Man of the house

Nine years ago I adopted a wee little kitten and named him Forest.  He was the first male cat I had the pleasure of nurturing into adulthood and for nearly a decade, he was the sweetest companion, not only for me, but for a host of yoga students.  For the past two years, he's been in good company with my significant other, Steve.  With another man around the house, Forest's rascally boy emerged and he was often heard "roaring" with a toy mouse in tow.  Whenever Steve came over, Forest showed off by using the scratching post, chasing his sisters, and proudly perching on the back porch, eagerly keeping an eye on the back yard.

Three weeks ago we discovered Forest had advanced kidney disease.  Just last week, Steve and I made the difficult decision to say good-bye.  Of all the little ones I've let go of over the years, being with Forest at the end was particularly heartbreaking.  Perhaps it's because he was my only boy.  Or maybe because he meant so much to so many people.  Mostly, it's because for nine years, he was a consistently loving, incredibly peaceful presence in my home.

In 2015 I wrote this blog from Forest's point of view and thought I'd republish it this week....for everyone who loved my sweet boy as much as I did.  

Man of the house

Originally published on January 8, 2015

My mom has been really busy with all kinds of stuff today, so she asked me if I wanted to write her blog.  I figure if Aditi and Jhoti can post on Open Road, I can, too.  Plus I've perched on the desk and watched Mom use the computer enough to know what's what.  She said she'd come in later to proofread my work, but I think I'll be alright on my own.  After all, I'm the man of the house and should be able to handle this just fine.

It's not that I'm all that macho.  I was the runt of my litter and almost didn't make it a couple of times.  I've been hospitalized on a few occasions, and  my mom nearly went nuts the last time when I got sick from grooming Aditi before she was fully wormed.  Mom needn't have worried.  I recuperated quickly enough.  During the night I even figured out how to unlock my cage at the vet's, pull out my IV, and escape from the exam room so I could go exploring.  I had had enough of that sitting around business and knew there were better things to do with my time. 

Like bird watching.  

And (plastic) snake charming.  

And playing with my sisters. 

          

When I was a kitten, my littermates took good care of me.  They nudged me to the bottom of the scrum pile so I could stay warm while we napped near our mama's belly.  My sisters knew I tired easily and didn't jump on me when I sat down to watch them frolic and play.  And my brother often joined me, grooming my ears for good measure.  After my human mom adopted me, I soon learned I was the smallest kid in her trio of cats.  Jhoti and I bonded quickly, but I'm still working on Sophia...and it's been over five years, so you'd think she'd get a grip and realize I'm not going anywhere. 

I've been spoiled rotten, let me tell you, but I hear I'm also a cute little booger, so it all evens out in the end.  When I was a baby, Mom carried me inside her sweatshirt wrapped in fleece to keep me warm and gave me extra treats to help me gain weight.  As I grew, she nurtured my love of birds by hanging a suet cage outside the window near a sunny spot where I like to snooze.  Along with my Aunt Doris and a few other folks, my mom has bought me enough toy mice and snakes to last more than nine lifetimes.

But I'm not a Mama's Boy. 

Like I said, I'm the man of the house.

I didn't really understand what that meant until my kid sister, Aditi, came along.  She's a tough little squirt all right, and when Mom squirts her with the water gun when she's being bad, Aditi holds her ground.  I even saw her slap Mom once...or twice.  Well, okay, nearly every time. 

As the man of the house I've tried to set a good example.  I use good manners when I eat my meals and use the litterbox like a gentleman.  Grooming is one of my favorite hobbies and I keep myself neat and clean.  (Mom even calls me Dapper Dan, except my name is Forest, so I don't know who she's talking about.)  Best of all, if it's nighttime and I want to sleep on Mom's bed (she has a thing called an electric blanket, but I call it Paradise), I very gently jump up, slowly and carefully making my way to a cozy spot so I don't wake her...unlike two other black cats I know who don't give a hoot and step on Mom's head, her hair, even her face! 

I'm rewarded with lots of love.  With catnip and paper grocery bags.  With lots of kisses and chin rubs.  But that's not why I do all of those things.  It's in my nature to be a good boy.  Mom says I'm her pride and joy.  And why not?

I'm the man of the house.

         

But you know, I've been watching Mom a lot these days.  She has a lot of papers on her desk and I heard her say there's a lot to do running her yoga business and writing books and marketing them (whatever that means...I thought the market was where she got our food) and paying bills and making sure the house is in order.  She cuts the grass in the summer and takes the trash out year 'round.  I wish I could scoop our litterbox myself because that's a job no one likes...man or woman.

Mom does all of the work around here, but if she doesn't, who will?  I'd like to help, but I'm hobbled by being a quadruped.  I can't reach the sink to wash dishes.  I can't make business calls or drive a car.  I'd like to go to work and help earn my keep, but I figure keeping Aditi out of trouble most of the day is a full-time job.  At night I bring Mom my toy snakes and mice.  I drop them in her slippers, hoping she'll know how much I love her.  How much I appreciate living in this peaceful place full of windows and warm beds and wonderful women who come in for yoga classes. 

Maybe being the man of the house isn't what I've heard it's supposed to be.  Maybe being the only boy doesn't mean I have to be tough and courageous.  That's it's okay to run away from the sweeper and get startled every time the doorbell rings.  I don't have to be strong and steady when Mom's sad or not feeling well.  I can curl up on her shoulder and purr in her ear...and maybe even feel a little low myself just because she's feeling blue. 

Mom says she loves me just as I am, even though I'm not a big Tom cat or a Bossy Boots.  I'm not rough and rugged and ready to rumble.  She says that if she marries a man who's half as sweet as me, she'll be the luckiest woman in the world.  I guess it's a good thing I know how lucky I am to live with a bunch of lively ladies.

That's man enough for me...and for my sweet Mama, too.

Forest is man enough to chill on his sister's blanket.  

Call me crazy

Originally published in June, 2013

"The greatness of a nation and its moral progress

can be judged by the way its animals are treated. "

Ghandi

I am not a crazy cat lady, but I am crazy about my cats.  That said, with the exception of some very tasteful paintings in my office and a darling cross-stitch picture my mother made for me many Christmases ago, you won't find cat kitsch in my house.  I'm not that kind of cat lover.

Surprisingly, when I was a kid, I was terrified of them.  Growing up with Schnauzers there wasn't room for a furry feline in our house.  Once when I was ten, I wore a woolen skirt to a birthday party of a neighbor girl.  Sitting in the living room, I arched my own back as the family cat casually walked across my lap.  Hands on my shoulders, I refused to touch it and demanded my mother wash the skirt before I would wear it again.

"It's wool, Kate," she said, shaking her head.  "It needs to be dry cleaned and it's not dirty."

"It is," I insisted.

            "It is not," she replied.

            Mom won.  The skirt did not go to the cleaner's. 

            And yet, I won too, as it hung abandoned in my closet.  I never wore it again.

            It's still amazing to me that, thirty-odd years later, I'm like Snow White, but in place of the seven dwarves, I've had seven cats...but not all at the same time.  I recently adopted ten week old Aditi.  My little sprite has a lot of spunk and loves to play with Forest, her older cat sibling.  Aditi's boundless energy is amazing as she darts through the house, chasing toys and getting in mischief.  Forest has quickly become her surrogate father, protector, playmate and all around "go to guy."  There's no sleeping through the night with her nocturnal naughtiness.  Still, this will only last a few more months and we'll all settle into a "new normal." 

But last week was anything but normal.

            Forest caught something from our new little one and by Thursday was so sick, he had to be hospitalized.  Kady Flowers and the techs at Spring Meadows Animal Hospital were incredibly kind and careful as Forest had his blood tested, X-rays completed, and prepared for an overnight stay.  They couldn't get a reading on one of the tests and Kady thought he might have swallowed a toy or piece of string, but his illness felt all too familiar.

            When Forest was a baby, I had been a foster volunteer for abandoned kittens who passed around a parasitic virus that he eventually caught.  At only three months old, he had to be hospitalized and on IV fluids.  The vets couldn't decide if it was an infection or if he needed exploratory surgery.  I agonized over the decision to have them operate.  Not only would the expense be immense, I didn't want him to have an unnecessary procedure.

            Less than a week previous, I had to make the difficult choice to have Carley, my red tabby, euthanized due to kidney failure.  As the vet gave her the injection, I held her in my arms and thought about the other two cats I had been with at the time of their deaths.  I've learned it doesn't get easier...it just gets more familiar.

            I wasn't ready to let go of little Forest as well, so I gave the emergency vet the go ahead to do the surgery so I could be sure we did everything possible for him. 

            "He's schedule to go at 10:30," the vet told me.  "I'll call you when we're done and let you know how he did."

            I stayed awake with my cell phone nearby until midnight and then, exhausted and overwhelmed, tried to get some sleep.  An hour later, I woke up suddenly and checked the phone.  No one had called, so I dialed the vet's number with shaky fingers.

The vet tech answered and when I asked how Forest was doing, she replied, "We've been running late and he was up next, but seems to be doing better.  He's playing with his IV line and is walking around his cage."

            "That's great news!"

            She asked if I wanted them to continue with the surgery and I said, "No...let him stay on the fluids overnight and we'll see how he does in the morning."

            As it turned out, he was fine.  The infection was clearing and despite needing to be on antibiotics for a while, you'd never know little Forest had been sick.

            Last Friday when Kady was working toward a diagnosis and suggested he spend the night, I drove back to the hospital and sat with Forest for a while.  He smelled of urine and bile as he was nervous and had relieved himself outside of the litter pan and although the techs cleaned him up as best as they could, a bath was not imminent.  My sweet little stinky boy sat quietly in my arms while IV fluids slowly brought him back to life. 

            Except for a mystery kitten wrapped in a blanket next to Forest's cage, the convalescent area was empty.  Kady gently removed the kitten from the blanket and I was horrified by what I saw.  He was black and looked to be the same age as Aditi, with the same marking.  His jaw had been broken and was slightly bloody.  While Kady splinted one of his paws, he lay like a limp rag as one of the techs held him.

            "I'm sorry I didn't warn you about scary kitten," Kady said.  "He was hit by a car and whoever hit him used a dustpan to shovel him out of the road and fling him onto the grass.   But he came in growling and hissing...so he's got some spunk."

            My face registered the horror of wondering how anyone could do that to a small helpless animal.  "Who found him?"

            "A rep from Planned Pethood saw it happen and immediately called us."

"Thank God," I sighed, gently petting Forest's head.  "Do you think it will survive?

            "I'm not sure about the internal injuries, but we'll see how he does overnight."

            An hour later, I left Forest in the hopes that, just like before, the IV would work their magic.  And unlike before, I wouldn't have to say good-bye to a cat simultaneous to bringing home a new kitten. 

            The next morning Kady called and laughingly said that Forest was ready to come home.  She had visited him later in the evening to feed him and locked his cage.  By morning, Forest had knocked over his litter pan and water dish, escaped from his second tier digs, pulled out his IV and went exploring.  The tech said she found him hiding in a closet.

            "He must have gotten that from Naughty Jhoti," I replied.  "When can I get him?"

            Later that morning, Kady had gone home to rest and Dr. Brent was working.  He had been with me when Carley died and had taken care of Forest a couple of years previous when he had a fever.  I am so blessed to have such kindhearted people care of my pets.  We chatted about Forest's antics the night before and I apologized for any damage he might have done.

            "It was nothing...anything that was broken can be replaced," Brent smiled.  "Forest can't."

            As I waited for the techs to bring him out, I noticed the little black kitten was being taken home by someone.

            "Oh, that one is all vinegar," one of the techs smiled. 

            "He'll need it to survive what happened to him," I replied.

            Ghandi's words ring true to me, now more than ever.  No one needs permission to be compassionate, only the desire to do so.  It's an incredible responsibility to care for those who cannot speak with words, but whose language of love goes straight to the heart.  Call me crazy, but I believe that the way each of us treats any living thing is a direct reflection of the care and respect we have for ourselves.  And in caring for those who are the smallest creatures in our world, perhaps we reveal a bit more about how we have been treated...or had wanted to be.

Forest, bird-watching on a peaceful afternoon