reaction to fleas, or a physical response to starvation.) When I stopped, he looked slightly dismayed, and retreated back into his carrier. But I was thrilled. I knew there was no turning back: the switch had flipped, and he understood the promise of love. I would not have to return him to the cruelty of the ravine, and he was going to make someone a sweet pet.

The next day, the universe handed me one of those moments of synchronicity, as if it had been eavesdropping on me. As I fed Margaret and Dorian in the parking lot in the morning, an elderly man came over to see what I was doing. He told me he lived in Central Valley, and had a ranch just outside a town. He said there were something like 15 cats there – some of them his adoptions, others abandoned there. He does his best to get all of them fed, fixed, and healthy.

Some of them were very tame, he said; others were very wild. But he works on them, offering treats and food from his hands, sitting with them until they lose their fear. “And I’ll tell ya what,” he drawled. “That moment when a wild cat first lets you pet ’em is like a religious experience.”

I felt a rush of emotion. “Yes,” I smiled. “The best kind of religion.” Here I was this morning, worshipping at the altar of human-animal connection.

Robbie video last day

Such moments put us in touch with our truest and best selves; they also cut so deeply into our souls that they aren’t easily recovered from. I’ve been blubbering all day, after taking Robbie to his new home – a beautiful, 12-acre spread south of town that will soon become a farm animal sanctuary. (http://sweetfarm.org) Once he gets acclimated and comfortable he will be indoor-outdoor, which gives me pause. Now that he’s in my heart, it’s guaranteed I’ll worry about him.

St. Francis, huge gratitude to you for the guidance and the touch that brought a struggling kitty back to life. Keep him close and tell him I love him even though I had to let him go.

Until just last year, December and January were slow in Litquake land. Now there is almost no time for our “long winter’s nap” in festival land: we are off and running at a brisk pace.

And in cat-land, business is sadly all too brisk. The farm south of town that has yielded nearly dozen kittens is now down to very few, because of the incredible team effort of the rescue ladies of the coast. We’ve trapped in batches, getting the kittens their shots, their “fixing” surgeries, foster and sometimes permanent homes. It was almost becoming a routine – as routine as the chaotic world of cat rescue can ever be.

Then this week, a wee curve ball.

This summer, a beautiful young tuxedo-wearing guy showed up behind the Post Office. He was a sweetie: approachable and clear-eyed and unafraid. The name Robbie popped to mind, which was odd since that’s my nephew’s name. But it stuck.

When I brought a trap around to catch him, he disappeared, and I did not see Robbie again… until this week. There he was, the same kitty, but instead of looking six months older, he looked more like ten years older, thanks to dreadful scabs on his head and chin, and eyes that were no longer bright and innocent, but carried the pain of his tough existence and fragile health. It broke my heart.

I trapped him, and had him fixed and medically attended to, with antibiotics, skin scraping and more. By the time I got him safely ensconced in a big dog crate upstairs, he was hating me pretty good, growling and hissing. That only lasted a full day; by this morning he was chirping hello, eating food off my long wooden spoon, and looking at me square in the eyes with trust. I won’t rush him by trying to pet him – that will wait a couple of days. But again I was reminded of the remarkable resilience of cats: that just two days after I subjected him to the violence and humiliation of trapping and neutering, he is accepting my gaze and moving toward me in a tentative attempt to bond. Seeing his baby steps toward human affection bring tears to my eyes.

These are critical days, during which Robbie’s future remains uncertain. I have a pretty good sense of when a feral cat can be “turned” and I believe he could be – at least to the degree that he might make a nice barn cat. For now, I’m keeping him warm and fed, and working on restoring his health. I’ll let you know how it goes.

St. Francis, help guide me in seeing this sweet fellow off to a more promising future, one in which he might even have love for the first time in his life. We all deserve it.

I could not have picked a better way to end the year than with the speedy and excited adoption of Lewiston. On Christmas Eve, no less!

The day I trapped Lewiston, I learned of the death of Rufus, a kitty I rescued almost 5 years ago. Rufus, also a Maine coon, was already an adult cat when we plucked him out of parking lot. He was sweet and shy – clearly a house cat who had been abandoned or gotten lost. And when he died just a few weeks ago, he left his parents devastated.

Enter Lewiston. Our mutual friend told Pam and her husband about Lewiston, and within days, an arrangement was forged. He was scared at first and hid, but in keeping with his speedy nature, within two days Pam was reporting a Christmas miracle. “Today, he jumped on my lap,” she said.

And a second Christmas miracle: finding places to re-home all six kittens trapped at Higgins farm. These are reminders that, despite the huge challenges of this year, wonderful things do happen.

Other things I’m grateful for, as the year turns:

• Ginger’s easy cancer. After almost a year, she is still comfortable, happy and loving.
• Claude’s swift cancer. I know that sounds weird, but the utter horribleness of his illness was three months from start to finish, and he only seemed to be suffering in his last few days. I miss him so badly still, but am happy to know he’s out of pain.
• Having the courage to let Dorian Gray find his own path, by returning him to the wild. I was so convinced that this beautiful boy could be tamed into house cat status; his complete misery was a reminder that not all rescues are meant to be lap-kitties.
• The continued growth of Big Mike, who has blossomed from a desperately wounded (physically and psychically) stray, to a loving sweet house cat – albeit one who is so low on the totem pole he won’t come down to the living room for fear of harassment.
• The socialization of Skeeter, and the return to health of this beautiful little jet-black girl. Next step: finding her forever home.
• The collaboration of rescue friends on the coast. Because we are now talking to each other and sharing resources, our rescue efforts have picked up steam.
• And of course, the approval of the non-profit status of our little organization, Coastside Feral Care. Now we get to raise money! (If you can donate, we’d be sooooo very grateful. And thanks, as always, to Sandy for getting us started.)

Working with cats this year continues to teach me lessons about life, and about myself. As someone who used to not only sweat the small stuff, but get seriously rankled when something went wrong on the work front, now nothing feels as wrong as animal suffering. Right, I didn’t sell a book proposal I worked on for six months, but I’ve seen kittens living under a pile of pipes, eating leftover beans for food. No contest.

My hopes for 2016: expand our efforts after expanding our budget accordingly. (There are many kitties on the coast needing help – especially those being neglected on ranches and farms.) Make new friends so I can adopt out more cats; I’ve been teased that every friend I have now has a cat from me. 😉  Continue to work on my inner strength, so I don’t get so implode so easily. The best animal advocates have hugely open hearts, but aren’t always gripped by anger or sadness. It’s something I’m working on.

I’m also grateful to you, dear readers, for your patronage and kind words throughout this tough year. It’s for my fellow cat-lovers that I continue to do the work, and write the words to illuminate the process.

Happy New Year and love from Chez Chat!

xxx

I was finally able to trap Lewiston, the beautiful Maine Coon mix who had been timidly eating behind the Post Office the last couple of months. Within just two days he progressed from body language that seemed to say holycrapwhat’shappened, to patiently allowing me to pet his head and even turning his head to one side so I can really scritch him under his ears. No purring yet, but I have hopes for this by the end of week #1.

Sweet Lewie may have set a new record for calming down.

It was touch and go that first day, as to whether I’d even get him. I’d been feeding him for a couple of weeks at the mouth of the trap, then a bit inside it, then halfway inside it… Each time he hesitated, withdrew, turned away, sniffed at food being eaten by Gertie (the alpha dowager half his size and twice his toughness) only to be chased away. And so it was on Monday, with the food placed allllll the way at the end. He fretted nervously, walked around the trap several times. I withdrew back to the car, so as not to arouse his suspicion. And as soon as I did, I heard the telltale <snap>. I ran back breathlessly, to see the sight I always hate to see: a kitty bashing itself senseless (sometimes even bloody) inside the trap. But as soon as I spoke to him, he quieted, though heaving with anxiety. I threw a blanket over the trap, and carefully carried him back to the car.

In the vet office, we had to wait a while before they could take him in. While we waited, speakers played the most heinous Christmas music while dogs barked and cats bellowed in their carriers. It was almost comically chaotic. The first photo above was taken at that moment, when I lifted the drape to see his eyes the size of saucers. And I wondered what was freaking him out the most: finding himself in a cage, or hearing Mariah Carey’s dog-whistle voice butchering “Joy to the World.” (My sincere apologies, Lewie, for that rude entrance into a better life.)

So here’s what I know for sure: Lewiston is a young guy (4 or 5), not neutered (tho he is now), not microchipped, a bit dehydrated and scabby in spots, but otherwise surprisingly healthy. Here’s my guess as to his life story: I think because he’s not afraid of humans, he was likely a ranch cat from up the ravine. Within a walkable distance from where he (and Big Mike, and Ginger, and others) showed up for a meal are several ranches or farms. I believe that these cats find their way to me because ranch cats are often ignored and left to their own devices, and end up starving. Several kitties who have found their way to the Post Office field are in terrible shape; Lewie was one of the lucky ones.

As soon as I started feeding him, I prayed that he would be catch-able, and would take to indoor living, as he seemed so out of his element. (There is always such a difference in strays: some act like they OWN the woods, and could stare down a puma; others like Lewiston are frightened of everything and low cat on the totem pole. Poor Lewie ate after any other cat who was there on a given day.)

Anyway, imagine my delight when he he settled in so quickly! As soon as day 3, he was lying languidly in the big dog crate (his “home” until better arrangements are made) and when I walked in, he stretched luxuriously and yawned. So much for the stress of captivity!

Here’s the biggest challenge: I do NOT have room for Lewie while I seek a home for him. My inn is full with “kitties with issues.” Pokey just had dental surgery and is high on pain killers, wandering my bedroom like a tanked frat boy and unable to eat his beloved kibble; Ginger’s mouth cancer might be progressing again, as her tongue is almost always protruding a bit; in response to the presence of a new-cat smell in the guest bedroom (and the fact that he can’t get in there), Iggy my spoiled alpha has taken to nipping at my newly-bloomed narcissus flowers and decorating the carpet with projectile vomit; and Skeeter, whose potential adoption fell though, has regressed in her socialization. Why? Because I’m pulled in so many directions.

I’ve always said that what keeps us rescue types from crossing the line into Crazy Cat Lady-land is knowing our limits. I’ve clearly crossed mine, but what else could I do? It was time for Lewie to come in from the cold and learn to love and be loved.

I’ll wait a few more days while he continues to eat and sleep heartily, before I try and encourage him on his path, via fostering or adoption. He is a sweet and lovely boy and I so wish I had room for him, but not this one, and not this time. It will be someone else’s warm lap that he decorates.

St. Francis, thanks for the break this time; I think his story will have a happy ending, and maybe sooner than I even know.

It’s been a while since I blogged – partly because my re-entry to home life was rough (two cats very ill; one requiring hospitalization) and partly because I worried that if I spoke my mind I would hurt some feelings. What I didn’t write in my last post is that in addition to losing Claude, days later I learned that Scout, the kitten I’d rescued at 4 weeks, nursed to health and adopted to a loving home, had gotten out and was lost.

Two of the three weeks I was away were consumed by daily anxiety, nonstop communication with his anguished mom, and eventual acceptance that Scout had almost certainly perished in the rough canyon where my friend lived.

One ought not expect vacations to be ideal, but one would certainly prefer not to cry every goddamn day.

I was furious with my friend’s family for being so lackadaisical about Scout’s welfare; I was also furious with myself for agreeing to an adoption when my gut told me he might not be 100% safe there. If losing Claude had caused me grief, losing Scout was an intolerable double whammy. I struggled for weeks with trying to forgive everyone involved – myself included – but my best, most compassionate self seems to be hiding in a closet.

And I kept telling myself that I really, really needed to get off it – to let it go. Animal rescue is among the world’s least perfect art forms. You have wonderful, brilliant days, and you have days so dark you wonder if you can continue. And you lose your faith in your species – especially when things like this happen.

And then… something happens like it did a couple of days ago. When I arrived at the Stone Pine parking lot, I was alarmed to see that the landscaping team that trims trees and bushes there periodically was just finishing a major makeover of the hugely tall hedge in which Margaret Keane, Dorian Gray and Frida Kahlo hide. Big chunks of hedge lay on the ground in the area where I normally feed. I stopped in my tracks, and caught the eye of two of the work men who were up on tall ladders. They gestured to me to come forward, and quickly descended. Here was our conversation, in broken Spanglish.

Them:  come, come! The cats are just over here in the bushes.
Me: It’s okay, I can come back later!
Them (quietly taking the branches away): No no – come feed them! We can take a break.
Me: Are you sure?
Them (smiling): Yes! They are hungry!

The three cats came skittishly out of the bushes and had their breakfast, while the workmen watched, smiling. When they scampered away, the men went back to work.

I can’t explain why I felt so humbled and moved by that short episode. My anger at my own species dissolved in a gesture of kindness to the other species I love so well. And that species needs me. I’ve got a couple of sick ones to take care of, a sweet Maine coon awaiting trapping, and a spanking new nonprofit to raise money for.

Sweet Scout, perhaps your path was not to have a long life. Can I accept your death? I’ll keep trying, and in so doing will keep seeking my best self. And St. Francis, thanks for your comforting words:

Grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console, to be understood as to understand, and to be loved, as to love. For it is in giving that we receive, in pardoning that we are pardoned. 

It’s been a week since Claude breathed his last breath in my arms, as we lay quietly on the carpet upstairs, music playing, flowers overhead, candles burning in hopes of sending his spirit quickly skyward, as Dr. Sue sent the medicine through his veins that ended his suffering.

But I’ve been unable to write about it because I knew I would come unglued again, lost in a soup of grief, memories of feeling and seeing him die with his chin on my upper arm, and self-reproach. But every passing day brings a bit more perspective and a renewed sense of the positive, and so I forge ahead.

In the middle of Litquake week, he began to retreat again – disinterested in food, looking distant. Worse, he would get “the heaves” – like a constipated cat would get, where they shudder and arch their backs in an attempt to poop. I took him to the vet for “the works” – fluids, antibiotics, steroids… and a blood test to see how his organs were doing. If the tests showed his organs were doing fine, they told me, his downturn would clearly be because the cancer was taking its toll. He had one really good day after that: active, peppery, at least a little hungry. Then the bottom dropped out. He retreated to his quiet spot under the bed, and this time when I crawled under to cuddle him, he did not purr. His eyes were wide, as if in alarm, and he did not sleep. And I got the news that his blood tests showed his organs were fine, so the shuddering heaves were because the cancer had thickened his innards to where he could neither eat nor pass anything.

Everyone with a sick animal always agonizes over how to tell if it’s “time,” but there was no doubt in my mind. I scheduled the vet visit for Friday, and arranged for others to take over my duties at Litquake’s huge headliner event that night. But because there was no one to help with a lunch for Paul Theroux I was responsible for, I had to go and host, feeling at any moment I could lose my shit.

I raced home to be with Claude, and was able to spend a couple of quality hours just lying with him, telling him what a good boy and wonderful companion he’d been, and how I would miss him. He stared, caught in that gauzy area between life and after-life, but seemed to understand. After the medicine had done its job, releasing him from pain and sickness, I lay with him for a while, and sobbed.

And yet, my grief needed to be contained – I was needed the next morning, afternoon and evening, to conclude this festival I spent a year planning. Feeling hollow, bereft and even angry, I went about finishing the festival with the requisite bang. I left the closing party as soon as I could slip away.

I then had two days to pack up my life and start driving north to Seattle for Litquake’s satellite Lit Crawl event up there, so my grieving again was pushed to the side – reserved for moments when I saw his food dish, or the glasses of water he drank from on the floor, when the pain would erupt from me like a geyser. It was only on the long, long stretch of road did I have time to sort through what had happened, and even appreciate the timing of his departure. Even as I was publicly expressing confidence that Claude would be with me for months yet, I’d been fretting about what would happen if he starting losing his battle while I was away. So perhaps it was fortuitous – perhaps even engineered by Claude – to nip that worry in the bud.

And yet I was still left with the grief – I couldn’t stop thinking of his still body on the blanket. And I was crushed by the guilt that I had been unable to spend more time with him in his last weeks, and that he had stood by for ten years while I got deeper into my rescue pursuits, gamely accepting that there would be a constant stream of stranger cats to contend with – cats that diverted some of my attentions from him. Claude was the good and faithful boy, never “complaining” by eating plants or pooping outside the box. Did I repay him properly?

As I sped north on I-5, heading into the southern Cascades, the song “Into the Deep” by Kula Shaker – the Britpop band heavily influenced by Hinduism – came on my CD player. The lyrics hit me hard.

Fly brother fly, may you feel the love tonight
Fly brother fly, well I hope you meet your maker
I know the time has come to let you go
Time to sleep, to sleep

After that line, a soaring guitar and the first sight of Mt. Shasta ahead combined for a major psychic jolt. I envisioned Claude’s white-light spirit ascending, through my arms holding him close on the bathroom floor, until he was gone and part of the air. It was breathtaking – a real gift.

Now, some days later, when I think of him, I am more often thinking of him as happy, healthy, gorgeous Claude, usually tailed by his adoring mate, Lena. And I try to remember that I gave this discarded and mature black cat a wonderful life – as wonderful as I could make it.

Fly, my love, fly.
St. Francis, give him a special spot at your table. He likes tuna.