repercussions of being a crazy cat lady's daughter: Part II

I started this story in a previous post, but it somehow feels more possible if I break it up a bit. Probably better for you, dear reader, as this is definitely an indulgent long one.

You can read Part I here.

Part II: The Surrender

(or, how to feel like the most awful person in the world)

Trigger Warning: This is sad and may make some people cry

When my mother got sick in October of 2014, I started taking care of all of those cats. My mom's partner was disabled, and the nurse who came to care for him couldn't care for animals. When I was in town, which I was much of the time for the months that she was in the hospital, then the rehabilitation home, I cared for them. When I had to return to SF to actually work, I paid for someone else to come take care of them.

After a few weeks, it became apparent that my mom wouldn't be well enough to return the house. I convinced her that if she did get well enough to leave the rehab facility, she would still need to be in a retirement apartment of some sort. In the few of those places that do allow pets, they only allow one. Mom chose to keep her small dog, and I promised I would take care of the cats. By mid-December, it was clear to us that my mother would probably need full-time care in the nursing home for remainder of her life, and I went home to clean out the house.

Mom's partner had just moved into the nursing home with her, and I ended up only having about a week to clean out a 2 bedroom home in which my family had lived for more than 35 years. By myself.

I had spent the last couple of months looking for homes for the cats to no available. I called every sanctuary in the region - as far as Arkansas and Oklahoma - and I begged pretty much everyone I knew with a farm. I had thought a supposed friend of my mom's would have at least let them live in her barn if I paid for the food, but at the last minute she told me all she would do is open the doors for them. I thought as a last resort I could take them to the local no-kill shelter my mom had supported for years, but I harshly found out they don't accept surrenders. After spending some time there with all the cats who really wanted to be loved and pet, I honestly wasn't sure that was a bad thing. My mom's cats really only loved her.

And now I need to step back for a moment. I had spent quite a bit of time in my mom's house over the previous two years. I had SAVED Hannah and bottle fed her myself, but she wouldn't come near me. Brett curled up on me and let me love her, but her niece Precious wanted nothing to do with me. And then there was Caleb. Caleb wanted to know me. He wanted to find out about me. But he'd never let anyone other than Mom or her partner pet him. Remember, this is the kitten my mom saved from the driveway and bottle fed because he wasn't weaned. I had spent hours sitting there talking to my mom, intentionally leaving a hand dangling down so Caleb would come up and sniff it. I was so proud the few times he actually let me touch the top of his head before he ran off. Once, Mom handed him to me in an attempt to show him I was okay. The skin on my arms and chest did not survive that encounter. Yet, I had this need for him to love me. I seriously debated taking him back to SF. If I hadn't adopted Gracie and Nolan before this all went down, I probably would have. I loved that elusive little guy.

All to say that I knew that these cats wouldn't be easily adoptable. Hannah and Brett were both 12 years old, and Precious was only a couple of years younger.

I called animal control, in hopes of guidance and in hopes of borrowing some traps to catch the cats that didn't want to be caught. The guy on the phone told me I'd be better off taking a 22 in and doing it myself. He told me what kind of poison I could buy to leave around the house. Looking back, he was probably right, but I knew I was losing my mom and I just couldn't do that. I called the Humane Society and they agreed to accept them for a small fee and a big dollop of judgment, but they clarified that they would most likely have to euthanize all but Caleb, who I told them was only a few years old.

So I waited. I slowly removed everything from the house. My dad's best friend came and hauled away a full truckload of junk, and I left dozens of giant trash bags for the weekly pickup. Once I got enough stuff out of the house that I didn't feel that cats could hide as well, I decided to try to catch them. Brett was easy, she just let me pick her up and put her in the laundry basket. The others were much more difficult.

After about an hour of trying to catch the cats, I finally got a hold of Caleb. Understandably, he was terrified. I held on tight as he ran by, and he leaned back and sank his teeth into my hand. I tried not to let go - I knew I had traumatized the poor guy - but it hurt so much and I was afraid he'd do it again. I let him go.

Another quick step back - some of you may know this, but in 2011 I was bit by a cat and came a lot closer to dying than I'm comfortable with repeating. I spent 4 days in the hospital hooked up to an IV while they tried 8 different antibiotics and had me sign consent forms to remove my finger to ease the infection. So you might say I'm a little more scared of cat bites that some people.

I cursed myself and decided to wait until the next day to try again. I figured I could get more of the stuff out of the house and trap them in a room and try again.

And then my hand swelled up like a balloon. It hurt like a mofo and I knew I was in trouble. So the next morning, instead of spending valuable time clearing out the house, I went to urgent care. I explained the situation to the doctor, who was amazing. First of all, he assured me that cat bites turning into major infections were super common, but that he wouldn't let this one get as bad as the other one. Then he told me I should have just taken a 22 to the cats. He told me given how swollen it was, I'd probably have to stay in the hospital for a night or two, but we had some time to try to ward it off. Then he gave me a giant shot in my butt, a bunch of antibiotics, and traced the line of the infection. My instructions were to not use my right hand at all, to keep it elevated, and to go to the ER and have them page him if the infection went more than an inch past the line he'd drawn.

During this time, I was also trying to spend as much time with my mom as possible. So of course she noticed the bandage on my hand and felt horrible when I told her what happened. She felt like it was all her fault and told me we could wait until she could go to the house to help me catch the cats.

But I knew that my mom was never going to the house again.

So I went back to the house. I realized I had a limited time before my hand was so swollen I couldnt use it, and I still had half a house to pack up. I decided I could hire someone to put traps out for the cats later if I had to, so I worked until the fever set in.

Before I got so sick I couldn't, I made the almost hour-long drive back to my friend's house where I was staying. The infection wasn't past the line, so after a long teary conversation with my friend about how I didn't have time to go to the hospital, I decided to fight through and just get some rest. I went to sleep terrified that I was going to wake up and have to go to the hospital. I fell asleep feeling like I've failed at everything

Thankfully, I woke up and the infection was down a bit. I spent the next day slowly packing up the house in between visits with Mom. The last day possible, I decided to try again with the cats.

I had a laundry basket with a lid, a box, a couple of blankets that smelled like Mom for them, tons of treats, and a bunch of duck tape. Again, Brett was easy. She was happy to curl up in a box and wait. I chased the remaining three cats into the bedroom with the least furniture left in it, I armed myself with work gloves, and I grabbed a big towel. I wish I could tell the story in the way that shows the humor in this moment. Maybe someday I'll be able to. If it was me catching them to take them to the vet, I could have you rolling in laughter. But I wasn't catching them to take them to the vet. And I can't make light of what it really was.

I spent 3 hours chasing cats in circles around a room and grabbing them with towels, forcing them into a box, and trying to hold them in there without hurting them. It was terrible.

The drive to the Humane Society took over an hour - it's far on the north side of Springfield. I cried the whole way. The woman I had spoken to about the cats saw my face and realized that I wasn't deserving of the judgment she'd given me on the phone. I filled out the paperwork for each cat. I paid the surrender fee. They told me they'd most likely have to euthanize all of them, but if they could socialize Caleb they would him up for adoption. They noticed the bite, and they told me they would definitely have to euthanize the cat who bit me. I told them Hannah did it because I knew she'd be euthanized anyway. I didn't want to hurt Caleb's chances.

I leaned down to say goodbye. Hannah and Precious were in one box and had no desire to be touched, so I just told them I was sorry through the cracks.

Brett and Caleb were in the laundry basket. Brett kept reaching up against it to be rubbed me. I hesitantly reached in to hold her, and Caleb didn't seem to mind, so I pulled her to me for awhile. I talked to both Brett and Caleb while I was doing this and I told Caleb I needed him to be friendly. I told him if he was friendly he might get adopted. I PRAYED - and I don't pray - for him to be friendly with them. All of a sudden he came forward and pushed his head against my hand. He was obviously scared, but he let me pet him. For the first time ever, Caleb let me pet him. It was a beautiful goodbye.

I can only hope he did the same with the technician who took them. I like to think that being in the basket with Brett led him to follow her cues. I like to think they saw how beautiful he was and were patient with him.

One of the conditions of surrender to most shelters is that you give up the right to know what happens to the animal. You legally sign away your right to know if they find a home or if they are killed. I know what happened to the other three. I know I saved a kitten in 2003 who I ended up loving and naming Hannah, and then surrendering to be euthanized in 2015. I know I took the cats my mom viewed as the gifts of her relationship with her best friend to be euthanized. But I hope, I HOPE, that I took Caleb to be adopted. I don't ever get to know.

And this is what I dream about. I dream about saying goodbye to animals who never asked for this.

And in awful twist of meanness, I hope that Brett went out getting pet and loved, and that Caleb, if they did euthanize them, bit the hell out of them first.

Gatsby

He stole my heart when he was 3 weeks old (he was dirty and sick and too young to be away from his mom).

He always curled up next to my face, frequently nudging himself between my mouth and the phone (jealous boy!).

He always came when I called (even when it took him several minutes to get to me because he was blocks away).

He interrupted any sex I tried to have at the house all those years ago (maybe Mom trained him).

When I pulled into the drive, he jumped on the hood of my car every time. When I tried to leave he frequently tried to come with me, walking along the windowsill trying to get in (see...there's a reason I was always late!).

When I left for college he sat in my room and cried and howled all night (who doesn't want a boy to miss them that much?).

He came to visit me in my freshman dorm and got me into trouble for having a cat in my room (it was worth it).

He was with me through that incredible summer after high school graduation. He loved Mom through years of breast cancer treatments. He loved me in the aftermath of both devastating returns from San Francisco. He saw me through nine boyfriends (and nine breakups) and more bad dates than I can count. He loved me unconditionally.

After years of not living at home, he still remembered me every time I visited. The second I walked into the house he jumped on my lap and stayed until I had to leave. He never forgot me.

I'll never forget him.

RIP sweet kitty.

Rules in a House with Kitties

The Napping Kitty Rule.

This totally goes in our house, too. Honey can you get me a water? Sebastien is all sleepy-sleepy on me.

What Security Deposit?

Why our landlord requires a pet deposit:

A Story to Make You Smile

And to remind you not to pack your cat!

SAN BERNARDINO, Calif. (AP) - A cat whose owners thought was lost spent nearly three weeks crossing the Pacific Ocean in a shipping container with no food or water - and appears to be just fine.

The voyage began after Pamela Escamilla lost sight of her 3-year-old calico, Spice, while packing a huge container with household goods in Waikoloa Village, Hawaii.

The container was shipped June 15 to Southern California. Escamilla, 39, and her husband couldn't find the cat before taking their flight and asked neighbors in Hawaii to call if Spice returned.

While the Escamillas feared the worst, Spice spent 18 days in the pitch-black container without food or water as it crossed the Pacific before arriving at the San Bernardino home of Escamilla's parents on Tuesday.

"We really thought that cat was going to be dead," said Edward Gardner, Escamilla's father.

When Escamilla opened the container, she and family members huddled around her noticed fluffs of cat hair on the floor.

They started removing items, and Escamilla climbed into the container to search.

"I saw (Spice) poke her head out from behind some bicycles, and I started to scream," said Escamilla. She gently picked up the cat and went to the veterinarian, who said the feline's prognosis was good.

"It's always a good day when the cat's alive," said Escamilla. "We didn't know what we would find."

Spice's kidneys had shrunk and her bowels were backed up, but she managed to get some food and water down at the vet, Escamilla said.

The vet gave the Escamillas a soup recipe for Spice made of chicken broth and marrow.

"(The vet) said, 'That's a calico for you,"' Escamilla said. "They have a survival instinct."

From APNews

More Kitties?

Well, maybe not more kitties, but there is a new kind of kitty.

You can read about the Bornean Clouded Leopard at Science Daily.

This is the best kind of news.

Cleanliness and Cuddles

If cleanliness is next to godliness, my kitty is going to hell.

We had to take Sebastien to Pets Unlimited's emergency vet tonight. I noticed that one of his claws wouldn't protrude, and it looks like there was an infection around it. Once at the hospital, the vet found ickiness on FOUR toes! Our sweet little kitty--who usually hangs out on our shoulders and purrs the whole time--was hissing and scratching as best he could. It took four hands to hold him down while the assistant used Qtips and a special cleaning solution to clean out his wounds. So now kitty is on antibiotics. We have to deliver milky white liquid--that is for some reason less appealling to Sebastien than whatever liquid I'm drinking at any given moment--through a syringe into his mouth without squirting it down his throat and filling his lungs. AND, we have to continue the cleaning process daily that the assistant started. We actually have to soak his paws in liquid. Yeah.

And why do we have to do this? Because for some reason, Sebastien doesn't like to clean his own paws.

Perhaps we should have named him Lucifer.

A Christmas Wish For Y'all

Mraw Humbug!

Christening

We brought home our adorable new kitty today!

We waited forever for the cleaning people to finish in the kitten room, and in the process Pete spied an orange one. He's the youngest smallest cutest kitten in the room. He curled up in my lap and passed out. His name was Target, but we've dubbed him Sebastien (french spelling). So, without further delay, meet Sebastien Target Dirksen.