The Whole Kitten Kaboodle Update

The Whole Kitten Kaboodle Update

Love the title of this post. See what I did, there? (Roll eyes, here.)

So, it's been a while since you've all gotten an update regarding The Boyfriend's feline menagerie. So, I thought it time to share again. Please. Indulge me.

Mr. Doris Beasley

Is a healthy little male kitten who is now about six months old. He's energetic and has been deemed a nuisance by all the other residents of the house, save The Boyfriend and myself. One by one, the other cats are coming around. Mama Rose, in particular seems to have fallen in love with him. She spends a third of her time trying to escape him or batting him away, a third of her time cuddling and cleaning his fur as if one of her own, and a third behaving exactly like him, jumping and playing as if she were still a kitten (which, at just over a year old, she qualifies as.)

Mr. Doris Beasley

Mr. Doris Beasley has a vet appointment on March 29th to be neutered.

 

Mama Rose

Mama gave us quite the scare right after the holidays, last year. To see in 2022, the boyfriend and I spent an entire week at my youngest sister's house outside of Madison, WI. That proved to be too long to stay away and have the cats in the care of someone else. 

When we returned, Mama, initially behaved like herself, but then rapidly deteriorated. She had a complete personality change, keeping to herself, sleeping non-stop and refusing to eat. We knew something was up (she is very food-centric) and made a vet appointment for as soon as possible.

We waited in the car while the vet looked at her. Then we got a call saying that Mama needed to go to an emergency vet, stat (and they left us to figure it all out.) Her kidney enzymes were at a level that typically leads to death. They were rather amazed she was still functioning. She needed to be pumped full of fluid as soon as possible and additional tests would need to be run. 

,

Mama Rose & Mr. Doris Beasley

The emergency vet I normally use is only open after 6:00 pm and on the weekends. We called around and were turned down by the first two we talked to. Fortunately, there is a 24-hour emergency pet hospital in St. Paul, so, off we went. They didn't have an opening, but would see us as soon as they could squeeze us in. So we sat in the waiting room. Five hours later, we learned that, while Mama's enzymes were at critical, life-threatening levels, she wasn't behaving like an animal about to perish. After being put on an IV drip, she became the shining star of the E.R. Everyone who interacted with her thought she was adorable. 

They told us things did not look good and they would keep her overnight, if we wished, and continue to pump her full of fluids. We approved an MRI. When we got back to The Boyfriend's we got more news. 

Mama had two enlarged kidneys. One had failed completely and would always be non-operational and the other was not functioning properly due to a mucus blockage. They explained that it was possible for her to live a full and happy life with a kidney operating at only a third of it's capacity, but unless the blocked kidney kicked in, Mama's prognosis was not good. They would continue treatment (pumping her full of fluids) and call us to let us know if her enzyme numbers had improved. 

The next day we got a call. The numbers were actually worse. I looked at the boyfriend and said, "Let's bring our girl home." 

Lady Of The House

Don't laugh, but all I could think of was the film Steel Magnolias. Those of you who are familiar can probably guess why. Shelby, the character played by Julia Roberts, has bad kidneys, which become much worse after she decided, against her mother's wishes, to have a child. I thought of how Mama Rose, who was still very much a kitten herself, had managed to have four kittens all alone, outside, with no shelter and managed to keep those four kittens alive. And how stressful that must have been on her system. I remember how malnourished she looked when we rescued her, so I started thinking maybe we should have named her Shelby. 

We arrived at the vets to bring Mama Rose home, knowing it was only going to be a matter of days before we'd be making another vet visit, her final one. But I wanted her home and comfortable. We were pointed to an exam room and told to wait for the vet tech. 

The vet tech came in and told us that something amazing had happened. The mucas blockage had passed. Mama's sole good kidney was back in operation, at only a third of it's normal capacity, but that was enough. The enzyme numbers had returned to near normal. It was the best news; a kitty miracle.

Again, we were told what a delight she was and when she was brought into the room, she was her sweet, sassy self. 

We don't have any guarantees, but we take it one day at a time. We're on the outlook for symptoms, and the good thing is, next time, we'll know what we're dealing with. 

Rescuing cats is not cheap, folks. That is why pet ownership is not for everyone. Mama Rose's three day stay at "The Spa" (as I call it) cost a whopping $3.5K. So, no major travelling for me this year, but then, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Tuxedo

Our New Year's vacation away also took a toll on Tuxedo. Before we left, Tuxedo had been making great strides, coming out of the bedroom, sitting on the cat tower in the sun in the dining room, and, while not seeking them out, was not cowering or hiding from the other cats. He'd even started eating his meals in the kitchen with the rest of the gang. 

Moving clockwise from lower left:

Mama Rose, Mr. Doris Beasley, Tuxedo, and Theo

However, due to our absence, the still-new presence of Mr. Doris Beasley had caused something of an upheaval in the household cat hierarchy - and while we were away, Tuxedo bore the brunt of it. 

Tuxedo

When we got back, Tuxedo had reverted to old behaviors and was terrified of everything and everyone, even me. He wouldn't come out from under the bed and he was terrified of LeRoy, the alpha cat. 

So, I started over, wining him over. It took two months, but we are finally back to where we left off. In fact, the other day, he came as close as he has ever come to sitting on my lap by placing his front paws on my leg as I sat on the bed last Friday. Fingers crossed. 

Yes, you can tame feral cats.

Tuxedo

Leroy

He's definitely The Boyfriend's cat. Even though I've known him from day one, he still regards me quite coolly and with a bit of disdain. The kitten, Mr. Doris Beasley, has really ruffled his coat. Now he must compete for his dad's lap, which more often than not, is occupied by the despised kitten and/or Mama Rose. 

Leroy w/ Mr. Doris Beasley

I am working on petting him. He does not like kisses. He doesn't want to be held. But he tolerates petting - not the head, just the torso. I don't understand the source of his behavior. When Wonk and Cedric were still with us, he struck me as pretty amiable. But now? He's sour. I think it's the kitten. See... he used to BE the kitten. Now? He's just a cat. 

Leroy

So, we have work to do with Leroy, or, at least... I have work to do when it comes to Leroy. 

Theo

Such a mystery. The one thing that he lives for? Butt scratches. He loves having the area right in front of the base of his tale lightly scratched. When I work out in the basement, he sidles up next to me, pretending he's not there for any particular reason, just hanging out, but I know what he wants. So, between sets, I dole out big helpings of butt scratches. He then makes his funny little yowl and falls dramatically to the floor. 

Theo

Such a phony. A minute later? He's back for more. 

In the win department: he has made peace with Mama Rose. Initially, Mama Rose was not too keen on Mr. Theo. However, Theo possesses quiet charms. It was merely a matter of time before he worked his magic on Mama Rose. 

I think he's happy. 

Boomer

For the past four months, The Boyfriend and I have stepped up our efforts to rescue a little black and white puff ball of a cat who washed up on our back steps. The Boyfriend declared him 'Boomer' and it's stuck, despite recent efforts to change his name to Ezekiel ("But it's biblical.") (Denied.)

Lunchtime w/ Boomer

We had Tuxedos former digs, an insulated house with a heated floor and two doors, sitting on our back porch, only it wasn't plugged in. As the weather got colder, and we got an outdoor outlet installed, that changed.  A heated dish for water and food was added. 

Boomer was a bit different than most of the feral cats we have dealt with... he came back consistently. He also would come into our house, provided the door was propped open and we were nowhere near it. 

So, everyday at 11:30 am and every evening at about 5:00 pm, the other cats would be stowed away with treats behind closed doors. We'd crack the door open to see if Boomer would magically appear. More often than not, he did, meowing loudly, as if to say, "Why am I not being fed yet? Open the door, already."

He's a pretty cat, with big, pure white paws and a long coat in need of a good brushing. 

I thought this 'winning over' process was going to go the way Tuxedo's had gone... you get them comfortable in the little house over the winter and they stay through the summer. Maybe by next fall, you are sitting on the back porch talking to them and they don't act like they are terrified of you. 

Oh, Boomer was terrified. We'd open that door and have to make a trail of wet cat food to the bowl in order to get him to come in. And if we moved? Or there was a noise? Zoom - out the door he would go. But, on occasion, he would let me pet him as he ate, which surprised me. Still, I was not optimistic about the timing - we had a long way to go to earn his trust, which I think is key to a successful animal rescue. 

Pre-First Bath

However, our timeline changed dramatically when Boomer showed up with a bloody, torn ear one day. He was a mess and I was near tears. There was a chunk of it just hanging, like a soggy antenna. And, based on the stains on the towels I used to insulate his little house, he was actively bleeding. 

So, one Saturday, The Boyfriend locked me and the cats up in the bedroom, rigged the backdoor with a wooden spoon and a string and invited Boomer in for lunch. It took a little coaxing... Boomer, at that point, trusted me, more than The Boyfriend. But, after a bit of reassurance, in he came. A tug of the string later, cat rescue, step one. 

We'd prepped the four season sun porch, so that we could isolate him from the other cats. But I was full of anxiety, because I wasn't sure how The Boyfriend was going to manage to get Boomer to walk through the dining room to the sun porch. 

Well, I needn't have worried. The Boyfriend skillfully scooped him up and brought him to the porch, where Boomer quickly made himself at home on the cat tree in the far corner. We brought in his food, and some water. There were two clean litter boxes at his disposal and we watched. As did our little cat army. 

Boomer ate the food. Then went back to the cat tree and promptly fell asleep.

No drama. No yowling, wanting to get out. No hate you, hate you, hate you. 

Just a cat who finally felt safe enough and warm enough to sleep without fear. 

We had a vet appointment for him the following Monday, two days after he came indoors (yes, The Boyfriend was very optimistic.) A can of Gabapentin-laced cat food later (turkey and giblets) and Boomer was ready for the start of his makeover.

The ear was a mess and there was nothing the vet could do except clip off the dead stuff and wait for the rest of it to dry up and fall off. His other ear was a mess, too - frostbite. They thought he was about three years old. Turns out he's not fixed (but will be on March 29th.) And they ran the usual tests, but they thought he was in really good shape, all things considered. 

We were waiting in the car, looking forward to getting our little captive home. Then we got a call from the vet tech. He'd peed in the little kennel... how did we want to handle it? A couple of towels would do the trick. Then we got another call from the vet. One the tests had already come back... 

Boomer, Relaxing On Four Season Porch

(Still no bath.)

Boomer tested positive for Feline Leukemia. 

We were crushed. 

We quickly start devising plans to make Boomer's life as happy and comfortable as we could.

But, later that night, The Boyfriend talked to the vet and it turns out we misunderstood (?), Boomer doesn't have Feline Leukemia... 

He has Kitty AIDS, or FIV. 

It's caused by a bite. 

Like one to the ear. 

Prognosis: he may live a full and happy life, though any type of infection could be a game changer. And he should not be around other cats, because if he bites them, he could pass on the virus. 

So. We are working on new plans. As we do, The Boyfriend is creating a stronger and stronger bond. Lots of heavy petting, and he keeps encouraging me to get on board. 

But I hang back. I'm afraid. Oh, not of the FIV, but I still don't feel I've earned his trust and he senses that, so he's now a bit afraid of me. 

That changed today. I went over to work out at The Boyfriend's house and afterwards, spent 20 minutes on the sun porch. Armed with crunchy salmon treats and a bag of cat nip, I made my way to corner where Boomer wedges himself anytime I enter the room. I sit down and I make a trail of treats. And a little pile of catnip. 

He's not buying it. So, I work up my courage; I reach over and I pet him on top of his head and rub his eyes and nose. 

Biggest purr I have ever heard. 

He comes out. Eats the treats. Rolls a bit in the catnip, then realizes it's me and back to the corner he goes. I repeat the whole thing three times. The fourth time he retreats, I let him. 

There are more days to come. More periods of 20 minutes. I will keep working with him.

And we're lucky. Boomer's lucky.

We have all the time we need to make this work.

And it will. 

Because good things happen. 

They just do. 

A Spy In The House Of Love

Black Cat - Janet Jackson

Times Like These...

I, of course, missed out on the whole #BlackoutTuesday thing. Always a step behind. But, I have shared plenty of thoughts on here about our current unrest and the need for change.
 
Yes, Black Lives Matter. And I would like to believe that this time... a change is going to come. 
 
The State of Minnesota has announced a sweeping human rights investigation of the Minneapolis Police Department. Which is a start. But it's not enough. For it's not just Minneapolis. Racism, homophobia and misogynistic attitudes permeate law enforcement throughout Minnesota... throughout this country.  
 
And how do we fix that? How do you teach empathy? How do we show people that to understand the plight of another demonstrates strength, not weakness?
 
Is there a textbook? A method? An instructional film? Something that reaches into the hearts and minds and brings about an evolution of spirit which generates compassion?
 
If there is, I haven’t heard of it. I haven't seen it.
 
So we investigate, identify and cast out hatred, but to what end?
 
To root out hatred is not enough. Because that hatred will simply find a new place to hide. Hatred flourishes in the shadows, on the fringes of society, where it waits for circumstances to exploit and gain advantage. We've witnessed this type of opportunistic fascism over and over again. Incendiary groups disrupting a movement towards change, kidnapping its message and momentum to spread their own misinformation and poisonous doctrine.
 
So, to merely drive it out of one place means allowing it to flourish in another.
 
And that is the nature of being caught in a cycle, a loop of behavior you can't escape. 

To be stuck in the middle of something you can't get out of. 
 
What is the key that unlocks the heart and mind and releases an individual from such a prison? 
 
We must approach with love, kindness and compassion. And we will be branded weak and insignificant in a world that values noise and flash and violence. Our methods will be determined ineffective and soft because the crunch of the jackboot will do all that it can to drown us out. But we must persevere. Like the tiny seed that spits the rock, our numbers must grow and join forces. For there is strength in numbers, and those who believe in the power of love far outnumber those who choose to live in darkness. So…
 
Bring the light.
 
Be the light.

Found this at http://www.seducedbythenew.com/

A super site, sharing all sorts of wonderful things. But this image... I thought it perfect for these times.

Stuck in a Moment You Can't Get Out  - U2

Times Like These - Foo Fighters

My Valentine: 2010

On Valentine’s Day I met my folks for breakfast at our usual Sunday spot. Near the end of the meal my Mom asked me if I would mind taking Dad off her hands for a few hours while she ran some errands. I said, sure, no problem. I didn’t really have anything planned for the day, other than spending time with my dogs, so a few hours with my Dad wouldn’t be displacing any activity of value.

My dad is 75 years old and has Alzheimer’s. He’s a shadow of his former self; and something of a stranger to me now. I know that I’m a stranger to him. He frequently has no idea who I am. My Mom fairs a bit better on the recognition front, though on occasion he tells me she is “just that nice lady that takes care of me”. It breaks her heart to hear it. This disease has a tendency to do that – break hearts.

Though a handful at times - my Dad is fairly easy to manage. It’s important that he remain in somewhat familiar surroundings. We have to make sure that when eating there is not too much noise and that the table is cleared of extraneous items. Clutter, along with patterns on the table cloth or place mat or more than three items of food on his plate can cause him to become distracted. He fails to comprehend that the patterns are part of the cloth. He thinks he can physically pick them up, and would spend hours trying to do so if we did not intercede. Too many food choices cause him to freeze up; unable to decide what to eat first; he would end up eating nothing. There was a time when television held his attention – especially Westerns. But now the only thing he seems to enjoy is Tom and Jerry cartoons. Coloring was also a favorite activity, but that has gone by the wayside as well, though he still likes collecting and arranging the crayons.

In fact, collecting things seems to be one of his favorite activities, especially at stores and other people’s houses. He’s become a bit of a shoplifter, so when we do venture into a store with him we have to be on guard constantly. That’s why I suggest that we go to the Dollar Store. It’s one of the safest places to take him. He can choose anything he wants and it only cost a buck. “Dollar Store?” he echoes back, like a wizened owl. “We can buy candy there.” I explain. That registers. His sweet tooth is always an active presence, a promise to satisfy it a great motivator. I also have an ulterior motive: it’s Valentine’s Day and this will give him an opportunity to pick out a card for my Mom along with some snacks.

After having spent a good two hours at the restaurant (it takes my Dad a long time to eat these days – even with us cutting up his food for him), we make our way to my car. The snow banks are quite high and there is no way for me to safely guide my Dad to the passenger side of the vehicle, so I place him in the backseat. “You can pretend you’re taking a Taxi.” No response. He dutifully sits where I tell him. On the way to the store I talk to him over my shoulder. He wants to know where we’re going. He is also worried about where “Mom” is. I do my best to ease his mind. These are questions and answers that will be repeated many times during the few hours.

We arrive at that store and the little kid in my Dad kicks in. This is reminiscent of the first time I noticed that there was something ‘wrong’ with my Dad. We were at a Walgreens. It was during the horrible winter of 1996 – my first since returning to Minnesota from California. That winter, trips to Walgreens became something I did with my parents. As we waited for prescriptions to be filled, we would each take a flyer from the front of the store and search the store’s aisles for coupon items. I remember that my Dad had this weird, uncharacteristic excitement in his voice as we shopped and that he kept moving along aside me, standing far too close for my comfort. It was like shopping with an awkward adolescent whose social skills are not fully developed. I kept looking at him with disbelief, my dismay not registering at all.

Several years later, when the diagnosis of Alzheimer’s was handed down, my mind crept back to that time, along with a litany of other odd occurrences: minor car accidents, an inability to follow even a short list of spoken directions, etc., and it began to make sense Though a whole year would pass before I began to accept the diagnosis as correct and know that my Dad wasn’t just pulling the wool over our eyes. By that time his behavior had simply become too inexplicable for it to be anything else. For example, he would put on layers and layers and layers of clothing before going for a walk outside on the hottest days of summer. It was his version of running away from home, I guess. On time he went missing and ended up at the woman’s prison in Shakopee. A guard there was kind enough to call the police, who escorted him home. The police, having been notified earlier by my Mom, escorted him home. My Mom said that he arrived home acting as if a police escort was a totally normal occurrence, just another day in the neighborhood.

Such incidents are the reason that when the house across the street from me came up for sale in 2008 I decided it was the perfect home for my parents. It took some convincing, but finally my Mom agreed. My Dad was becoming too much for her to look after by herself. She realized she needed help. I spent the latter half of that winter and most of the spring rehabbing it with the help of others. We spent the summer emptying my parents’ house in Shakopee. Years and years of ‘collecting’ made it a pretty overwhelming task. It was a very emotional time for my Mom, having to let go of so much, but she managed admirably. The move went pretty smoothly, though for many months after my Dad would ask anyone within earshot when was it he got to go home. He would also talk about a house up north he owned and a farm he needed to get to. My parent’s did have a cabin on a lake at the time, but the farm he was speaking of was that of his childhood. It no longer existed, hadn’t for years – except in memory and in his mind.

I do my best to spend time with my parents. Yes, I have siblings, but they many live too far away to be a weekly presence in my parents’ lives. Two of my sisters manage to visit once a month and an older brother manages to so once a year. My other sister is too involved in her own trials and has no interest in being involved. She has not seen my parents for three and a half years. If she showed up today my Dad wouldn’t have any idea who she is. It’s a strange turn of events. For years and years I was the black sheep of the family; funny how things change. Now, my folks come over to my house for dinner at least once a week. When it comes time to leave, my Dad will head out my front gate looking for his car, though he hasn’t driven for years. He still doesn’t get that he lives across the street. We don’t push it, except to reassure him.

We have to watch him constantly. Shortly after moving into their new house, with its fenced in yard and locked gates, my Dad got out via the garage door. My Mom called me, frantic, as she and a friend of mine searched the neighborhood. A half hour later, my Mom received a phone call from their new next door neighbor. He had discovered my Dad sitting at his kitchen table. My Dad had walked in, hung up his cap and coat and sat down. When the neighbor asked what he was doing, my Dad just replied, “Waiting.” We’re more careful now. He has a key to the house, but that is all. He had to give up his driving privileges a few years back and he has never had keys to the garage or the locked gates. Sometimes I look across the street and catch him standing at the front gate fishing through his pockets for keys and, not finding any that fit, taking the lock and yanking on it furiously. He hates those locks.

But he loves the Dollar Store. And riding in the car – which I decide will be our next activity, after he chooses a card.

I steer him over to a rack of Valentine’s Day cards, explaining who it is he needs to get a card for. I pick up a card and he says, “Yep, that one.” Fortunately it’s a very nice card with a verse about thanking the loved one for all the things they do for them. “Okay, let’s find some candy to go with it.” This eats up the next half hour, as the merits of various snack cakes, candies and chips are considered and debated. In the end he chooses 14 different items, though I suspect very few of them will be of interest to my Mom. We pay for our purchases and leave the store, but not before Dad begins to pick up loose price tags and other debris that litters the sales floor. He views such items as found treasures and it frequently takes a good deal to convince him otherwise. So usually we just let him put the stuff in his shirt pockets where it will reside until bedtime when my Mom undresses him and removes the items – tissues, napkins, pencils, pens, paper clips, price tags, ketchup and sugar packets and the like. I’ve told my Mom that she should start a website called “_________’s Pockets”, featuring a digital photo of the things she finds in his pockets on a nightly basis. Due to his proclivity for collecting things, I have to watch him closely when he comes to my house. I have a small collection of Buddhas and another of small glass frogs. Many times my Mom will call me once they are home to let me know that one or several of the items in these collections has made its way across the street. We also have to be careful with dog treats. Several times I’ve caught my Dad nonchalantly munching on something that wasn’t intended for human consumption. Sometimes I catch him in time, but you can’t win them all.

In the car, after we’ve paid for our stuff, I try to get my Dad to actually sign the card. Easier said then done. He still recognizes words, but he rarely makes sense of them or relates them to their meaning. Even his own name is a stranger to him now. I have to slowly spell it out, letter by letter. He still writes cursively, but none of the letters connect, each one suspended at a different angle as they float haphazardly near the bottom of the card. I write my Mom’s name at the top of the card and on the outside of the envelope and call it a day. I do this, not because I think she’ll believe for a second that he did it on his own, but because it will brighten her day just a bit. I also know that when she asks if he picked out the card himself, I will lie and say “yes”. In a way he did. And such a tiny white lie isn’t going to hurt anyone. My Mom deserves a valentine from her husband.

Having taken care of our shopping, we make our way along Wirth Parkway. Ejecting the dance music CD that has been playing in my car all week, I opt for NPR and some nice relaxing classical sounds. It’s not my Dad’s taste in music (he prefers classic country), but he doesn’t complain. It makes for a rather poignant soundtrack. It’s a beautiful, sunny day with lots of people out cross country skiing, tubing and such. I point out the people, dogs and the lakes as we move slowly along the winding road, but Dad seems interested only in his hands which lie lifelessly in his lap. For some reason this moves me; he seems so small, so shrunken in that passenger seat. All I want to do is make him feel safe. With my right hand I cover both of his in a gesture of comfort. It’s a tender moment. And not one that I think I would ever had with my Dad, if it were not for his condition; small consolation, but consolation none the less. True in more ways than one.

For now, all we can do is take things a day at a time. I try not to look too far into the future. Neither does my Mom. We’ve both done the research; we know what’s to come. For now, trips to the Dollar Store, rides in the car, meals out – they’re all still possible, so we take advantage of them. These small events link us back to life as it once was, before the heavy shadow of Alzheimer’s overtook the light in my father’s eyes.

He’s a good man; worked hard all his life. Provided the best he could. We will make what remains as comfortable for him for as long as we are able. I worry about my Mom: caring for one so dependent is a daunting task, but she claims she’s coping. That’s why I’m here: to offer a little relief from time to time.

After another 40 minutes have passed I steer the car toward home. “Ready to go home?” I ask. “Home?” he echoes, the word not having any connotation.

Yes, home. That safe place. Who knows? Maybe Tom and Jerry’s on.