Jane Ganahl

It’s taken a month of TLC, but this messed-up little guy is starting to turn around. He’s gained much-needed weight, his fur is thicker and a little shinier, his eyes are opening – wide at times! – rather than just cracking open and then shutting again. I guess when I compare day one with one month later, I can see the difference.

He still sleeps every moment of the day when he’s not eating, but he’s eating with a bit more enthusiasm. His blood and urine tests showed evidence of internal parasites, so he’s been treated with liquid medicine to rid him of them.

But Dorian still looks so sickly to me, and so I’m reluctant to let him go just yet. But perhaps he will always be? My commitment to him was get him back to health – as much as possible – and then decide his future. My feeble thinking: that he would become warm and affectionate after feeling better. But alas, today as I tried to pet his head, his ears flattened and he hissed. Sigh.

I’m still able to reach in with a feather tickler and stroke him. He’s not happy about it, and only occasionally bites down on the feather crown as if it’s a bird invading his inner sanctum. But coming around? He’s not.

And of course, because I’ve had him a month now, I’m attached. Which means when I let him go I’ll worry every day that he will be killed like Diego was this spring, like Grace last year, like Smokey the blind raccoon, who has not been seen since the predator did its killings in mid-March. But at least I’ve given him a chance of a life with less suffering.

Speaking of Diego, when I did a drive-by this weekend past the clearing behind the Post Office, my heart almost stopped. There was a long-haired gray kitty eating Gertrude’s leftovers. But a closer look proved it was not Diego. This kitty is longer, leaner, with a smaller head and bigger ears. And most importantly, it didn’t know me. Where Diego’s eyes would sparkle when I came near, this kitty was cautious, even afraid.

An odd thing happened when I realized this was not the kitty I’d fed for two years: I burst into sobs, there in my car, alone in the parking lot on a Saturday. I wasn’t really sure why I was crying. Most likely I never adequately grieved the loss of a kitty I felt continually guilty about not saving, not taking home with me. Or perhaps I was envisioning a future where Dorian could disappear too, because I lacked the facility to keep him safe.

The fact is, there is NOTHING – no facility – that will keep Dorian safe. Or Gertrude, who has lived behind the Post Office on her wits for something like ten years. Or any of the others I feed and fix. NOTHING. And it makes me crazy.

What is needed is a piece of someone’s country property, where I could raise the money to set up a refuge for ferals. It would be huge and fenced, with bushes and grass and short trees, and it would have a roof – chain link if nothing else – to keep the coyotes and mountain lions at bay, and a little shelter house, with beds for warmth. They’d still get the experience of being outside, but they’d be safe and protected.

I spend way too much time thinking about this. But this is not rocket science, this is fairly elemental and not that expensive. It just takes passion and commitment and connection. I’ve got the first two in spades, and am working on the third.

Meanwhile, I’ve got to finish getting Dorian Gray back on his feet. There are many more in the queue. Saint Francis, help shore up my mushy heart, and help me keep the picture big, the goal in sight.

It’s been three weeks today since I brought Dorian Gray home from the parking lot and his world went sideways and mine got more complicated. He has not been a happy patient, alternately angry and hissy, and too sick to complain about my fumbling attempts at touching him. The initial surgery was terribly hard on him; he was so wiped out he didn’t want to eat. Two weeks into his captivity I took him back to the vet (a different one) for a sedated exam because he was just languishing and all my instincts said this was one sick little boy. And the sedated exam wrecked him a second time; I almost took him to the pet ER when he didn’t eat for two days, and tremors coursed through him like tiny bolts of lightning. (The result, I’m fairly convinced, of the toxicity of Revolution flea/mite medication.) When I’ve been able to sneak my hand under his head for a caress, his skin feels dry and crusty, his fur flat and dehydrated.

If he were a Dickens character, he’d be described as “sickly.” But of course I’m in love with Dorian already so his mottled fur and cocked eyes are the height of beauty. His lack of interest in food, though, is both alarming and annoying. I’ve tried everything – from expensive tuna to sardines – to encourage his appetite, but I’m at a loss.

[Note how I put food in the bowl right next to him. And when he doesn’t eat it, I put it right under his nose. Sigh.]

The good news is that the vet could not find anything major wrong with him. There is a trace of blood in his urine, consistent with an intestinal disorder/parasite, which I suspected he has. (He would take a few bites of food, then close his eyes and stiffen up, seemingly in pain. That would discourage any critter from eating.) So he’s not on an anti-parasite medication now. And it looks like I’ll have him a while longer; I just can’t bring myself to let him go until he’s healthy. I also want to see what he’s like when he’s feeling well!! This genetic line of kitties (the Russian Blues) who have populated the ravine in the past have been, as my friend Carrie calls them, “nice kitties.” Several have been socialized into house cats. So isn’t it fair to try to bring Dorian into the fold once his belly stops hurting and he realizes I’m not trying to kill him, but rather, love him?

Maybe if I could just find the food that makes him want to eat again…

I’ve also been thinking a lot about what it is that I do – what WE do, those of us who help animals. To some, it must seem nutty to lavish this kind of time and attention on a cat that A) hates me, B) will almost certainly have to be returned to the bushes, where he C) will probably be killed at a young age by a predator. It’s pretty simple, really: I can’t bear the idea of an animal suffering, and feel like my “job” is to make things better – even if it’s only a Band-Aid on a much larger problem.

When I’m doing these things (feeding the strays, watching while they eat, tending Dorian, chuckling at Ginger’s indomitable spirit, weeping happy tears at Big Mike’s happy new life) I feel not only alive, but really connected to the source. I talked to my friend Cindy this week, who has achieved every kind of success one can have in a lifetime (the Clintons have her on speed-dial), but the one thing that really stokes her stove these days is tending to two ferals who have moved in on her country house. They have opened her eyes to a huge need out there and brought up for her the same questions I wrestle with daily:

Aren’t ferals worthy of love, too? Even when they can’t give it back? How to take care of them? Why don’t more vets help with cheap spay and neuter? Why aren’t there refuges for ferals, where they can live out their days happily fed and in the outdoors they love, but enclosed enough to not end up as lunch for a coyote? There are plenty of people who have called for extermination of ferals because they are hurting the songbird population (file that under Are You Freekin Serious), but who is speaking for these cats in a national conversation?

That conversation needs to be had – and soon. Maybe Cindy can… uh… bring it up.  😉

I’m starting it in a stealth way – aiming to do it through children, which where is where all lasting change must start. This weekend is devoted to more work on my children’s book, “Marvin & Mocha,” which will hopefully give new life and breath to some of these kitties I’ve loved – and some that I’ve lost, like Grace, Marvin, Mocha and recently Diego. It’s in their name that I shall continue taking care of Dorian, organizing my day around meds and cuddles, and writing like a demon… until things begin to shift. It’s a wonderful thing to feel like I can help make that happen.

Meanwhile, maybe some sliced turkey for Dorian?

The good news is that there not that much wrong with him! He had a bad case of mites, which left his skin rashy (and must have been awful for him), and the bald patch was all that remained of a wound that had abscessed and healed. (Amazing – that alone can kill a feral cat.) So he’s been through the wringer, but is now on the mend! The bad news is that he is FIV+, which means I can’t in good conscience release him back to the ravine. Oy.

Oddly, FIV+ seems kind of minor, compared to the last two cats I trapped: Big Mike (life-threatening leg wounds that took six months to heal) and Ginger Rogers (terminal mouth cancer.) So I held my breath during his appointment, for fear he would also have something terrible and long-term. Thanks for the break, Saint Francis! Now I just need to figure out what to do with this sweet boy once he is back to health. This inn is FULL.

Here he is just now, sleeping like a stone on his new plush pad. I feel bad he’s been so worked over in recent days, but know it’s the first block in building his better future.

“Someone get the license number of that truck that hit me!!”

Crazy week. I put my trap back in the bushes to get Dorian and Daisy used to eating near (and in) it, and it disappeared on the day I planned to spring it to get Dorian – the needier of the two. I mean, who does that?!?! Who steals traps, especially those marked with a sign that says PLEASE DON’T TOUCH! TRYING TO HELP KITTY! ? I am sometimes astounded by my species, and unsurprised that I find more spiritual fulfillment around beings with four legs. They may not thank you, but neither will they screw you.

Anyway, I borrowed a trap from my friend Carrie, and put food near it a couple of days to get these too-smart kitties used to it. (Some newbies, unclear on the concept, will walk right into a trap. Ferals who have been around for a while know what they are and will disappear when the traps are put out.)

And this morning: success! I got little Dorian, who thrashed around a little bit but otherwise settled down quickly and quietly in the huge dog crate in my second bedroom. I am worried about him: he looks sick and exhausted and possibly in pain.

I don’t see any overt wounds, though, so I’m hoping to avoid a Big Mike scenario of surgery and bandages. (Mike was remarkable in that he went from being stray cat to ideal patient; I have no thought that this little guy will be that calm.)

Already I’m imagining what to do with him when he is back to health. Can I return him to the dangers of the ravine? Can I find a adopter for a feral cat (albeit one who seems very sweet)? I can’t think too much about it – it’s just one day at a time around here. If I looked ahead to the long future, I would not have done half the things I’ve done.

One thing for sure is, I am maxed out on space and time. But one thing I’ve learned is that even if you don’t have another square inch or available half-hour to spend on cat care, your heart will expand to the size it needs to, in order to spread the love. I’ve already fallen for Dorian Gray, and have promised him my attention and affection. Luckily, there seems to be no limit on either.

Erin spent the night last night, and we made coffee. COFFEE. Something I have so rarely anymore. She tried hard to get Big Mike to warm to her advances (“he’s so beautiful now!” she enthused) though my shy boy mostly hid himself away, not wanting to interact with her boisterous dog.

She had to go to a softball game with her section of the Attorney General’s office, leaving me at leisure to feed and visit with my ferals across the road. Spending half an hour with them feels like a luxury; I am almost always in a hurry. Just standing quietly on the sidewalk and watching them eat is so pleasing. Doing this is one of the only moments in the day when I feel completely, totally tuned in, and in being so, totally happy.

Things are still not back to “normal” (at least the way they were for a couple of years) because of the predator at large. There are zero kitties behind the Post Office now, and there haven’t been since Diego disappeared about six weeks ago and is presumed killed along with the raccoons whose cadavers are still slightly visible in the thickets there. And Gertrude Stein, the long-ago-fixed matriarch of that area, has taken up residence by the Stone Pine lot – a far more dangerous place, with cars and tourists sometimes crowding the area. As always, though, she is undaunted, waiting regally for me on the sidewalk in the morning when I arrive.

The two kitties I’ve been wanting to catch for months now are also back from having scattered in fear: Daisy, the little black female who is losing her fur, and the could-be-lovely Russian Blue longhaired male who looks enough like Diego to make my heart stop. He is different, though – same sweet, empathetic eyes, same beautiful coloring, but long and thin, rather than compact and stout. I haven’t come up with the right name for him yet but I need to.

And I need, desperately, to trap these two and get them medical attention. Both look sick and neither has been altered. But money has been a major issue of late (i.e. I haven’t yet gotten my paycheck yet this month) and even though I have a fabulous donation check for my budding nonprofit sitting here on my desk, I don’t want to deposit it until we have our business ID number, so my friend can get a tax write-off. (The wheels are turning there, but slowly.) And I’m also cooking up some wonderful plans with my new friend Cindy, for some kind of joint effort in the future – but it could be a ways in the future. It makes me crazy to put off helping deserving beasties because funding is an issue, but it’s irresponsible for me NOT to think of it beforehand. I just hope Daisy and the grey boy can hang on and avoid the fangs until I can help them.

Oh! I just thought of a name for him! How about Dorian? As in Dorian GRAY? I like. I’ll keep.

Back at home, Mike continues to learn how to blend. At Sandy’s advice I bought a Feliway pheromone diffuser, in hopes of quelling any more fist fights between the boys. (There was such a bad one the other night – when Mike jumped in between a quarrel between Iggy and his crush Lina – that I had to shriek at all parties and separate them behind closed doors.) But since the pheromones started flooding the area, we have had (knock wood) mostly peace.

And Mike is also learning about creature comforts! For MONTHS (when he was so terribly wounded) I would try to get him to use a comfy bed – but he’d have none of it, preferring instead to lie on top of towels. (I’m not sure why this is – Ginger is the absolute same.) But Mike has now discovered the joy of a “cuddle cup” – though, as the second photo shows, he doesn’t always quite get the hang of it.  😉

It makes me SO happy to see him happy and at peace. Now if only *I* could be as well. But I feel things are coming together semi-magically, so I need to just trust in the universe that I will be in a position soon to not only help myself, but more deserving kitties as well.

This week I took the step of trying to locate Diego by talking to Suzan, a wonderful pet communicator I’ve used before. Before the phone conversation, you’re asked to send a photo. I found this one of Diego and his beautiful big feet, and attached it to an email to her. Even as I was doing it, I noticed that I had titled this older photo DiegoFree. It hit me in the heart with a sort of recognition.

Sure enough, when I talked to Suzan, she told me she was fairly certain Diego had “left this body.” I asked how and why, and she said she could not be certain, but that it was “probably not constructive” to try and divine what his fate had been. I took that to mean she got the sense he died violently, but didn’t want to traumatize me further.

I had hoped that if I heard this, I could let him go and stop feeling the need to look for him. It was not to be so. Every day since I have gone to the spot where I fed him, and called his name. But the area feels empty, lonely, and, with the raccoon bodies still visible in the bushes nearby, scary. The cover story of the local paper this week was about mountain lion sightings on the coast. In the four years I’ve been doing this work, I’ve never been afraid until now.

The time since my conversation with Suzan has been a blur of sudden tears and just as sudden collection of myself. You know the risk these kitties run every day, I tell myself. It’s your choice to get attached, knowing full well they could be gone tomorrow. Just keep loving them today. But it’s far easier said than done. I reproach myself hourly for not having been able to pull the trigger and bring Diego home where he could be socialized, in preparation for finding him an indoor home, free of the dangers that may have killed him.

I tell myself I just didn’t have the space, my hands were so full, but I am not convincing myself.

There was also a sudden blessing in the reappearance of two kitties I’d been feeding at the other location, who had also scattered to the winds in the last week. So life begins to return to normal – just not with Diego. But I’m not ready to give him up. I’m still putting out food every day, thinking he might just return. By the time I realize he won’t be, I’m hoping that I’ll be ready to let him go.

It’s been three weeks of adventure on the home front, with Big Mike continuing to settle in, haltingly and sometimes hilariously. Witness this exchange he had with Lina, my tiny female, to whom he has taken a clumsy shine. He sits next to her on her favorite perch. Note her expression of discomfort.

Then after he started pestering her, sniffing around so to speak, she turned around and smacked him, demanding that he cease and desist. He retaliated like a hurt frat boy.

Then Mike retreated, leaving Lina to wonder what the hell just happened.

He is also learning how to take naps, realizing he doesn’t have to be on high alert all the time. That warms my heart like the sun on his fur.

Along with some wonderful turns of events lately (the rescue nonprofit is several steps closer to becoming reality) I’ve had my share of challenges, too. Ginger did fine during her week with Carrie, and is holding her own against the mouth cancer, but both Diego and Gertrude Stein – the regulars behind the Post Office – disappeared a week or so before I left for New York. I anxiously asked the wonderful gals who fed the ferals in my absence to please let me know when they returned, as I was certain they would. I should not have been so certain.

Gertie did show up at the other feeding area toward the end of my week away; I was elated to get the news. But Diego (he of the beautiful Russian Blue coat and coloring) has not yet turned up. Diego had become tame enough lately that he allowed me to pet him, and rub under his chin. I had designs on taking him in, socializing him and finding him a home.

On Tuesday, my daughter’s birthday, I went to the feeding spot as always, hoping to see my beautiful grey boy. He wasn’t there, and frustrated with the long absence, I explored further, pushing aside cypress branches and moving deeper into the wooded area. There I found two cadavers – animals that were partially eaten. I held my breath and felt sick. Tempted to turn and run, I made myself stay, knowing that if it did indeed turn out to be Diego, I could at least stop looking for him and grieve him properly. Taking a closer look, I realized both were young raccoons. Not babies but maybe juveniles.

What kind of animal could do this? I know that rogue male coons can kill young ones, but as far as I know, they don’t eat them. A coyote so close to homes and businesses? A mountain lion? And if these little guys were unlucky enough to be dinner, what might have happened to Diego? I couldn’t think about it. But suddenly it made sense why, if he’s still alive, he wouldn’t want to come around here anymore – not with two little corpses serving as a signpost of danger.

My friend Connie was here visiting, and when I told her what happened, dissolved in tears and said, “I’m not cut out for this work,” she hugged me and assured me I was. But I don’t know. A seasoned rescue person would take such things more in stride, but the image of those two innocents haunts me still. I know it comes with the territory, but sometimes that territory is brutal and has big fangs.

St. Francis, please usher these two young creatures into the next realm with tenderness. And bring Diego back around, please. I have plans for the boy.

Well, it’s been a week now since I started giving Mike free reign of the house. It’s been mostly amazingly good, with the occasional hiccup. There are things my original cats know, like “if you jump up on the railing, don’t get close to the row of potted plants.” He learned that truth at 6 a.m. a few days ago. RIP, terra cotta pot. (See: culprit looking sheepish.)

He also astonished me with a wanton display of alpha aggression the other day, when Charlie (the patio kitty) came too close to the open window. I heard that guttural moan-growl that tomcats produce when they are vying for territory, and it was coming from Mike! I looked down and he was arching his back and lowering his head toward Charlie, who was sitting cheerfully on the small table just outside the window, oblivious to how he was upsetting Mike. I clapped my hands and Mike relaxed, but it’s happened a few times since then and it always amazes/amuses me, as Mike is the ultimate priest-like pacifist in every other setting. Clearly, he does have boundaries!

I took this earlier today when it looked like things were going to get out of hand again. As you can see by his fur, it’s standing on end. Oh dear.

mike and charlie

My only problem with how things have gone is that he has changed in the way he is toward me. He is so excited about his new life that “cuddle time” has all but fallen by the wayside. Even when he’s in his favorite spot on the couch, he’s resistant to my embrace, because, come on, Mom, quit kissing on me! you’re gonna make me miss something! He hardly sleeps, because there’s just so much to see and do. I know this too shall pass, and he will become a normal kitty, but for now, I miss my cuddle-boy.

I keep my eyes open for the universe to drop the perfect adopter into my hands, but at the same time, if that person doesn’t materialize, I think he would be very happy here as one of four.

Little Ginger continues to hold her own, bless her heart. She shows no signs of worsening, although I know that time will surely come. I am leaving in two weeks for 6 days of work in New York, and to take pity on my petsitter, I’m going to have her stay with Carrie, who is extraordinary in dealing with sick critters. And clearly generous with her friends!

There are some magical things afoot, too, but I dare not talk about them just yet. Let’s just say in the last week I’ve connected with several fabulous women who care deeply about critters, and ideas are flying as to how we might be able to help more than just Big Mike, Ginger, Pokey and my own personal brood.  🙂

I’m also starting to work on “Marvin & Mocha” – the children’s book that’s been boring a hole in my brain for a year now. At a friend’s urging, I checked “The One and Only Ivan” out of the library, read it in one sitting, and bawled all the way through it. It’s “Charlotte’s Web” for this generation of thinking, compassionate kids, and has worked miracles in alerting children (and adults!) as to the plight of captive wild animals. I hope “M&M” will do the same thing for consciousness about the lives of our feral friends.

From my mouth (or keypad?) to the Goddess’s ears?   🙂

It’s been such an interesting couple of weeks. To quote Rexroth, there has been both tumult and rejoicing. At the urging of some friends (of both mine and Big Mike’s) I decided to see how he would do if I tried to integrate him into the house and feline family. At first I let him roam to the bottom of the stairs, with a folding gate keeping him from mixing it up with Iggy, Claude and Lena. They stared at each other but there was no hissing.

Soon I was letting him mingle while Claude was outside on the deck, for an hour or so at a time. (Claude, as the senior citizen and resident curmudgeon, is very territorial, and the one I most worried would sharpen his claws and do some damage.)

But here’s the thing about Big Mike: he’s unaware of any of this. And is, in his own way, clumsily, sweetly, oblivious. Very innocent. So when I was sitting in the armchair, watching him tiptoe cautiously around the living room, I called to him to get up on my lap. But before I could stop him, Mike jumped up on the couch instead, and settled down on the red fleece blanket behind Claude! I held my breath, waiting for Claude to turn around and smack him, but it didn’t happen! Even after Mike sniffed his bum!  🙂

So it goes with this boy’s seemingly graced existence.

Still, the jury has not yet made its decision as to whether the best place for him is my home. I love him so dearly, but also want him to get the attention he richly deserves. I’d like to think he could get it here, but my condo is way overcrowded now, and my greatest fear is that my kitties won’t get what they need from me. Especially those who were here before this “rescue thing” became so important in my life. We shall see.

Meanwhile, it’s been four weeks since Dr. London said it could be “a few weeks to a few months” before Ginger’s mouth cancer claimed her life. And I have to say, she is seemingly unfazed by this prognosis. Every day she is a little more loving, a little happier, more trusting. I know that eating is becoming a bit of a problem for her; she gulps and drools some, but it has not impacted her formidable appetite.

Here she was today – purring like mad and doing far better than her foster mom.  🙂

Ginger 2:16

I don’t know why I get choked up – I’m now more than adjusted to the fact that she won’t be around long. Maybe I’m just humbled by the spirit of a critter who spent her life so far crouching under houses, freezing, having kittens that probably didn’t survive, dealing with cancer on her own. And how her initial hisses and fear have dissolved into affectionate purrs and rubs. It’s just simply extraordinary to witness.

As my old friend Steven Kotler wrote in his wonderful memoir, A Small Furry Prayer: Dog Rescue and the Meaning of Life, “No matter where you look nor whose testimony you hear, you’ll find none who have hunted the meaning of life in the world of animals and returned wanting.”

The lessons are there for the taking; sometimes they hurt us to the core, but they are impossible to not learn from.

“Look at that!” Dr. Boltz said excitedly, lifting up Big Mike’s leg and pointing to the upper graft. “There’s fur growing. Everywhere.” She removed the last of the sutures in the lower graft area, and paused to admire her handiwork. After eight months of hearing added-on phrases like “but he’s developed an infection,” and “but this area has come wider apart” and “unfortunately, this skin is dead,” I waited for the other shoe to drop.

This time, it didn’t.

“We are done here, my friend,” she smiled.

Wait… done? I asked her. No bandages, no sock sling? DONE, she repeated. Then she asked if she could have some photos – of Mike’s healed wounds, and of her with the patient himself. Almost numb, I pulled out my phone and shot these.

Just in case this was to be our last meeting (though I expected it would not be), I had brought Dr. Boltz a flowering bulb plant – a pink hyacinth – as a thank-you gift. I wanted her to convey a sense of hopefulness at renewed growth and life.

She got the metaphor. When she thanked me, she said she would plant it in her garden when it was done blooming, and every year when new petals emerged, she would think of Big Mike. As I checked out, the staff at Adobe said their goodbyes. “Yay for Big Mike!” said one technician, looking a little sad.

I took him to the car, put him in, sat down and burst into sobs. Could this really be over? The vet trips? the bloody bandages? the pain on his sweet face? I was surprised at the depth of my own joyful relief and gratitude; I had dreamt of this day for eight long months – since the day he showed up in the parking lot, dragging his shredded leg. I thought I was well-rehearsed for the moment when this extraordinarily special kitty would become whole again, but the reality of it made me almost dizzy with happiness. And so deeply grateful to all the friends – Sandy especially – who helped him along the road to healing. I turned around to look at his face peeking through the grate.

Always my teacher, Jetsun was already adjusted to this reality and ready for the next one. Stop crying and let’s go home! his quizzical, indignant face seemed to say. It’s time to party!

I laughed through my tears. “Pinocchio,” I said to him, “Now you’re a real boy. Let’s go run up and down some stairs.”

Tomorrow, I begin trying to figure out what to do with him for the rest of his life; today, this is more than enough.