The list

This list is taped under a light switch in my kitchen.  It's Little Girl's list from the summer before last; the summer of 2011.  I can't quite bring myself to take it down.

After The Runt died in April of 2011, Little Girl mourned.  And then she tested positive for a bum heart, the same thing that The Runt succumbed to.  And she went on heart meds.  And she kept right on hunting; she always loved to hunt.  I think I started the tally to remind myself that while I was trying to prepare myself for the possible loss of her, she was still very much alive.  And hunting.  And not concerned one whit about her stupid ol' bum heart.

And she lived until November of 2011.  Over a year ago now.  You can see how many conquests she had between May 16, when I started the list, and November.  And those were only the ones she brought to me!  I still think of her; maybe that's why I can't take the list down.  I still think of her, and she still matters.  As The Runt matters, and Rocky, and Ghost and Spooky and Elbows and all of the other cats I've had over the years.  They still matter.

So sometimes when I get down, when I start to worry about how I'm not making a real difference in the world, when I start to fret over how I'm not making my mark, I try to remind myself that we all leave our marks.  It might be a tally taped to a light switch, or it might be fond memories thought by someone we ourselves only thought of briefly, but we all were here.  We all left marks.

And we all matter.

Ghosts

I was looking through some pictures I took of the cats the other day, when I noticed this one of Ponyboy:

It looked really, really familiar to me, so I started going through my photo archives, and found this one of The Runt, taken in 2008:

Spooky.

The Runt passed away a year ago today.  Seven months after that, Little Girl was gone.

I volunteered at an adoption event today, and tomorrow I will be accompanying Tinks, my current foster cat, to a home visit - he may be finding his new home tomorrow.  And of course, I have my new guys, Pony and Soda. 

But tonight it all comes down to The Runt and Little Girl - this time last year they were both here, and now they're both gone, and oh, that is hard.

Give your pets a hug tonight.  Tell  'em it's from me.

The End of an Era

I first met The Runt and Little Girl when they were part of a foster placement I was taking care of for a local shelter. There were four kittens: Fluffy, Tuffy, Little Girl and The Runt:

Oh, and let's not forget their mom, Evil Momma:

When the kittens were old enough, I took the whole crew back to the shelter to be adopted out, and I accepted another foster assignment. There was just one small problem: I had fallen in love with The Runt and Little Girl. And so I adopted them.

There is, of course, more to the story. So much more.

Thanks for the memories, guys.

What happened

Thanks for all of your kind comments.


Little Girl died of heart failure, the same thing that got her brother. Evidently the medications were enough to give her a few more months, but not the years that the vets and I had wished for. She did get one more summer of hunting mice and chasing leaves.

I found her on Saturday afternoon in the backyard. It was a beautiful warm fall day, and she died with the sun in her fur and the grass under her paws.

Her neighborhood kitty friends all came to pay their respects on Sunday, and I am not even kidding. I had a backyard full of cats.

Goodbye, honey. You'll be forever young.

Little Girl

May 2008 - November 12, 2011.

Oh, honey.

I love you. Always.

The Mighty Hunter

The other night, I came home from work to find Little Girl standing guard over a magazine rack. I figured she had trapped something behind it, took a look, and sure enough, there was a little mouse in the corner. So I grabbed Little Girl, shut her in the bathroom, caught the mouse and released it in the brush next to my lot.

I went back inside and let Little Girl out of the bathroom, and she promptly took up her guard duty again, not having figured out that the mouse was gone. By this time she getting a little bored with the whole thing:




A few hours later:





Boy oh boy, that guard duty is tiring work.

Oh! And you should see how she catches the mice! I call it "Hillkitty Handfishin'". Her brother used to do the same thing: They find a mouse hole out in the yard and stick their paws in, right up to the shoulder sometimes, and rootrootroot around, periodically pulling their paw back out to see if they've snagged anything. If that fails, they just park themselves next to the hole and wait for the mouse to come out.

I still haven't figured out how she gets the birds, though.

And then there was that OTHER crappy thing I did ...

First off, yesterday's quote was from Sixteen Candles. I can't BELIEVE that nobody got that. I guess I really AM old. *sigh*



So anyway, we were on our way back from the cardiologist in Ithaca on Monday, driving through all the dinkytown speed traps between there and here, and we were going through this one particular town. Candor. It was Candor. You've gotta love a town called Candor, right?

So we are driving down the main drag, doing the 30 mph speed limit, because, speed trap, and there's this dude meandering up the sidewalk with a plastic bag full of cans, collecting empties from the side of the road.

And as I'm driving toward him, he bends down to pick up a can, and just kind of ... crumples onto the sidewalk. It was this slow-motion collapse.

And I was all, like, "hahaha DRUNK!" Another plastered hobo passes out while collecting cans to pay for his next 40-ouncer.

But then I was, like, "what if he ISN'T drunk? What if he's suffering from a medical condition? Maybe I should stop!"

And you know what I did?

I kept. on. driving.

F*CK that shit. I had just gotten some very bad, awful, no-good news, I had a scared cat in the back of the car who had been in her carrier for HOURS at that point, and I kept right. on. going.

And you know what? I don't feel bad about that at all. Sue me.

Hey, BIRTH DEFECT!

20 points to whoever can name that movie.

Okay, so I did something the other night, and I thought I was doing the right thing, but now I'm not so sure, so I'd like to ask your opinion.

As those of you who have been reading along know, my cat, The Runt, died suddenly of heart failure on April 21. He had a mild congenital heart murmur, which I didn't think was a major concern; obviously, I was as wrong as you can get.

The vet suggested I have his sister, Little Girl, tested for heart disease, as it tends to be hereditary. Sure enough, although Little Girl does not have a murmur, she does have heart disease and is currently under treatment.

Here's the thing: This condition is both congenital, meaning they were born with it, and hereditary, meaning it runs in their family.

There were two other kittens in their litter.

From left: Fluffy, Tuffy, The Runt, and Little Girl.

On Tuesday night, knowing it was a long shot because local shelters tend not to keep long-term records, I called the shelter from which I had fostered and then adopted The Runt and Little Girl. I called during shelter hours but my call went to voice mail, so I left a message explaining that I had adopted two kittens in the summer of 2008 who had developed heart disease; I knew that they had two littermates, who might benefit from testing and treatment.

When I got home from work last night, there was a message on my voicemail. It was a woman from the shelter; she thanked me for my information and said that they did, indeed, keep records; she would try to find out who adopted Fluffy and Tuffy and let them know that the cats should be tested for heart disease.

And at first I was, like, Yay! Maybe those cats' lives can be prolonged! It's a good thing!

But now I'm, like, how would I feel if the situation were reversed? What if the past month had never happened, and The Runt and Little Girl were perfectly fine, and all of a sudden I got a call from the shelter informing me that they both could have a deadly disease that would kill them if they didn't get testing and treatment right away? I'd be devastated.

So know I don't know if I did a good thing, or a really shitty thing. What do you think?

So, a lady and a cat go on a road trip ...

First of all, I want to reassure everybody that Little Girl is in no pain. Both of her vets told me that her condition is not at all painful. As I was telling BNG, what we are faced with here is a life-span issue, not a pain-control issue, and now that she's on the meds, her prospects for living a good life for a good while yet are, well, good.


And let me tell you right now, that cat is a saint. On Monday, we had to go to Ithaca to consult with the cardiologist. According to my car's odometer, the cardiologist's office is 55 miles from my house. We were at the office for three hours. Little Girl was in her crate from quarter to nine in the morning until two-thirty in the afternoon, except when she was removed to be ultrasounded and EKG'd and x-rayed and examined, and that little sweetheart never made a peep.

Oh! And let me tell you about the greatest invention EVER. While we were at the cardiologist, after all the tests had been run and analyzed, the vet started going over the pills that Little Girl would have to take. She asked if I was okay with pilling a cat, and I told her, "it depends on the cat". See, some cats are easier to pill than others. Rocky, my old cat, did not object to being pilled. The Runt haaaaaated being pilled, but I could usually get the pills down him.

Little Girl? She barely tolerates being petted, so I knew pilling her could be, well, difficult.


I explained all this to the vet, and she said, (oh! And she had this really charming accent! I think it was Polish, but I'm not sure. It was ADORABLE. I wanted to marry her just to listen to that accent.) "Have you tried a pill pusher?"


And I'm, like, "Huh"? Because in my mind, "pill pusher" sounded like "drug dealer". I'm, like, what exactly is she asking me, here?

"A pill pusher!", she said. "You put the pills in one end, and push the plunger, and it pills the cat!"

As it turns out, the technical name is "pet piller". It looks like this:









And yeah, you put the pills in one end, put the thing in the cat's mouth, toward the back, and push the plunger.



And it works! Oh, IT WORKS. The cat has no chance to p-tooey the pills back out - they just go right down the hatch.



My life, and Little Girl's, got a lot easier with that thing.

So! That is where we are. She is on an ACE inhibitor for her heart, a diuretic to counteract side effects from the ACE inhibitor, and baby aspirin to prevent clots. And hopefully the rain that has been falling for a freaking MONTH now will stop soon, so we can both get back outside.

Because that lawn ain't gonna mow itself.

She seemed a little ... listless

Exam - Comprehensive. Radiograph- Large Plate. CBC w/Diff and Platelet Count. Chemistry Panel. Cardiopet (proBNP).

She scored over 700.

Examination - Cardiology. Cardiology - EKG. Echocardiogram. Radiographs.

Diagnosis: Restrictive Cardiology. Mild congestive heart failure.

Enalapril 2.5 mg tablet 2x day. Lasix 12.5 mg 2x day. Baby aspirin 1x every 3 days.

Prognosis: Guarded.

I do not want to have to write this

... Little Girl has heart disease.

The same thing that killed her brother.

She seemed to be feeling a little ... listless, last week, so on Thursday we went to the vet. The vet couldn't find any obvious reason for her distress, but suggested we have some blood work done, just to rule out any problems. One of the tests was for heart function.

Last night, the vet called me with the results. A normal "count" for the heart test is under 100. A count of 100 to 240 is reason for concern, and anything over 240 is not good.

Little Girl scored over 700.

We are going to see an animal cardiologist in Ithaca on Monday morning. She will do an ultrasound, and an EKG, and probably a PB&J and God knows what else. The results of these tests will indicate what treatment Little Girl will need.

Look, my lack of action with The Runt was a mistake. With Little Girl, it would be murder. She will get the treatment she needs.

Hopefully, we have caught this in time. We do have that. We do have hope.

The. Lawn. Is. Mowed.

Halle-freakin'-lujah, the goddamn lawn is mowed.

I got home from work last night, and

Oh! There was a package on the porch from Badass Nature Girl!

I knew she'd been working on something top-secret, and it had arrived!

"No!" I told myself. You mow that goddamn lawn FIRST, and THEN you can open the package. "It will be your treat." I'm all about the carrot and the stick, don't you know.

But! First, I went in the house, where there was ANOTHER surprise!

Little Girl had left me a great big bullfrog, right in the middle of the hallway.

Jeeeeeeezzzzzz.

And here's the thing: She always brings 'em in alive. She's got a mouth like a Labrador, I swear. How the heck she can transport a big ol' frog all the way from the bog out back, up the yard, through the pet door, and into the house without injuring it I have no idea, but she manages.

So! Out came the Cool Whip container, and Mr. Frog went back to the swamp.

Now! It was time to mow. I gassed up the new mower, put in the oil, held my breath, and turned the key.

Vroom-VROOOOOOOM!

And the angels sang.

I mowed the front yard, and the side yards, and the front of the backyard. I even managed to mow some of the back-backyard, out back by the Okefenokee, where the land is all squishy. The old lawn mower would NEVER have done that; last year I ended up weed-whacking that part of the yard. But the new mower said "no problem!"

So! An hour-and-a-half later, and it's time to open Badass's package.

You guys.

She looked at this picture:

And painted this:

It's a little box. For mementos, or photos, or, you know, ashes. Isn't it gorgeous?

I sure wish I had that kind of talent.

And she does all KINDS of cool stuff that she sells at her Etsy shop. Oh! And she also donated her home-made pet gifts to her local animal shelter, in memory of The Runt. How cool is THAT?

BNG, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your kindness is very much appreciated.

And now, I go home to weed-whack. The work is never really done, is it? *sigh*

Carriage bolt? What the hell is a carriage bolt?

First off: Catnip. I don't know WHY I didn't think of it before, seeing as how the house is chock-full of catnip toys, including some that BNG gifted us with. On Friday night I busted out the loose catnip, and Little Girl had a party. She even did the paper-plate-on-the-head trick, for which The Runt was justifiably famous.

Yesterday I went out to mow. And I pulled that pull cord and pulled and pulled and PULLED, and that Christless no-good motherf*cking piece-of-shit of a lawn mower WOULD. NOT. START.

I THOUGHT we had an agreement. Evidently the terms of the contract were voided without my knowledge.

So I went to Lowe's and bought a new lawn mower. One with an ELECTRIC start.

And I got it home and wrestled the elephant-sized box out of the back of the car and started putting it together. Which ... why do they call it a carriage bolt? Why can't they call it, "that doohickey that connects the bottom handle to the top handle"? It would have made my afternoon much easier.

So! The mower got assembled. I'm ready to mow! Which is when I discover that the electric start has to charge for eight to ten HOURS before using.

Shit.

Well, I know what I'm doing after work tonight.

Hopefully.

Not chopped liver anymore

I always said that Little Girl was her own cat, but The Runt was mine.

Neither one of them was particularly demonstrative. Their mother was feral, and both of them were deemed "unadoptable" by the shelter as kittens because they were "too wild".


They weren't lap cats, nor were they snugglers. But The Runt would act happy to see me when I got home from work. He loved to hop up on the bed next to me for some quality time with his nuk-nuk towel, and if I was puttering in the garden he'd stay close by. He liked for me to comb him in the morning, and he'd hang out in the bathroom while I was getting ready for work.

Little Girl? Not so much.

I always got the feeling that I was pretty much on the periphery of Little Girl's radar - I was The Lady with the Cat Food. Oh, she'd tolerate a petting on occasion, but she was more likely to meow with indignation if I tried to pick her up. On summer days, sometimes the only time I'd see her was when she'd come in to eat.


But now that she's lost her brudder, I'm not looking so bad to her. Imagine that. She brings me (dead) mice and (live) frogs*, she actually hopped up on the bed and cuddled with me the other morning, and she's decided that SHE wants to get combed in the morning, thankyouverymuch.

Oh, and it's not just me. There's a neighborhood cat whom I call the Cow Kitty, and Little Girl has started a campaign to become Cow Kitty's bff. It's adorable to watch her moon after him.

If she's out in the yard with me and she sees Cow Kitty in a neighbor's yard, she's off to pal around with him.

Little Girl sure misses her brudder. I wish I could make it all better for her. I just don't know how. Any suggestions on how to cheer up a mourning cat?

*oh sweet Jeezus I awoke at four-thirty the other morning to a giant FROG in my bedroom - gah.

Random

The place that did The Runt's ashes is named Whispering Pines, which I suppose is better than Fiery Fiery Furnaces.

I started to get my whistle back. A little. It came out as sad little disjointed squawks. Then it went away again. I'm sure my co-workers are grateful.

As much as you guys are probably thinking, "Holy shit, she killed her cat", trust me, you are not thinking it as much as I am. Although I do keep trying not to beat myself up too much. Then again, I'm sure that Hitler considered himself a pretty decent guy, too.

A week after The Runt's death, we had some pretty major storms here, with, like, tornados and flooding and shit. And friends were calling me at ten o'clock at night, all, "OMG, are you going to be evacuated? Do we need to come help you get away?" And I was all, like, "meh". The park next door flooded pretty big-time, and my crawlspace was full of water, and I was just, "whatever." I guess a death pretty much numbs you to everything else.

The crying has finally eased up, although I do spontaneously sob at odd moments, usually while in line at a store or similarly surrounded by strangers.

The gutters finally got done. The day they came to do the install, it was pouring rain. Those poor bastards spend two-and-a-half hours up on ladders tearing off the old gutters and installing the new ones. They looked like they'd just gone swimming by the time they were done.

I found a pretty wooden box at an antiques store for The Runt's ashes, only to discover when I got it home that it was not big enough for both his ashes and his nuk-nuk towel. I'll keep looking.

There is supposed to be more flooding tomorrow. Whatever.

The Michigan Bulb magnolia tree I planted last year has a leaf on it! One. Leaf. Go tree!

Sweetie

Kindness

Thank you to my boss's girlfriend, who sent flowers.

Thank you to my sister Texas, who held my hand over the phone lines.

Thank you to Badass Nature Girl, who has been stepping me back from the ledge via email, and who, because she is evidently psychic, sent me a card before she even knew what had happened.
Thank you to my boss, who decided that in this instance, grievance pay was applicable. It's not that the money mattered; he was acknowledging that for some of us, our pets are our family.

Thank you to my sister's friend, who sent a condolence card.

Thank you to the guys in the office, who tactfully failed to notice a teary-eyed secretary.

Thank you to all of you who have posted comments and sent emails.

Thank you for thinking of us.

The ancient garden seems at night
a deeper gloom to bear
as if some silent shadow's blight
were hov'ring in the air

With hidden griefs the grasses sway,
unable quite to word them
remembering from yesterday
the little paws that stirred them.

- H.P. Lovecraft

Brudder? Is that YOU?

Poor Little Girl.

So Sad

On Thursday evening, April 21, The Runt experienced what the vet described as a massive heart attack. Death was instantaneous; he was here, and then he was gone.


The cats had their dinner that evening, and then we went outside so he and Little Girl could supervise my work in the garden. After a while I went inside and the cats were going in and out; I found him around nine o'clock in the garage.


I didn't even know he was dead; I bent down to pet him and he didn't move. I picked him up and carried him in the house and put him in his pet bed, asking him what was wrong. He was so warm! And his ears were pricked forward. And he was not breathing.


On Friday morning, I took him to the vet so that arrangements could be made. I said my goodbyes, and then I got in the car and drove. And drove and drove and drove. You can't outrun sorrow, but I sure tried.


They say grief makes you do strange, strange things, and I now know this to be true, because on Saturday I found myself buying a cat statue. With wings.


SHUT IT, alright? I contend that grief gives you a free pass to do things you would never in a million years do otherwise.


So I took the winged cat home, and I was trying to decide where to put it. In the garden? On the porch? In his pet bed? I finally decided to put it in The Runt's favorite spot in the kitchen, which was on a ledge looking out the window. While I put the statue on the ledge, I noticed that Little Girl was out in the backyard.


She looked up, saw that cat statue in the window, and came running across the yard. She flew into the kitchen and up onto the ledge ...

... she thought it was The Runt.

She sat next to that statue for a long time. And then she laid down next to it.

Oh! And every time she hears a noise, she jerks around, like, "Brudder? Is that you?"


So, yes, we are grieving. Dammit, I KNEW that "look on the bright side" shit would come back to bite me in the ass. That, and the whole "I think I'll wait until the fall to have the ultrasound done" thing.


Thank you for all your kind thoughts. They mean the world to me. I will be sad for some time to come. And so will Little Girl.

We will have a sad season and mourn. We will abide. And we will miss and remember our friend.