My Scariest Halloween Ever

Litter Box. Beach. Whatever!

Kenny isn't impressed with my mouse

October 31, 2010. The front yard was set up like a mini graveyard with homemade Styrofoam tombstones and a giant blow-up black widow spider. A furry brown spider, about the size of a bed pillow, was attached to a clear string and pulled to make it jump as Trick or Treaters walked past it. Often the parents jumped higher than the spider.

Two days before I’d noticed my long-haired tabby, Kenny, wasn’t eating. Kenny always ate, so this was a red flag. I’d lost my older tabby, Moose, to horrible kidney failure a couple years previous. His mouth had been filled with poison, making it impossible for him to eat. So I rushed Kenny to the vet. He was diagnosed with a mouth infection and an overactive thyroid. Tests indicated he had kidney disease, but I was told to have him rechecked again in 1-2 months. And we were sent home.

Moose uses Kenny's butt as a pillow

 That was on a Saturday. The vet clinic closed after noon, and any problems would be addressed by an emergency vet clinic. I monitored Kenny closely for the day, with my instincts screaming that something more was wrong. I wasn’t happy that I’d been sent home without more information. I’m a full-throttled kind of information girl. I keep religious records of every cat, from yearly vaccinations, to abscesses, to what medication they took for sneezing. I know how much they weighed on any given vet visit. What they went in for and what meds were prescribed.

Kenny seemed listless, but he did eat. I decided I wouldn’t wait the 1-2 months for a recheck. I’d take him back when they opened on Monday and demand a more thorough examination.

Halloween night…kids are flocking to our driveway, squealing and jumping with the brown spider. Upstairs, Kenny is bleeding from his urinary tract.

Shaking with fury, I run him to the emergency clinic where they tell me his bladder is the size of a baseball. They inserted a catheter, but he had to be manually expressed. Over the next two days he refused to eat. His kidneys were shutting down, creating blockage.

My regular veterinarian talked to the emergency vet to get answers. She felt as upset as I was that she had not diagnosed the severity of Kenny’s problems. She was told that his kidneys weren’t failing from any diet that I fed him, but rather from toxins his kidneys were producing.

In short, it was just Mother Effing Nature taking him down, without consideration to my feelings, or the fact that Kenny was only eight years old. Too young to die!

On November 3rd I was called in to say goodbye. What upsets me to this day, a year later, is that I never saw this coming. Kenny wasn’t a Drama Queen, like 95% of my other cats. He was a quiet, sweet angel who readily offered to warm my lap. He ate without complaint. He didn’t have aggression issues. He loved to have his whole body shaved in the summertime, and would lie on his back in order for me to shave down his tummy and even his arm pits. I’d sing, ‘Kenny Kenny Coco Pie,’ and he’d run to me, his fluffy tail in the air, ready to hang out with me.

At the clinic, they brought Kenny in to me, and gave us privacy to say goodbye. He had a tube inserted into his urinary tract. He looked fine! That’s was really gets me. He was normal looking. All set to get the hell out of there and go home. He kept nudging me, anxious to get off the table. After ten minutes, I was ready to get this over with. I so wanted to run him out of there with complete denial that it was happening at all.

I’d just lost my beloved snowshoe Siamese, Holly, in April. That she lived to be 18 was beside the point. I was still grieving. And now I was losing Kenny. To say I was roiling angry at myself is putting it lightly. I take my responsibility as their guardian with as much seriousness as any parent would their children. I go without in order to afford their medical care and the best of food, always done with intense research. There is no slacking on my part when it comes to my cats. But sometimes no matter how much you know, how much you care, how much you love, there is nothing you can do to make it all better. Sometimes there are no second chances.

I had Kenny cremated. His urn is a handsome wood block with a brass plate and his photo, the best I’d ever taken of him. I remember the day: sunny and clear. He sat in my lap in the sun room and I took his photo close up. Handsome boy!

My stomach tightens whenever I dust his urn. I tear easily at the thought of him. That’s not a good way to remember someone you loved. You’re supposed to be filled with joy that you had them in your life. But with Kenny, I feel that I let him down. I wish that he had been a Drama Queen, grabbing my attention on a daily or even hourly basis, as some of mine do. I may not have been able to save him, regardless if he’d been closely monitored, but that he was in pain and I didn’t know it will eat away at me forever.

I’m determined that Kenny didn’t die in vain. Now aware that my Drama Queens could distract me from another non-Drama Queen, like Cookie, or Buddy, or Barney, I pay that much closer attention to them so that the unfortunate end of Kenny’s life was a lesson to me, and through my telling of his story, to all who share their lives with multiple pets.

God has the final say on the demise of all of His creatures. For those of us sanctioned with the honor of caring for His creatures, let us honor Him by doing them right.

Love them. Hug them. Feed them good food. Listen to your inner voice warning you something is wrong, and demand answers.

Kenny and his BFF Moose

October 29 is National Cat Day

Genny was Sweet Sixteen when she passed.

I had two white cats and a yellow lab while growing up. I loved them all...even Frosty, a gorgeous Turkish Angora with a Hannibal Lector personality. I wore sleeves of cat scratches from age 5 to 19 when he died.

On the first day of every school year, Frosty would roll around on the sidewalk, enticing the kindergartners to pet him. They could never resist. He was white, and fluffy, and beautiful. And then he would attack. His favorite attack would be wrapping all four paws around your arm with teeth sunk into your wrists. We should have named him Vlad, but we were middle-class Mid-Westerners and naming him Frosty because he was white was about as creative as we got.

By the third day of school, the little ones would be walking in wide circles around Frosty, still flopping back and forth, enticing a newbie within striking distance. I can't say Frosty was psychotic. I mean, my sisters and I dressed him in baby doll clothes and carried him around in a paper bag. He had preformed expectations about kids.

Years later another Turkish Angora came into my life, and Genny was a polar opposite of Frosty. She was exquisite and sweet and so gentle, she made friends with butterflies and birds.

Genny and Woody Boyd were best friends.

I recall, when Frosty was with me, one of the neighbor boys asking which I preferred: dogs or cats. I answered cats. They all booed and hissed because, of course, they were dog boys. Not me. Even bleeding and scarred, I loved cats.

So it may come as no surprise to say that I am currently Feline Beck and Call Girl to eleven ex-strays. Buddy has been with me for 20 years. Nick and Cookie since 1999. Herman since 2001. Barney since 2005. Chauncie since 2007. Opie since 2008. Peaches since 2009. Jack and Jesse, Peaches' boys, since 2009. And Gidget since 2010. Peaches is an indoor-outdoor kind of gal. Chauncie, Jack, Jesse and Gidget are outdoor cats, although Gidget has claimed the laundry room on inclimate days.

typical summer day just hanging out

 Throughout my adult life I have rescued well over 50 cats, and a dog or two. Don't get me started on the pregnant Chow-mix who puppied all over my garage within 2 days of rescuing her. I've spent a fortune, not even a small one, on animals that I know I'll never see again after I've gotten them spayed and neutered, vaccinated. I feed anyone who ends up on my property, often searching through the fridge or cupboards for food I can do without. It never occurs to me to say 'No.' Not even to neighbors who end up with a stray on their doorstep, wanting help to capture, or advice if they're injured.

I celebrate Cat Day 365 days a year, 24-7. Unless you've never shared your life with a cat, you know what I mean. No matter how quirky, mischievous, cranky, finicky or affectionate, they sink their claws into our hearts and scar us... I mean...touch us...forever.

To all my feline friends...celebrate your cat with a hug and a warm lap.

Herman Hits the Wall

Herman has had enough of Opie's teasing. This morning he asked me to kick the orange brat to the curb. Here I explain why that's not gonna happen. Sorry, Charlie... I mean Herm.

Travels with a 20 year old Tabby

There was a time when I rolled my eyes at the baggage parents brought when they left the house with their infants and toddlers. Diapers, formulas, baby food and burp cloths I get. But to childless me, the rest just seemed excessively insane. Like they were leaving the country for Egypt instead of going three blocks to IHOP.

Then…my precious tabby, Buddy, turned diabetic. He required constant monitoring, multiple meals in case he crashed, and also insulin twice a day, morning and night. We were living in Kentucky on top of a hill without neighbors at the time. We had to travel several times a month due to family illness, and once or twice for a much-needed vacation break. So what to do with Bud? We left him with our veterinarian once, but he came back depressed. So, we started taking Bud with us, no matter where we traveled.

One year in Holland, MI, our Pontiac died. We had to be towed to an auto repair and wait in a nearby restaurant while they performed CPR. What to do with Buddy? We had a small cat carrier on wheels that was much too small for him, but without a choice, we stuffed him into it, rolled him about a mile down the street to a restaurant and then tucked him next to me in the booth while we ate. Our car ended up DOA and we rented a car to finish our vacation and get home.

Another time we had tickets to see guitarist Craig Chaquico in concert in Ohio, and so Buddy was smuggled into the Embassy Suites. We got him settled then went to dinner. When we returned he was sitting in full view in the suite’s picture window overlooking the inside courtyard. I wonder how many people passed our room and did a double take at the fat tabby with huge round eyes? Another time, another hotel, he didn’t like the room, and when we returned from dinner, we found him huddled in a corner facing the wall. Room may have smelled like a dog, I don’t know.

So what does it take to travel with a 20 year old diabetic, arthritic tabby? Remember me rolling my eyes at the baggage parents of toddlers brought with them to IHOP? Here’s my list for Buddy:

Insulin on ice, with needles plus empty water bottle to hold used needles.
Case of Fancy Feast (Chicken) 12-24 cans depending on length of trip, and also Diabetic Maintenance kibble

Bowl for dry and bowl for wet food, plus fork and baggies to hold half-eaten can of wet food

Water bowl inside a larger bowl in case water slops out while in car.

Bottled water since I don’t trust tap water while traveling.

Litter box, pooper scooper and tub of extra litter. Plus a cardboard sheet to go under the litter box in case Buddy’s aim is imperfect. Hey, it happens! Also a zillion plastic grocery bags to dispose of the poop and a big roll of paper toweling for such imperfect aim mishaps.

Let me just say here that I may have the ideal method for driving terrorists out of fox holes: old cat poop. It’s noxious and lethal. It has been known to rip me out of a dead sleep. On our trips up to Michigan in August and September for family weddings, Buddy timed his horrific BMs to coincide with me driving and Ray sleeping. Both times Ray woke up gagging, gasping for air, shoving his head out the window while I raced like Mad Max for the next exit, always at least a mile away. The thing is, Buddy cannot stand his own stink either, and will cry and yowl until the smell is dealt with. I won’t go into grisly details about the imperfectly-aimed BM in September that had me pulling over on the side of the exit ramp somewhere in Tennessee, going through 3/4 of a roll of paper toweling while Ray and Buddy yowled in unison in protest over the stench. Suffice to say it took at least half of the air freshener to obliterate the smell. Leon Panetta. General Dempsey. Call me!

Air freshener, carpet cleaner, rug to put under the litter box in a hotel room
Flashlight or round Tap Lights so Buddy can see in the dark in order to use litter box while in the car.

Nightlight so Buddy can see litter box in the dark in hotel room

His stairs so he can get on and get off the bed

Pet brush, pet wipes

Sticky brush (to remove old cat fur off my clothes)

Buddy’s bed, a green donut with bumper sides. Also his favorite red blanket from Delta airlines. Also a thermal pad that gives off heat from body heat. Also a cushion pad placed under Bud’s green donut bed. He’s 20 and arthritic, so über-padding is necessary, especially when traveling on Michigan’s less than stellar highways.

Also a cat carrier, one that actually fits Buddy and can be carried like a shoulder bag.

Suffice to say I am now appropriately humbled. Clearly parents of toddlers do not need to bring sticky brushes to IHOP.

Saving Private Grissom by Janice Robinson

My sister, Janice, sent me the greatest email about her dog, Grissom, and I asked her if I could share it with my pet-loving readers. Grissom is as wonderful as she describes him, and more. Since he came into her life, I've seen Janice blossom with pure happiness. A soul mate isn't always a human. Sometimes it's an old dog with shaggy hair.

Four years ago tomorrow, I rescued my love. Hasn't it only been 4 years? Seems like we have been together forever. I wanted a Spinone for years, but knew I could never afford one. So I put my name on a rescue waiting list. It took over 3 years to be called.

I took my daughter, Jenna, with me to take a look at this older dog. Didn't really want an older one, already had one of those at home. We drove on to the breeder/rescuer's property and she had a pen full of puppies, ready to go. Damn. Then they brought out ‘Caesar.’ Jenna put a leash on him and off they ran into the nearby field. I was holding a cute little puppy. Decision time. A half hour later, Jenna and Caesar emerged from the field, both panting and huge grins on their faces. No decision was necessary. He made my daughter laugh. He nuzzled me and pushed his face into my leg. As we opened the back of the Jeep, he leaped in and Carol, the rescuer was in tears. Caesar had not shown any interest in people before us. He was considered a Shut Down from the abuse and abandonment he’d suffered. In fact, he didn't even interact with the other dogs. But she saw him come to life with us.

I renamed him Grissom, new life, new name. He took to it immediately.

Now 4 years later, we have been through so much together. No words can describe what he has meant to me. No poem, no eloquent words can adequately tell you what he has done for my heart. I've only gotten one kiss from him, the day my Dad died. He was sitting so close to me, I was sobbing and he gently kissed my cheek. It was what I needed. He always gives me what I need.

I constantly tell him what he means to me, I brush him, play with him, take him to the park and to the vet. When I come home, he does this ridiculous "Happy Dance", where over 100 lbs of Spinone bounces up and down and leaps in the air. It's a sight to behold and it's all for me.

In the evening he will stand quietly and then make a small moo sound, yes, like a cow. If I ask if he wants to Snuzzle, he will run at me, full force. I sit at the edge of the couch and he will push his nose into my neck and take long breaths...like he's trying to memorize my scent. I rub his ears, face and back, he breaths me in.

Grissom now plays with others, greets humans if somewhat cautiously and lives a pretty good life. He takes orders from my cats, sleeps in my bed and has his own couch. He protects me from men in hats and little girls who scream in front of our house. I put his needs before my own. There is nothing I wouldn't do for him. His face is on an expensive purse of mine, his picture is my avatar on a forum. He's met and played with former Tiger pitcher Milt Wilcox.

He's been to more places than you can imagine and has had his picture in the paper and across the internet. He has participated in Meals on Wheels for Pets, many pet events, Halloween parties, Christmas parties. I've thrown him birthdays parties complete with doggie cake. He's had his paw print in clay and donned a pink hair weave in support of Pet Cancer Awareness. My boy has done it all. Yes, I rescued him and he rescued me right back.

Grissom lives to make me laugh and feel loved, I make sure he is healthy, happy and loved. It's a win-win situation. Four years ago my life changed. Who would have thought adopting an older dog would have been one of the best decisions of my life? Think this is too much ado about a dog? Tell me, have you ever been loved unconditionally? Everyone deserves this type of love, whether man or beast. Wouldn't the world be a better place?

Gidget Beats the Heat

My outdoor year-old cat, Gidget, is all black, and while her coat is short, she absorbs the heat much more than Herman and Opie who are orange and white. I've noticed Gidget tries to keep to the bushes, but the Mid-South is known for some deadly summertime temperatures, and I've worried she might stroke out.

So, one day I casually ran a damp cloth over her back. She wasn't sure she liked it, but the second time I did it, she "got it."  Through the past weeks when temps were over 100, I took a pan of water out to her and soaked her, literally soaked her. Now she will lie on her back and let me rub water onto her tummy, her throat and face, and even her arm pits!

Below are photos from her most recently "bath."

And...if the soaking doesn't cool her off completely, she enjoys the comfort of

 my air conditioned laundry room. This cat is no dummy.

The Best Day Of Fishing Ever!

I've heard of salmon jumping into boats but . . .

Four were pulled from the icy waters of Stephens Passage, Alaska , by a group of locals on Tom Satre's 62-foot charter vessel. Four juvenile Sitka black-tailed deer swam directly toward the boat.

Once the deer reached the boat, the four began to circle the boat, looking directly at the humans on board. Clearly, the bucks were distressed. With help, the typically skittish and absolutely wild animals came willingly onto the boat. Once onboard, they collapsed with exhaustion, shivering.

Here the rescued bucks rest on the back of Tom Satre's boat, the Alaska Quest. All four deer were transported to Taku Harbour . Once the group reached the dock, the first buck that had been pulled from the water hopped onto the dock, looked back, then leapt into the harbour, swam to shore, and disappeared into the forest. After a bit of prodding and assistance from the humans, two others followed suit, but one deer needed more help.

Tom, Anna and Tim Satre help the last of the "button" bucks to its feet. They did not know how long the deer had been in the icy waters or if there had been others who did not survive. The good Samaritans (humans) describe their experience as "one of those defining moments in life." I'm sure it was for the deer, as well.