Archive for the ‘pets’ Category
April 29th, 2009 | 
Author: RIP Zorro Zeta
I’ve been trying to write about this since I got the news on Monday, but it’s been too hard.
Wee, sweet Zeta was sickly last week; stopped nursing, and had to be bottle-fed by her tireless foster family. They thought she’d gotten past the worst of it, but she was just too tiny and sickly. She died over the weekend. Zeta was a beautiful, sweet-natured kittenface, who was content to snuggle against your chest and sleep, preferably with a sibling or two nestled around her.
Pragmatically speaking, it’s a small miracle the other wallkitties are flourishing at all, after their hard start. Personally, though, they were ALL MY Wallkitties in a way; and I’m angry and heartbroken she had such a short life. I’m just glad it was filled with love from all over the place, even the Internet.
Thank you.
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Sad Ending to Zeta’s story:read more
Zeta was a beautiful calico with a sweet disposition and a thoroughly endearing habit of sucking on a foot to fall asleep. She was fond of sleeping in impossible, hilarious positions, even with her mouth wide open. We’re told Zeta was more of a cuddle-kitty than a rambunctious adventurer, and that definitely goes along with my personal experience with her (she crawled onto my chest and dozed off immediately). Zeta passed away on April 26.
Jack came home with me in the summer of 1992. I fell in love with the little guy when my aunt showed us her cat’s new kittens. He was stubbular, round-eyed and looked like his belly might burst from glutting himself on milk. Even as a kitten, his paws were ENORMOUS. He looked like he was wearing fuzzy slippers. I smuggled him home tucked inside my sports bra, thinking it was far better to ask forgiveness than permission.
Jack would follow you like a dog all over the house, but was afraid of strangers. As soon as the doorbell rang, he would hide under my parents’ bed until the coast was clear, sometimes staying for hours after guests had left. My grandmother never laid eyes on Jack except for pictures.
Jack lived to bite string and wire. He also enjoyed asparagus and fresh herbs. He was a mean drunk when it came to catnip. He liked escaping the house and going on adventures, much to my chagrin. Jack loved being petted: he’d demand attention by body-checking your shins and love-biting any dangling or convenient part of your body. Until his older years, he particularly liked being pet like a dog. He’d dig his claws into the back of the couch for stability, and purr with his mouth open as you aggressively raked your hands from the scruff of his neck to his tail. When Matthew and I got married, we marveled at how similar Jack’s body language was to that of the great cats we saw in Vegas. He was just as regal, slinky, playful and tough as any tiger.
When Mom died, Jack came to live with me full time. He spent two months under the bed, eating and using the litterbox only when I brought them to him. One day, he emerged from his hiding place to rejoin the world, and has been an incredibly personable, even boisterously friendly cat. He soon discovered he loved crowds, and especially women. He particularly liked it when women would drape his cookie-sized paws over their shoulder and allow him to stand on their cleavage. I like to think that was his favorite way to ride around because that’s how he came into my life.
Jack had a wonderful Thanksgiving this year. From the time he woke up in the morning until he settled into the crow’s nest on the cat tree, he was treated like a prince. He dined on turkey, asparagus, cheese, fresh cream and tuna. We bustled through the kitchen more carefully, allowing him to ankleshark as we worked. I even “dropped” a few morsels for him to greedily “steal,” so he would feel like his careful plots to trip us worked to his advantage.
His breathing became rapid Thursday night, which meant fluid was building up around his heart, hindering his breathing. When I woke up to check on him early Friday morning, his breathing was so shallow, we knew the time had come. I’d hoped to avoid the vet, but he had to take one last car trip. He didn’t flirt with the vet techs, which is a big sign of how poorly he was feeling. When we were ready, I draped Jack over my shoulder and let him stand on my cleavage for the last time.
Jack was such a “big” cat, personality-wise. The whole house feels colder and a little empty without him. It’s likely I’ll never have another asparagus-eating, ass-biting, dog-chasing cat. It’s a certainty there’ll never be another cat quite like Jack. He was a fierce defender, a sexy beast, an adept nad-stomper, a gracious host, a devoted omnivore, a jewelry thief, and a mildly sadistic lover of humans. Jack taught me that you get what you give out of a relationship with an animal, and how earning a cat’s trust and respect is a humbling and prideful matter.
Writing this makes me even more aware that I haven’t written about Mau. It’s still difficult to talk about, but I need to do it. Royalty deserve good eulogies.
I know Mister Jack Jackity Jack Jack Attack (once and future) Fattycat is feeling a bit more like himself: he managed to jump from the kitchen floor to the countertop, and was thoroughly scouring the last place he saw me with cheese.
We sat together and watched Obama make his “Presumptive Nominee” speech in MN, and my old man purred loudly. It doesn’t surprise me: as a personable skinny Tuxedo cat with big ears and a funny name, they have a more than a bit in common.
They were amazed to find him very stable, bright-eyed, grumpy and hungry this morning.
He goes back in for an EKG on Tuesday, he’s on diuretics and human hypertension meds, he’s shaved in two patches, but they let us bring him home. He even has a very chic black wristband.
Keep him as stress-free as possible, they said. Meanwhile, there are several men using nail guns and slamming things on top of our roof, sending our dogs into a frenzy. The roofers have already murdered my Blue Girl rose (Oh, Prince! How will Appolonia thrive without you!?) and if they continue to slam things into our rooftop, it feels like a window could break.
If we didn’t NEEEEEEEEEEEED a roof, ZOMG liek NOWS, I would send them home. They stress ME out.
And now, I go and pet Mister Cookie Paws.
Our distinguished gentleman, Mister Jack, is in bad shape.
To make a long story short, I noticed his breathing was rapid and shallow and erratic, and we took him to the vet immediately, which was a very good thing. They immediately put him on oxygen, drew a shitload of fluid from his lungs, and generally are trying to stabilize him.
It could be congestive heart failure. It could be fluid buildup from lymphoma or something at least as terrible. They had him in the swanky brushed steel and glass oxygen suite, so we couldn’t even pet him goodnight. That might’ve been a good thing, though, because he was surly and stink-eyed despite all infirmity.
All in all, it’s 90% pretty awful, and there’s not a great deal of hope of doing anything more than making him comfortable for long enough for him to forgive us.
He’s been with me since 1992, when I smuggled him out of my relatives’ house in my cleavage. He transformed from a fraidy-cat to a pimpin’ party-cat when he came to permanently live with me. He follows people like a dog, eats asparagus and wheatgrass and loves to bitebitebite string. He sometimes likes to walk on the dogs like they’re furniture, just to show them who’s boss. He’s a milk stealing, love/hate-biting, nad-stomping, hairball-horking, skirt-snagging, food-begging, cabinet-ruining, dog-tormenting very stylish babooshka hat prancing pony Houdini Cat, and he’s been with me the entirety of my adult life. I can’t contemplate a world without my Jack.
We go to see him at 8 a.m.
I know he’s sixteen and grumpy, and really miserable right now. I hope he has more good times left in him, but if he doesn’t make it, I hope he knows how many people love him, even though he’s a cantankerous, eight-toothed, quack-meowing, cookie-pawed coot.