Jane Ganahl

Claude continues on his journey – one day perky (even sassy) and other days, like today, he looks tired and refuses food, as if to say let’s get on with things. His cancer has had a ripple effect on the rest of the brood, who occasionally lose their patience with the lessening of my time and attentions by refusing the food they loved only yesterday, or chewing plants and decorating the carpet. The joys of being a zookeeper!

But one little angel is always the bright spot of my day: wee Skeeter, who after almost four months “in custody” is always so happy to see me, never wreaks revenge for my inattention, and eats what I give her. Imagine! The moments I spend lying on the carpet of my walk-in closet with her are like a class in meditation: I feel my heartbeat slow when I touch her little paws, and when she purrs it’s like a day at the spa.

She is SO READY for her own home, and so deserving of one. Fingers crossed that a new lead will pan out.

When I think of what she endured in the ravine it brings tears to my eyes. She showed up still a kitten without a mama, then eluded my trapping attempts for months. During that time (in the winter!) she lost almost all her fur, and yet didn’t die from exposure. She became very regular, and would be there, shivering in the shadows, every morning. She’d look at me with a very steady gaze that seemed to say yes, I’m suffering, but I really want your help. I really want to be safe, and warm, and have a full belly for a change. I want to know humans and see if I can fit into their world.

Every morning I’d tell her, “soon. Just go in the trap and I promise your life will be better.” She finally did. Perhaps she was so sick with the upper respiratory infection that she sensed she could die if she didn’t let herself be vulnerable.

A year-old feral kitten usually takes a while to tame down, but Skeeter showed right away she wanted affection. By day two she was rolling her head to the side when I reached for her. She didn’t rebel against the habitation in my walk-in closet (my usual bathroom for rescues was occupied) and when she got whomped on by Pokey, denizen of my bedroom, who is normally docile with kittens, she was cheerfully right back in his face afterward.

It took some time to clear up her various ailments and get her to stop being so jumpy. (If a feral cat is NOT jumpy, they become dinner.) And I know whomever adopts her will have to build trust as I have. But it’s a joy to see how a battered, sick kitten can rebound – almost sensing she has a beautiful, full life ahead of her. When I’m tempted to break down about the too-soon passing of my Claude, I just look in these eyes and know life has more joys in store – not just for me but for the critters I love. Thanks, Saint Francis, for the reminder.

After weeks of watching Claude dissolve from a beefy, affectionate, confident cat to a hiding, distant, skeletal version of himself, the downward spiral stopped abruptly 10 days ago. No one (including his wonderful vets) are really sure why. But on Sunday the 6th when I came home from running errands, he was there at the door like he always used to be, meowing his indignation loudly, face upturned with fire in his eyes, demanding treats.

When I dropped the groceries and fell to my knees to pick him up and hug him, he stared at me with eyes that seemed to say, what? did you think I was giving up without a fight? 

Since then, he’s been on a seemingly magic cocktail of subcutaneous fluids and a morning pinch of anti-nausea pill. And where he has not gained weight – he still will only eat treats and a few licks of canned food – he has not lost any more. Which means I won’t be losing him to starvation or fatty liver disease before the cancer has its chance to get in the ring with him.

He’ll never be like the Claude of old, but the New Claude no longer looks miserable. He purrs and blinks and even bites – yes, Claude was a notorious nipper. (Pet me! Pet me! Pet me! Oh, that was three seconds too long... <CHOMP>)

Faced with the difficult decision of whether to put him on chemotherapy in an attempt to prolong his life, I’ve decided against it. After almost losing him to the chemo that he took for just two weeks, I can’t fathom spending even one more day of his few remaining, watching him suffer and hide.  So I’ll give him the best life I can, with shameless amounts of treats and cuddles, for as long as he has. I get the sense it’s what he wants.

St. Francis, much gratitude for this respite from the pain of loss. I aspire to be as brave as this boy, who knows only the present and doesn’t fear the future.

An old cat’s eyes have seen so much, and know more than we think. They know life is good and so are humans, for the most part.

These cat eyes remember when they first saw my house ten years ago, after being plucked off death row and plopped into a no-kill shelter, where they looked around for months waiting to be chosen until until a grieving red-haired woman who was not afraid of jet-black cats took this beautiful cat home. These eyes saw other cats come and go, but could see that he was king, head lion of the pride, and so special he didn’t need to even try to be loved. He just was.

These eyes can see I’m doing the best I can, when I turn on the fluids too soon and liquid life squirts out the end of the sharp irrigation needle. They know when I keep pushing treats it’s to save this old cat from starving to death because he just. Doesn’t. Want. Food. He knows that this “day at a time” routine is getting old for us both.

Claude’s eyes show the wisdom I lack, the patience I crave, and a serenity to meet his end that I so admire. And when I cry and fuss over him, Claude sees only the silly human who loves him and can’t let him go and he understands, and purrs his forgiveness.

In these first two weeks of treatment I’ve watched Claude dwindle from a formidable, fierce being to a gaunt, hollow-eyed shadow. The prednisone is not working, nor apparently is chemo, so we take him off. Switch to a different steroid and hold off on more chemo until he starts eating again and gains strength. Four trips in one week to the vet for fluids and now antibiotics because an infection has taken hold of his frail form. All the while he looks at me with dilated pupils and seems to ask why are you doing this to me?

It’s because I love you, I tell him, hoping that on some level I get through.

I have friends – one in particular who does cat rescue and hospice – who adamantly believes I should not put him through the hell of medications when he will never be well and will only continue to weaken. And that the kindest thing I could do is let him go.

If I were more sure of my beliefs this would be easier. In my gut and heart I feel that the Great Beyond is a beautiful thing – I envision it as a sort of river of light, and when someone passes, like Patricia recently, they become part of that river, and are still nearby. Perhaps they are reborn, I don’t know. But after ten years with Claude, tending him like a child, I don’t want to send him into darkness. No one wants their child to be afraid in the dark.

I take heart in remembering just before Mocha died 18 months ago, when I saw the undeniable form of Marvin, her lifelong mate who had gone before her, two or three times out of the corner of my eye. Oh there’s Iggy, I thought – catching a glimpse of white and black fur. But Iggy was asleep on the couch. I smiled through my sadness, knowing Marvin had come to escort her home. After Mocha passed, so did Marvin’s shadow, and I haven’t seen it since. It was an eye-opening and deeply moving experience.

So why do I doubt now? Like all humans, we project onto our pets. He’s afraid, I think. He’ll feel betrayed if I cut short his suffering. He’ll think I don’t love him. But then I remember what I was told recently: animals don’t fear death, they fear suffering and pain. And helping them avoid it is the kindest thing we can do if we love them.

I do know that time is coming – maybe very soon – when I need to let him go. And when I do, my most fervent prayer is that what I’ll see in his eyes is not a reproach, but a thank-you. I’ll kiss him, tell him, it’s because I love you, and know he will understand.

I’ve been waiting to blog again until I had something cheerful to say, and here it is: Lizzie is being adopted by her foster mom! Dorian’s eye infection has miraculously cured itself! And I was able to get Claude’s chemotherapy meds into him tonight with just one towel and one friend helping me!! Yay!

Okay, that’s THREE cheerful things.

To back up, and drop the bomb: Claude has cancer. My oldest feline friend of a decade now (13-16 years old) was slowly breaking down – losing weight, hollowing out in the eyes, looking distant and ill. An ultrasound led to a colonoscopy / endoscopy and the diagnosis of small cell lymphoma of the duodanem – the small intestines. With meds, they told me, he could have a good year or two of quality time left. On top of the news about Patricia, this could not have hit me harder. I made him sick of me that first day, holding him too tightly and weeping on his soft black fur.

Get a grip, woman, he seemed to say with his cool stare. I’m not going anywhere. 

Worse, almost, than the news is the fact that my darling, gentle Claude de Pussy turns into the Tasmanian Devil when you try to give him meds. Sticks all four legs out rigidly and digs in, jerking his head and sending any medication flying. His diagnosis was revealed just days before I was supposed to go to Dallas for Patricia’s memorial and it looked like I might need to cancel my third trip in a row in order to care for him. But my kind and fabulous vet clinic offered to hospitalize him and give him his meds, and I jumped on it – hoping, perhaps, they could “break” him of his rebellious ways.

No such luck.

I went to pick him up when I got home Monday and asked them to show me how to do it, and it took two technicians to get the two medications (prednisone and a liquid chemo drug) down his throat. When they were done he sputtered and foamed at the mouth and I dissolved in tears. How on earth was I supposed to save his life if he wouldn’t take the life-saving drugs? It turns out it takes a village.  (Thanks to Kim for helping me last night.) But it also makes me wonder if we’re doing the right thing, if it takes this much effort to “help.”

If Claude is dying, is there virtue in the peaceful, quiet death? Or like humans, and to quote the great Dylan Thomas, should we “rage against the dying of the light?” I want Claude to have the best life he can while he remains in this body. But do I owe it to him to force medicine into him that will prolong and improve his life?

I’ll be watching for signs from my sweet boy, and asking for guidance, before those decisions are made. St. Francis, it’s been a rough year. Cut your servant some slack, and send a little grace our way. Swaddle us with love and presence of mind to do the right thing.

It’s been three weeks since my last entry, and the only reason I’m adding one today is that I feel overdue. I’ve been in a valley of sorts for weeks now – flung in there by grief and overwhelm, both personal and professional. But I’m starting to find balance again – even if peace remains elusive – so now’s a good time to look for perspective in writing.

I’d known for months that Patricia (my daughter’s mother-in-law and my good friend of a dozen years) was failing, that ovarian cancer was exacting its toll on her, despite her valiant fight of more than five years. I had asked repeatedly if I could come to Dallas to see her, knowing she would no longer be gracing my kitchen with her humor and force of personality. She repeatedly waved me off; Jonathan said she just really didn’t want to see anyone but her closest friends. And it hit me somewhere around June that I would never see her again.

I wrote her a letter telling her all the things I would have told her if I’d been at her bedside: that Jonathan would always have a family who adored him, that I thought their best years were ahead – that I could see them both accomplishing great things – and that I was grateful for her friendship, one that had been forged over the years despite our huge differences. She was a devout Catholic, a church-goer, a German from the Midwest, which she translated to mean one who was not comfortable with the sharing of feelings. I was a messy spiritual seeker, who never had a thought that didn’t warrant expression. I was  emotional and passionate; she was reserved with a capital R. It seemed at first that the only thing we had in common was our children.

It wasn’t until I learned of one little habit of hers that I realized we had more in common than I thought. When I visited one Thanksgiving, she took me for a walk around her beautiful old neighborhood and showed me where she fed stray cats. One of them had decided to set up housekeeping with her, and when she began to fail, moved with her to assisted living. (Magee is now learning about life as one of two cats, with Patricia’s wonderful goddaughter Alison.)

Ten days ago, with Erin and Jonathan at her side, Patricia passed. I knew it was coming, but it felt “soon” – and woefully incomplete. I realized the importance of being able to say goodbye in a meaningful way – at least meaningful to me. And I didn’t get that with her. I am going to Dallas for a memorial in a couple of weeks, so perhaps then I’ll feel reconciled to the loss of a dear friend and important family member.

While this was all going on, and realizing my complete and total overwhelm, with far too many “patients” at home than I could adequately care for, as soon as Lizzie was deemed healthy, I asked my friend’s daughter if she would like to foster her while a home was sought. She jumped at the chance. Of course in the five weeks since a homeless man handed her off, I came to adore this scrumptious little monkey. It’s impossible NOT to fall in love, when you see them bloom so beautifully. i.e. from day one…

to week five:

So I was loathe to let her go, but she was a bandwidth-stealer like no one else, from stealing and hiding earrings, to needing constant feedings, to driving me out of my bed at night from the euphoric happy-dance kittens do on your head. So off she went, and after only a few days, it became clear that I might never have Lizzie back at home either. My friend and her daughter adored her right off, and are now strongly considering adopting. As thrilled as I was and am, I find myself thinking, wait… I didn’t get to say goodbye… 

And I feel another premature goodbye may be in the works. After doing so well for a week, Dorian appeared on the sidewalk Wednesday, nursing a terrible eye problem. One of them was swollen shut, the other didn’t look great either. I showed up anxiously on Thursday and tried to coax him into a carrier so I could get him to a vet, but when he saw the carrier, he bolted. And on Friday, Saturday and Sunday, when I was there with a trap, he was nowhere to be found. I’m praying that it’s not too late to help him, and that I’ll see him again.

Add to the above a complete crush at work at has required me to work with zero days off for weeks and weeks, ongoing disharmony between felines, and vet trips for Skeeter (an expensive procedure to find out why she can’t breathe) and Claude (possible beginnings of inflammatory bowel disease or worse) and you have the tailor-made prescription for complete, total, meltdown/burnout. Hence the challenge in climbing out of the valley. Tears are daily visitors – often three or four times.

The good news is that this is not depression; I’m just scraped raw by loss, and by all I’ve seen and experienced lately. I am equally driven toward happy tears by tiny miracles: Big Mike sleeping peacefully near Claude, Skeeter chowing down after being too sick to eat, rave reviews from two pint-sized readers on the first chapters of Marvin & Mocha, an email from someone who adopted one of my kitties telling me how much love she has brought into the home.

I just need to get it that goodbyes come in many different ways – and sometimes unexpectedly. And all we can do is get ready for them by living the best, most complete lives possible. Patricia, if I carry you close in my heart, goodbye is irrelevant.

I’ve never had to cancel a trip because of feline obligations. Until this week. I did not take it well.

I had lined up a two-night stay in Squaw Valley for the final nights of the writers’ conference up there. No obligations but to party and mingle as co-head of Litquake. But on Monday, when I was at my fifth veterinary appointment in two weeks for three different cats, it became eminently  clear that my junket was turning to junk. The last straw? Being handed two meds for Skeeter, and being told that she needed one of them twice a day for ten days. It didn’t take a genius to do the math and realize I wasn’t going anywhere. That, combined with the fact that Lizzie the kitten was still not yet stable (she is a veritable pooping machine with scabby skin), caused the door to close.

Yes, I always have a petsitter, but even the marvelously patient and kind Kim has her limits. If I’m overwhelmed, imagine how she would be? There’s only so much I can ask.

So I sat in the parking lot with Skeeter cowering in her carrier next to me, and dissolved in tears of frustration. I hadn’t been anywhere in three months. I was seriously burned out from taking care of too many kitties. And now I felt like a prisoner in my own home. The expletives flowed like lava. Until they stopped, and I looked in the mirror to dab my face.

“You chose this,” I told myself, sniffing. “Deal with it.”

Having too many cats is actually not a huge burden to me; I do love each and every one. But what puts me over the edge is having three temporary pets – all fished out of the ravine in varying stages of poor health, from cancer to infections, and needing much TLC. (Not to mention two of them needing eventual homes). Ginger (who will be with me until the end) seems to be changing; she is less hungry and slower, and her face seems to be shifting some. Her mouth cancer might be moving out of remission, and every day I look for signs that she’s leaving me, and my heart breaks a little.

It breaks a different way for Lizzie, who is the bravest little thing I’ve ever seen, and still recovering from her ordeal. Still less than 2 lbs., she amazes me with her pugnaciousness, hissing at grandpa Pokey (!) who is five times her size, when he gets close to her food.

And darling, sweet Skeeter (named for the scrappy heroine of The Help), whose upper respiratory infection has caused sneezing and coughing fits that make me wonder if she will lose the ability to breathe. (Hence the medications.)

It seems that I have two ways of looking at my current state of overload. I can focus on the piles of poop or the rejected medications or the trips to the vets or the money it’s costing or the fact that when I minister to the flock I fall in love with them and then feel awful when they go. Or I can focus on the moments of joy and the tiny breakthroughs: when Skeeter first purred, and when Lizzie had a solid BM and when the bandages finally came off Big Mike. Or, this week, when I first saw Dorian Gray back in his natural setting, chirping at me happily and looking so handsome.

When I keep those moments in mind, I know I’m doing the right thing. Squaw Valley will always be there; right now I’m needed at home.

I turned to Skeeter and said, “come on, you tiny pain in my social schedule, let’s get out of here.”

And then I went home, and gave kisses to my captors.

Update to the following: after two days of being missing, look at the sweet face I saw waiting for me in the bushes!  I guess all is forgiven.  🙂

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I said goodbye to Dorian yesterday. Took him to the ravine near sunset, let him get his bearings (smelling forest-y aromas, hearing birds trill, feeling the breeze he had not felt in two months) told him if he changed his mind about being a housecat, I would be happy to take him home again. I’d say the odds of that are infinitesimal. He put one foot out of the carrier, then another, creeping like a skillful ninja – not like the lethargic boy who slept 23 hours a day in my care. Then he flew over the side of the sidewalk and into the brambles, taking my breath away with his speed.

And then, curiously, he paused to look back. He held my gaze for a moment: no affection, just recognition. I blurted out, “go on! Have fun!” And he disappeared. I sat a few minutes, trying to sort through varying emotions, from relief that he’s (hopefully) better enough to survive and even thrive out there, grief that I won’t see his gorgeous eyes every day, and sadness that my charms were wasted on him. But, I reminded myself, you can’t win (over) them all.

In truth, I let him go sooner than planned – maybe just a couple days, but I could tell he was ready, and thanks to a nutty week in cat-land, I was awash in felines. It was a turbulent week: I had helped Maggie keep an eye out for one of her regulars, Tom Tom, who showed up desperately ill a couple of weeks ago and then disappeared. I got the call on Tuesday morning that he had returned, and could I come and help? And bring a carrier because hers was already being used for an unexpected kitten. It turns out little help was needed. Tom Tom all but walked into her arms and went limp. We put him in my carrier, and whisked both him and the new kitten away to the vet’s, where we waited to be seen.

Only then did I get to see the little heartbreaker. Oh my, did she take my breath. What a face!

Chris, a homeless man we both are acquainted with, had gone up to Maggie while she was waiting for Tom Tom, opened his jacket and pulled her out. He had found her wandering behind the Post Office. Just 5 or so weeks old, and so starving you could feel every bone in her tiny body. I don’t believe she’d ever had cat food before; when we opened a can for her she gulped it, sucking and coughing, as kittens do when they’re first weaned. Whatever happened to her mama is unclear – she could have been killed, or just unskilled in leading kittens to a food source. But this wee angel was found just in time.

So even as Maggie grieved for Tom Tom, euthanized in one examination room after being diagnosed with acute leukemia (FELV), we were embracing this new life in another room. Found to be female, and diagnosed with fleas and FIV (or perhaps they were her mother’s antibodies?) she is nonetheless an extraordinary life form. Brave, sweet and opinionated, I’ve named her Lizzie Bennet, after my favorite heroine from Pride and Prejudice. And in the few days since taking her on, I have recalled how much work underage kittens can be. Lizzie is a peeing and pooping machine, and even as crushingly adorable as she is, she is a screamer, and it’s disconcerting. MEOW MEOW MEOW! Almost 24-7. She wants out of her dog crate, she misses her mama, she’s hungry, she wants to get cozy with Pokey, from whom she is clearly descended.

(I have allowed them some sniffing time while I cuddle her, but fear if she has mites or something else contagious, I don’t want him to get it.)

Anyway, between her and precious, sweet Skeeter, I am way over my limit. I am hoping to find a foster or a home for Lizzie, with someone who can bring her along, out of infancy and into health. Skeeter will be a harder placement – she is less malleable and jet black (something I find beautiful but others don’t) – and I need to focus more energy on her. Lizzie Bennet will find a home quickly, I expect, based on her adorableness.

A larger question is why these sick/wounded/injured animals keep finding me? There’s a certain amount of grace involved, I expect, and I am grateful every time I take someone to the vet or buy them special food, that I have support from a wonderful benefactor. I’m always this close to broke, and could not do this work without help. It’s why Maggie and I are starting a nonprofit. We don’t want any compensation for doing what we do, but if we’re funded, more kitties can be helped.

Didn’t mean to turn this into an ad or a plea – though that will come at some point in the future. For now, I have some kitten poop to wipe off a tiny bottom. And a prayer to say for Tom Tom. And a candle to light for dear Dorian. St. Francis, watch over him – and Miss Lizzie, and Skeeter, and Ginger, and… every kitty out there needing care that I am lucky enough to help.

The good news is: Daisy (now renamed Skeeter because she just wasn’t a Daisy) has tamed down in record speed. Two days after she came home from her hospital stay she was turning her head into my hand, to gratefully accept petting and scratching. A day later, she was in full flop-over mode, offering her shaved belly for rubs. She is purring, and her purrs sound like singing because her upper respiratory congestion causes her to literally hum. She is an absolute darling, with never a hiss or growl, and will make a lovely pet for someone.

The bad news is: see above.

It means I need to get back into the adoption game, which is challenging. And I’m a little rusty, since Big Mike clearly seems to be fated to stay with me. That means videos and photos and Facebook postings and such. But there’s no way this fragile little angel is going back into the ravine – it’s remarkable that she lasted there as many months as she did.

Look at the improvement in just a week!

Meanwhile, on the other side of the room in his own crate, Dorian is still hating on me. I surprised him today when I walked in, and he was on top of his carrier. He flattened his years and crouched and gave a hearty HISSSSSS. I just looked at him and said, “good – your spirit is returning. It’s taken almost two months but you’re almost there.” (I thank good food and prednisone for helping with his enflamed guts; the prednisone might also be responsible for his crankiness.)

Such a mess when he arrived, Dorian Gray is darn near a pretty cat now!

People have asked how do you know if a cat is adoptable and interested in living the indoor life? So far, most cats have been pretty obvious. And these two are poster children for indoor vs. outdoor suitability. And where I’m sad that Dorian will have to face the dangers of the suburban “wild,” and realize I might never see him again after nursing him back to health, it seems pretty clear that this is his path and I need to respect it.

This is a huge change for me, to recognize this in recent years. I always assumed that all cats wanted nothing more than to be indoors, lounging on a lap. But it clearly is not so. That’s not to say they might not change in their wants and needs. Mocha was a perfect example. She spent 16 or so years in the parking lot – happily so, it seemed. And when her mate, Marvin, died, and she went deaf, she practically walked into the carrier I offered her. And her last two years, spent 100% indoors with me, were happy ones for us both. (She’s the one at the top of this page on the left.)

A few more weeks for Skeeter to get over her respiratory infection and I’ll be trying to find her a home. And just another week of seeing Dorian grow in strength and he’ll be going home too: his own version of home, where he can explore his way through the blackberry brambles while the birds sing overhead, where he can see the creek sparkle at night and smell the  extraordinary scents of the forest – even if he’s cold sometimes, hungry often, and has to hide to avoid the fangs of coyotes.

St. Francis, watch over my reluctant houseguest when I set him free. He may hate me – or at least not understand why I’ve held him captive – but when he sees the carrier door open and dashes headlong into the green, he might finally understand that I love him.

I had hoped to have Dorian Gray healthy and returned to his beloved ravine before I took in any other feline patients, but he was so ill that it’s taking time to build his strength back. And in the meantime, little Daisy was worsening over in the parking lot. When she vomited her breakfast back up because she was so congested she choked, I thought that I couldn’t let it go on any longer.

 Poor little booger-face!

So I started feeding her next to the trap (smart little thing, she avoided it for days) along with her new boyfriend, the occasional visitor I call Midas for his beautiful golden fur. Here they were a couple of days ago, neither of them showing fear of the trap.

So this morning, my heart pounding (as it always does) I got there very early and enticed her into the trap with sardines. She was NOT happy and thrashed around, but settled down quickly after I put a blanket on top of the trap. I took her in to Dr. McKinney’s office and left her so they could evaluate and possibly spay her if she was healthy enough. I was anxious to know why she was so rail-thin, with such sparse fur.

The good news was that she does not have FIV or Feline Leukemia, and she was healthy enough despite the upper respiratory problem to be spayed. The bad news is that Daisy had a bad uterine infection, but the good doctor took care of that during the surgery. She said this is rare in such a young cat (I’ve been assuming Daisy is not much older than a kitten) but such is the result of hard living in the ravine.

The doctor asked to keep her over the weekend for observation, so I’m anxious about how this little sweetpea will feel when she wakes up in that strange place. But I’m trying to remember that she is now SAFE, and warm, and getting good food. And I’ll get her Monday and bring her home, where she’ll share a room (though a different crate) with her old friend Dorian, while she recovers and while I assess whether she might be a candidate for fostering and then adoption. I plan to put their crates close enough to each other so they can see each other, and perhaps derive some comfort from that.

I have given up on Dorian becoming a housecat. He has calmed down some, and sometimes even allows me to touch his head, but clearly is just counting the moments until he can leave and resume life in the ravine. Sigh. But he is still so weak and frail that the doctor suggested a run of prednisone for him. I mix it in the morning into the baby food and acidophilus he eats (one of the ONLY things he will eat) and already after a couple of days I think I see a difference. It’s been six weeks since I took him in, what’s another week or two? Double sigh.

Meanwhile, my downstairs cats are showing signs of stress. (How could they not? With my attentions divided by two patients?) Even Lena, my tiny black female, has turned into a hellcat on occasion. This time, she levels her ire on an unsuspecting and VERY undeserving Big Mike, who is literally twice her size. Although, if you notice, he took the first swing. But it was clearly in self-defense!  😉

Lena and Mike

I sometimes think about letting Ginger Rogers out of the downstairs half-bath, where she started living six months ago when she was given “a few weeks to a couple of months” to live. But she seems genuinely happy in there, and to be honest, I don’t think I could handle any more chaos. If I knew she had another six months before the mouth cancer claims her, I would be tempted to let her mix with the others.

But right now it’s a freekin ZOO around here. Military-style detentes exist and I do my best to make everyone happy. It’s hard sometimes but we’re managing. Slowly and stumblingly but with love and compassion for all critters who cross these borders into my home and heart. Think good thoughts for Dorian and now Daisy, that they heal quickly and rise up to meet their destinies, even if it means leaving me in the rearview mirror.