-
Stalking the Dreaded Dirty Garden Glove
A pretty good read if you like cats and ever rescued one yourself.
Years ago, when I still lived in Atlanta, I was a regular at the Farmers’ Market where I bought most of my groceries and took advantage of the recycling center adjacent to the market. One Saturday morning, as I was being a responsible citizen and recycling my cans, glass, cardboard, plastics, and printer paper, a scrawny black kitten wandered out of the underbrush on the far side of the parking lot and made her way to me. Now mind you, there were easily two dozen other people she could have chosen, but it was my feet she flopped down on.
I picked her up to get a better look at her. Her eyes were a gummy mess. Her fur was muddy and matted. Every bone poked out every which way. Her abdomen was sunken in and she was too weak to even mew.
Some guy “helpfully” suggested I take her to the vet clinic over near Emory University where he said they’d <his words> “put her down for free.” (Note to self: not everyone who recycles holds the same views as I do on matters other than recycling, but I digress.)
I didn’t take her to the clinic near Emory. I brought her home with me. I confess, I tried for days to find someone —- anyone —- who would take her and make her their own, but no dice. I already had two cats, and what sane person would ever have as many as THREE??? Surely I couldn’t keep this kitten. But the Divine Universe had spoken. This little ragamuffin had elected me to be her person. Who was I to argue with destiny?
So Jackie Mew-vee-ay (I was a big fan of Jackie Bouvier Kennedy Onassis) joined Butch and Bruce, and mine became a three cat household. Little by little, the waif put on some weight. Her bones protruded less and her lackluster coat took on a healthy shine. In a few months, she morphed from a scraggly, homeless urchin into a sleek, gorgeous goddess who ruled the house.
Butch and Bruce were still youngsters — wild guys who played with total abandon. Jack, on the other hand, had no interest whatsoever in any cat toy of any sort. It was as if all of her energy in her early months had gone to staying alive on the mean streets and the idea of exerting yourself just for fun was a completely alien notion.
One day after Jack had been with me a while, I’d been out working in the yard, and I forgot to take off my garden gloves before going into the house to get some lunch. I dropped the dirty gloves near the back door where I could grab them on my way back out after I’d eaten.
A few minutes later, I heard the unmistakable sounds of a cat trumpeting —- the sound they make when they’ve made a kill. And there came Jack, parading through the house carrying one of my gloves. She was so proud. She marched around as though she’d slain the biggest, baddest mouse in the history of the world. Then like every cat who wants to prove to her person how very useful she is, she laid her trophy (the glove) at my feet and trumpeted once more just for good measure.
I praised that girl for all I was worth. I told her she was my heroine and that I knew I’d be safe from evil garden gloves for all time and eternity. In typical cat fashion, she ignored me, flicked her tail, and went on her way.Thus began Jack’s love affair with garden gloves. Since it was the only thing that came close to passing as a toy or recreation for her, I took to leaving gloves around the house. She didn’t like clean ones, only those that had been used. Maybe it was the smell of the earth on them. Maybe she liked that they had the scent of my perspiration on them. Who knows what goes on in a cat’s head?
Circumstances changed, and in August of 2001, I left Decatur to move to the mountains. Butch, Bruce, and Jack came, too. Cleo joined the family in early 2002, just a short time before Butch’s kidneys failed him at the tender age of five-and-a-half. That loss cracked open the gate, and I found myself drawn to giving cats that were out of options a place to call home. As the cat population grew (and grew), through it all, Bruce and Jack were my constants —- my “original” kids.
Bruce was granted 15 years. He left me in late March of 2011.
Only Jack, my slayer of the deadly garden glove, remained from my original trio.
Night before last, around 10:00, Jack had a serious stroke that left her partially paralyzed. I called the nearest emergency vet facility and described what was happening. The vet assured me that if Jack wasn’t crying out in pain, laboring to breathe, or having repeated seizures/convulsions, if I wished to, I could keep her comfortable at home until my regular vet’s office opened in the morning. My other choice was to bring her in and have her euthanized.
Jack and I talked it over and she made it clear she wanted to stay at home.
My first female feline, my first rescue from the streets and I spent one final night together side by side. We remembered all the good times and tried very hard not to think about the fact that the time had come for goodbye.
The next morning, Dr. Worthy gave Jack a tiny assist and my darling Jack was gone. As is my custom, I put Jack in a burial box with spices and flowers and wrote her name and the dates of her time with me on the box. I picked a spot right next to Butch and Bruce’s graves for Jack’s resting place.
I dug the grave, laid her burial box in the hole, and tossed in the first shovelful of dirt. As I did so, I noticed the garden gloves I was wearing.
I laid the shovel aside, brushed the dirt off the box, and pulled it back out. I opened the lid, stripped off my gloves, kissed Jack’s head one more time, and tucked my gloves in beside her.
I simply couldn’t run the risk that kitty heaven wouldn’t have the only thing that ever made my Jack Cat play.
When my time comes to join Jack (and all the other fur kids I’m counting on being there to greet me), I’ll be listening for the unmistakable sound of my Jack announcing she’s once again triumphed over the sinister garden glove.
Until then, my beloved Jack, happy hunting. Happy hunting.
-
I Love Lucy: A Bittersweet Letter
Just over a year ago, one of the kittens I claimed from the local animal shelter tested positive for feline leukemia. It’s is a cruel virus that weakens a cat’s immune system and often leads to uncontrollable anemia. It’s also communicable to other cats. As a consequence, most leukemia positive cats are euthanized as soon as it’s known they’ve got the virus. But this little guy was a bundle of energy and displayed no signs or symptoms of illness.
After several soulful discussions with my vet, I reached the conclusion that I couldn’t in good conscience euthanize an animal because he probably would become ill one day. What mattered that was that he was alive and well. The future problems would come when they would; that would be soon enough to deal with them. He was dubbed “Luke,” and came home to stay – for whatever amount of time he was given.
Because of his positive status, he couldn’t be housed with the rest of the herd here. One lonely young cat in a room all by himself just didn’t seem right, so I went in search of a companion for Luke. I found an online rescue site for leukemia cats and made some inquiries. That’s where I learned about Lucy (or “Olive,” as she was known then).
Olive/Lucy had been rescued from the streets by two compassionate Carolinians who first were thrilled to have finally ended Lucy’s days of dumpster diving and were then crestfallen to learn that she carried the feline leukemia virus. A couple of emails and phone calls later, Lucy was on her way here.
Lucy was scrawny, skittish, and cute as could be with her buff and white fur and captivating green eyes. She made it very clear, however, that humans hadn’t yet earned her trust or respect, and given what I suspect her early days taught her, who could blame her for wanting people to give her a wide berth?
Luke and Lucy were soon joined by a third positive kid, a jet black darling named Echo. Not long after, Winston came to live in the leukemia wing here, and in time, two more guys, Doc and Harley, came to be part of the group. There were a few turf battles, but the cats bonded with one another, and little by little, Lucy began to be less distrustful of people.
Within a few months of her arrival, she would grudgingly allow herself to be held to get her nails clipped or her coat brushed, but she wanted no part of long naps on laps or lots of hugs and belly rubs. She was content for Echo and Luke to carry on with those sorts of things. Harley and Doc were fools for attention from people, too. All the better—it took the pressure off Lucy to have to fill that role.
Early on, Lucy discovered her true calling: chasing the dot from a laser light kitty teaser. I’m surprised she didn’t dislocate her shoulders with her stop-on-a-dime turns and peel rubber take-offs. And sometimes. . . just sometimes. . . after a rousing round of laser dot chase, she’d forget that people weren’t her favorite creatures and let herself be petted, even if only a stroke or two.
My cats have taught me many lessons. One of them is to strive to accept a being—feline, canine, human—as they are. Just love them with all with their beauties and their warts, for the joy they give and for the annoyances they teach you to cope with. If you’re lucky, you’ll like them as well as love them. If you’re really lucky, they’ll like you back. If the Divine Universe is feeling particularly benevolent, you’ll even have moments when you know beyond all doubt that they love you. Lucy wasn’t a snuggler or a “hold me” kind of kid. No matter. She w
as who she was, and I loved her simply for being Lucy.
Yesterday, after a week of Lucy not acting quite like herself, we made a visit to the vet and found that the leukemia virus was doing what it is notorious for. Her abdomen was distended with accumulated fluid. Her heart was beating at least twice as hard as a healthy heart beats. Her lungs were laboring, either from fluid in them or from the pressure of the fluid in her abdominal cavity. All of Lucy’s visible tissues (gums, pads of her feet, inside the tips of her ears) were badly jaundiced, indicating that anemia was hard upon her. The diagnosis was that she was approaching liver failure, but no one’s crystal ball could predict how rapid her decline would be. She was still eating, still responding, still capable of jumping on and off furniture, still letting herself out the cat door to sit outdoors in the secure enclosure she shared with her leukemia brothers. My hope was that she’d have at least a few more good days, maybe even a week or two.
The Goddess of Irony has long been a frequent visitor in my life. Over the weekend, I made arrangements with a contractor to expand the outdoor pen devoted to the leukemia cats. All of them, but especially Lucy, seemed to thrive on being outside and seeing a bit more of the world. I couldn’t wait to introduce the leukemia kids to their new hangout. It’s a fairly simply project – should only take three days or so to complete.
But Lucy will never get to enjoy it.
Between the time we left the vet’s office yesterday morning and dinner last evening, it was obvious that Lucy was losing her battle.
A couple nights each week, I sleep in the basement bedroom that’s part of the restricted area where the leukemia cats stay. With Lucy going downhill so quickly, it was clear last night was going to be her last one with me. About 9:30, I went downstairs. She was on the bed, tucked in a tight ball at the base of the pillows. I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to tell her how glad I was that she’d come to be my Lucy. I told her that I loved her—no conditions, no restrictions—and that I’d be with her, right up to the end. I said I was sorry our time together was so short. I rubbed her head and told her to rest well.
I plopped myself into the recliner and cranked back, hoping sleep would come in a hurry so that I didn’t have to think about what I’d have to face when morning dawned.
Only a minute or two passed before I felt the unmistakable presence of a cat on the chair with me. I figured it would be Doc or Harley capitalizing on their human futon’s accessibility.
To my surprise, it was Lucy. I expected she’d stay with me for a fleeting moment, but she settled herself on my lap. I laid my hand on her back and she nudged a little more deeply into my arms. Surely she wouldn’t linger long. . .
But she did. For the first and only time in Lucy’s life, last night she was a lap kitty. She stayed with me in that recliner the entire night. Every now and then, she’d shift positions, probably because of the pressure of the fluid in her abdomen.
Sleep wasn’t really mine to be had last night, but I was given a gift far more precious than slumber. When 5:30 came this morning, she was my girl, my Lucy, my precious feline child.
I held her in my arms as I stood up to go sling hash for the rest of the family. I laid her in the seat of the recliner and started for the door. Lucy jumped off the chair and followed me as far as her compromised lungs would let her go, then she lay down at my feet. I gathered her up and hugged her as tightly as I dared.
I love Lucy. There was never any doubt of that. Did Lucy love me back, though? Or was I merely a giant opposable thumb, a means for opening cans of kitty chow, installing cat doors, hauling litter, or making the laser dot go round and round?
The vet came this afternoon to help Lucy find her way across the rainbow bridge. I buried her tonight on the hill next to Echo who made the trip out of this life just two months ago.
I’ll miss her, but I’ll always remember the last night she was with me. If you’re lucky – really, really lucky – you may get a moment of perfect clarity in which you know unequivocally that the love you give is returned thousand fold.
I love Lucy – that’s a given. But to know that Lucy loves me is a rare and special gift.In a bittersweet moment Friday afternoon, the contractor finished the 8 X 11 extension for the leukemia kids’ outdoor enclosure. I know Lucy would have loved it, and it broke my heart that she wasn’t here to be the first one through the cat flap. She was such a little queen. Instead, her boy toys, Luke, Winston, Harley, and Doc, are figuring out which guy gets which space to lounge. I can only hope that Lucy (and Echo’s) angel spirit is watching over them. Poor little Luke lost both of his best pals in about two months’ time. None of the other guys really hang with him, so I hope Lucy’s departure doesn’t break his spirit.
Must run now, but I’ll write again later. Sorry to hear about Patsy. . .
Be good to yourself,
JaneJane Vollbrecht, September 9, 2010.
Jane Vollbrecht
Author of six novels and contributor to several anthologies.
Please visit my web page at
www.janevollbrecht.com, and also drop by www.bluefeatherbooks.com
Birding Tips, Information & News
