Cat People by Janeson Keeley

Please welcome my new friend, Janeson Keeley. I connect with her because she is like me, a devoted cat caretaker. I also think her husband should be dipped in gold for his wonderful purrrspective on the quality of life for their beloved Cammie.

There are two types of people: People who divide people into two types and people who don’t. I’m sort of OCD, so I fall into the second category.

When you’re one of those “two types” of people, one of the most obvious categorizations is “dog person” or “cat person”.

I am a cat person.

I was raised with dogs. In fact, as a child I was a little afraid of cats. But when I asked my first husband to take his toys and go home and decided that I needed “someone” to come live with me so I didn’t get lonely and make the dreadful mistake of asking my soon-to-be-ex to come back, it did not occur to me to get a dog. I wanted a cat. They don’t bark, you don’t have to walk them, and they don’t drool – the exact opposite of my first husband. I went directly to the “Free Pets” section of the classified ads.

Of course, you can’t pick out a cat out for yourself. You present yourself to one or more cats and see if one them picks you. I was lucky; at the first place I visited there was a whole litter of kittens, but the littlest one, a shiny black girl kitten with green eyes, crawled up my leg with her sharp little claws. I’d been adopted!

I had always named my cars (Benjamin the Rabbit, Daniel the Celica, etc.). One of my high school friends told me that if I ever had a child, I’d probably name it Pontiac or Volkswagen. I was driving a Toyota at the time, so my new furriend was christened “Toyota Marie,” quickly and mercifully shortened to Yoyo. (I never did have children, thank goodness!)

Three days after Yoyo adopted me – only 12 days after I had separated from first husband – I met a guy in a parking lot and brought him home to meet Yoyo. When he told me that he has been “raised by cats” and thought it was cute that Yoyo would pick cigarette butts out of theashtray and put them in his shoes. I knew I had a keeper. (When a cat brings you a dead, smelly thing, it’s an expression of love.)

He asked me to move in with him “so Yoyo won’t be alone so much”, and we got married. Yoyo was our loving and playful companion for 16 years before she developed a tumor in her mouth. She was diagnosed with untreatable salivary gland cancer. She lived for four months after that, getting weaker and thinner and sicker.

The hardest thing to know is when to have a beloved pet put to sleep. Yoyo hated to be picked up, so when I picked her up and she didn’t fight me, I knew it was time.

The veterinarian took Yoyo to the lab room to put the catheter in her front leg. When he carried her back to us, he explained that he would give her three shots. Before he could even put her down on the table, Yoyo looked at us, gave out her best “I’m half-Siamese MEOWR!” and passed over the rainbow bridge without having gotten the first shot. She always had to have the last word.

About four months later, I was adopted by another shiny black girl kitten with green eyes who told me in no uncertain terms that her name was “Cammie," not “Cameron.” While different from Yoyo in some ways, she was still very much a black cat.

Cammie is 13 now and two months ago she developed a lump on her left cheek. Her vet thought it might be an abscessed tooth, so I took her in for surgery. When the veterinarian who did the surgery went to pull out the tooth, she found that it wasn’t attached to anything. She told me that Cammie had some sort of cancerous tumor and that the only treatment was radical surgery – removal of part of her face – and then radiation treatments.

No way was I going there.

Her regular vet called and told me that Cammie probably had just a few weeks to live. I visited her daily at the hospital with her toys and treats and catnip. They sent her home with me on a Friday with some pain medication. Over the weekend she started having trouble breathing. I gave her the pain medication and that helped, but it made her very sleepy.

On Monday the veterinarian called to ask how Cammie was doing. I told him about having to give the pain meds to her, and he said, “I’ve been thinking. There might be a way to reduce the rate of growth of the mass. Would you be willing to bring her in again?”

Well, yeah!

We started Cammie on a routine of weekly antibiotic injections, monthly long-acting prednisone injections, and transdermal methimazole to treat her hyperthyroidism. She improved immediately, and the veterinarian was almost as pleased as we were.

“I’m a cat person,” he said. “They’ll surprise you. You can never count a cat out.”

When I explained the treatment regimen and the weekly cost to my husband, he said that he hoped that she lived long enough for us to have to spend a whole bunch of money on her - not on radical treatments, where you spend a lot with the chance of getting just a little - but on what it takes weekly to slow the growth of the tumor and keep Cammie happy and comfortable.

The mass hasn’t grown substantially since. She has a little trouble eating, but she can eat turkey and tuna, and “soup” – dry food in water. My husband and I feed her several times a day, love on her as much as she wants, play “tail on a stick” with her and basically spoil her (and her tabby sister, Stripey) rotten.

It takes time and money to take care of Cammie – to take her to the vet every week, to get her specially compounded methimazole and administer it twice a day, to love on her and give her all the attention she wants. We can’t go on overnight trips because she won’t eat for other people. I guess it’s a lot of “work,” but we’ll keep doing these things as long as we can because she’s our Cammie-Cat, and we love her very much.

One day we’ll have to make “the decision,” but because of a compassionate veterinarian who really likes cats (why are so many vets “dog people”?), who was willing to try an unconventional treatment, and who calls just to see how Cammie is doing, we'll have more time to spend with her and a guide who won't give up on her prematurely to help us make the decision. 
 

For Cammie’s strength and love, for her veterinarian’s compassion and wisdom, for a generous and loving husband, and for having the money and time that allow us to care for and enjoy Cammie, I am truly grateful.

Janeson Keeley is a web site developer and published writer. When the spirit moves her, she blogs about her cats, life, the universe and everything at http://janeson59.com. She lives in Roanoke, Virginia with her beloved spouse and their two pointy-eared, long-tailed fur-children. You can follow her cats on Twitter at @HerGraceTheCat and @ThatStripeyCat and visit them on #cammiesporch. You can follow her on Twitter at @janeson59, but her cats are more interesting and have more followers.

3 Little Blessings

Last Thanksgiving my neighbor told me she and her husband have a family tradition of gifting someone who had done something extra special for them over the past year. Her husband had had a severe injury and my husband did something for them in their time of need that went beyond the average neighborly help. They selected him to be that year's recipient. My husband's reaction was, 'Why? I didn't do anything special.' But to them, what he did was huge.

How often do we take the little things in life for granted, thinking they're no big deal. And yet, to someone else they're huge. And so, here are 3 of what I considered to be huge personal blessings from 2011:

1. Author, cat lover and best buddy Linda Rettstatt has given her time and infinite patience to me, not only in 2011, but since 2006. We started out as writer buddies, but for me Linda turned out to be so much more: The foot in my back when I allow Life to stand in the way of my writing. Plot thread unraveler when my love for complex layers tangles to the point where I need someone with creative vision to cut through the BS and get to the meat of the story. And warm-hearted cat lover, who assures me my brats will be taken care of if I'm called out of town. She's my conference buddy, my navigator when GPS and MapQuest lets me down. And she has a wicked sense of humor that appeals to my skewed take on life.

I am so blessed to have found her shortly after I moved to the Mid-South. I'm certain a Divine Hand had a lot to do with us being friends.

2. I'm blessed to have a great family. Not just immediate, but also extended through my husband's family. In fact, I had to marry Ray in order to get Carolyn for a sister.

Car, along with my blood sisters, Julie and Janice and Sandy, are with me daily through emails and texts. What we share to someone else might seem mundane, but to me those messages are Home, and make me part of their lives despite being so far away.

I'm very blessed to have those women in my life, not only as sisters, but as friends...something I never would have believed growing up with them!

3. My 3rd blessing comes in the form of the man who said "I do" to me back when I was a child bride and had no idea what true love or even marriage really meant.

We left Michigan shortly after marrying and moved to Florida to open our own business. We never thought we'd be gone as long as we have, but circumstances led us down paths that didn't lead back home. We had to learn how to be independent from family, and rely on each other for everything.

Many holidays were spent just the two of us. I tell you it's character building when you leave home and are so broke you can't afford a Christmas tree, so you decorate your planted yucca with lights and tinsel.

The road we traveled has had more than a few bumps, and some pretty deep pot holes, yet through it all we knew we could face anything as long as we had each other. When I say Ray is wonderful, I'm not just throwing any word out. He has always been driven to give us a better life, and sacrificed endlessly so that I can now pursue my writing career.

He has given generously not only to me, but also to the wayward strays that always seem to find me. I know he dreams of a life with maybe one cat. Just this morning he said to Opie, 'You are the last one.' And I'm thinking, yeah, but what about Peaches and Jack and Chauncie and Gidget and Jesse and Yum Yum and...

My greatest blessing is finding Ray as a teenager and knowing right then I'd found Mr. Right. We've evolved over the years, from clueless, dreamy-eyed youths in quest of adventure in the land of Mickey Mouse, to adults who understand the key to happiness is to never forget to laugh. Or say I'm sorry. Or let the other see you roll your eyes.

Happy Thanksgiving! Be safe in your travels, and don't forget to put the Alka Seltzer and Beano in your pockets!

Do Your Own Thing by Janice Robinson

I was working late one night and as dusk fell, I could hear this bird still singing outside my window. I went outside for a smoke and he was louder than ever and the only one singing. I peeked around the corner to see if I could find him. Right under our business sign I saw a bird sitting on one of the solar lights that the owner put out that was to help light up our sign.

This solar light has never worked right because the solar part is perfectly aimed at a street light. So it still thinks the sun is out and remains dark. Well this little fella landed on it and when he moved his tail over the solar part, the light went on!! He was thrilled!!! He sang and sang and danced around, turning the light on and off. All the other little birdies were snuggled in their nests, but this one thought he controlled the sun.  He remained there for quite some time. I'm sure he comes back every night to play with the "Sun".

As I told this story to my sisters I mentioned it sounded like a fable. Well, the only moral of the story I can think of is don't let anyone tell you you can't do something. This bird controlled his own fun, despite the other birds probably telling him he was crazy, he marched to the tune of a different drum. It made him happy and I love to see animals happy. I'm blessed to have witnessed it.

So often we put our head down, work, work, work. We forget to stop and enjoy these simple things in life. Pass the joy you witness onto others, it may be the only bright spot in their day. And maybe, hopefully, when they see things throughout the day that make them smile, they will do the same.

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.