I finally got my motorcycle back-2 months to the day after the accident. After going several rounds with the insurance company and having to pick my battles, it felt almost surreal to have some kind of resolution-at least in this chapter of my adventure (I still haven't received a letter as to when my court date is; I plead not guilty because I was unable to see the second light, which means this will go to trial).
I have to admit that in spite of missing all of the riding I could have been doing, I was a bit nervous to get back on the bike. I guess it's only natural, as my last experience involved shattering glass, twisted metal, an ambulance ride, and my life briefly flashing before my eyes. Not to mention some painful contusions. Still, it never occurred to me to not ride again. It was just a matter of dealing with the demons that were still haunting me from the accident and the passage of time that had allowed that to happen.
When the service manager called me to tell me my bike was ready, he sounded just as happy as I was. I have been in touch with him regularly and am on a first name basis with him; I almost feel like we could go have a beer after work and talk about how silly (I'm being nice here) insurance companies can be. I felt that he was not only happy to get my bike out of his shop, but was genuinely happy for me to be able to ride again. I told him that I'd be there as soon as I got off work.
I arranged for Bob to pick me up at work, as the shop is close by. Bless his heart, he offered to ride the bike home if I was too nervous about riding it just yet. That never occurred to me-if I can't ride my own motorcycle home from the shop, then how can I expect to ride it anywhere else? Plus the sight of a man who's 6'1” and weighs 200lbs riding a little 250cc bike would probably make me laugh so hard, I'd get in a car accident while following him. And that's the last thing I need.
It was strange to ride again-I had a mixture of apprehension and familiarity. I originally planned on doing some laps around the parking lot, but then once I started moving forward, I realized I didn't need to. Then as I was getting ready to turn onto the road, I almost wished I had. I was very cautious taking any kind of turn; I always tend to take them a little slow, but I could tell the confidence I'd built before the accident had been shaken. Still, it didn't keep me from giving up-I just had to remain focused and not think about the accident. I decided to think about my motorcycle class and compare any fear I felt to that which I felt at the beginning of the season, after not riding all winter. It kind of put everything in a more realistic perspective.
The ride home was uneventful and I gradually felt the familiarity of my bike again; kind of like slipping on a comfortable pair of shoes that you haven't worn in awhile. My bike looks brand new, but then it should-I think over half the parts were replaced, and it still amazes me that the insurance company didn't total it. I am glad they didn't though; I wasn't ready to give up that bike. I plan on putting many miles on it before graduating to something bigger.
When I got home from the dealership, I felt a sense of accomplishment; I'd gotten over a small but very important hurdle-getting back on the horse after being thrown off. And in spite of the support I've gotten for wanting to ride, some of my friends were surprised that I rode it home that night. Why wait? I knew the first ride would nerve-racking and wanted to get past that. Now I can focus on building my skills as a rider and simply enjoying the journey itself, hopefully this time keeping the shiny side up.
Ellen M. White
9/28/07
Friday, September 28, 2007
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Slowing things down....
Slowing things down
It all started out harmlessly enough. A nice ride on the motorcycle on a lovely summer evening with friends, dinner in McMinnville, then heading back in the cool evening twilight. It felt good to do something after work other than sit at home; I felt like perhaps I actually had some semblance of a social life during the week. It was my first time riding with a group and would be my first time riding at night, but I was up for the challenge and new experience. I'd become more confident on the bike this summer and felt that I was doing well in going beyond my comfort zones.
The ride to McMinnville was beautiful. The four of us rode in perfect formation among the twists and turns of quiet country roads. Dinner on the rooftop at Hotel Oregon was lovely, and even though it was cooling down quickly, we were warm in our leathers.
The ride home started out uneventful enough. We decided to take 99W, as it was more direct and a little quicker. It was well after 9PM when we set out and cool enough to break out some winter gear, so a shorter trip home was a welcome plan. As we rode down 99W, I remember feeling nervous yet confident about night riding-I was out of my comfort zone and it felt very liberating.
We stopped at a intersection on 99W to make a left turn onto Bull Mtn Rd. It was one of those busy intersections with a wide left turn. The arrow turned green, Bob and Chuck turned and went down Bull Mtn Rd. As I followed, I remember thinking, “ I don't like this wide of a turn in such a busy intersection, but if I take it slow and look ahead to where I want to go, I should be fine.” (I also wondered what Bob was thinking, leading us this way at night, but he'd missed tmaking an earlier turn). I proceeded to turn, and as I was looking toward my destination, I heard a car horn. I looked up and saw there was another light, that I hadn't seen, which was red. I tried to stop, but it was too late. I felt my bike colliding with a Ford Explorer, saw and heard glass braking, hit the pavement and felt my bike slide forward out from under me, a few feet ahead. The driver got out of his SUV and appeared fine. He never came up to me, but I learned later on that he didn't speak any English. He also must've thought that he just killed a motorcyclist.
For those of you who have never been injured in an accident, it is quite the surreal experience. You might think you're alright, but sometimes shock can set in and mask more serious injuries. Having worked in emergency medicine, I was well aware of this phenomena, and mostly concentrated on the fact that I was still alive and cognizant of who I was and my surroundings. I then sat up and was keenly aware of pain in my right leg. I was pretty sure it wasn't broken, but didn't want to take off my boot to find out. My next thought was that I hoped the other cars had stopped, which they had. This was followed by the shock of not believing what had just happened, along with a myriad of other thoughts (How long will it take Bob to turn around? Is my bike ok?). A kind woman named Erin came up to me and told me not to move and to leave my helmet on; she had called 911 and help was on the way (actually by this time, the road was closed off, and both the sheriff and firefighters had arrived at the scene). Everyone was genuinely concerned-asking me where the pain was, did I hit my head at all, etc. I think my vitals were taken at least twice. By this time, Bob and Chuck had doubled back-they were fairly far ahead and when I didn't follow, they knew something was wrong. PJ and his girlfriend were behind me and saw the whole thing-I think they was just as shaken up as I was.
Once Bob could see I was alright, he gave all of my information to the police and arranged for my bike to be towed and gathered my things. Meanwhile, the paramedics helped me onto a stretcher and into their truck. I was starting to calm down a little, and their kindness made it that much easier. One thing about being a Vet tech, is that I can compare stories with those in human medicine. I spent much of the ambulance ride chatting with the paramedics about my work and some of the crazy clients we deal with. Once I got to the hospital, they checked me in and took me to triage-their work was done and they went back out on another call. I filled out paperwork, had my vitals taken again and waited for x-rays. At this point, I called my supervisor, as well as the overnight technician, told them what happened and that I wouldn't be in. I tried to play the evening's events down a little because I didn't want them to worry, but it's difficult to tell someone you've been in a motorcycle accident and not have them freak out. I'm thinking that I should probably never tell my parents about this.
X-rays revealed no fractures, just bruising and some muscle damage and I had fun comparing different types of digital x-ray equipment with the technician-I guess even when I'm not at work there is that tendency to talk shop. I was sent home on Advil and ice packs. So I'll be off work until Monday. In the meantime, I've been buried in insurance forms accident reports and the like. And just in case you're wondering, as soon as my bike and I are healed, I'll be back out riding again!
It's odd, but I've been burning the candle at both ends both physically and mentally for so long, that I knew I was due for something to happen that would slow me down. I thought it might crop up in the form of an illness; my body's rebuttal for too much working hard and playing hard. Little did I know that it would end up being Life throwing me a curve ball. This particular incident was just a warning, but I'm hoping that I never have to repeat the lesson it teaches: Life is an extremely precious gift. We need to slow down and enjoy it, whether that means spending less time at work, making more time for the things we enjoy, or simply setting limits. Whatever you do, enjoy Life and enjoy Living. We only get one shot.
Ellen M. White 7/25/07
It all started out harmlessly enough. A nice ride on the motorcycle on a lovely summer evening with friends, dinner in McMinnville, then heading back in the cool evening twilight. It felt good to do something after work other than sit at home; I felt like perhaps I actually had some semblance of a social life during the week. It was my first time riding with a group and would be my first time riding at night, but I was up for the challenge and new experience. I'd become more confident on the bike this summer and felt that I was doing well in going beyond my comfort zones.
The ride to McMinnville was beautiful. The four of us rode in perfect formation among the twists and turns of quiet country roads. Dinner on the rooftop at Hotel Oregon was lovely, and even though it was cooling down quickly, we were warm in our leathers.
The ride home started out uneventful enough. We decided to take 99W, as it was more direct and a little quicker. It was well after 9PM when we set out and cool enough to break out some winter gear, so a shorter trip home was a welcome plan. As we rode down 99W, I remember feeling nervous yet confident about night riding-I was out of my comfort zone and it felt very liberating.
We stopped at a intersection on 99W to make a left turn onto Bull Mtn Rd. It was one of those busy intersections with a wide left turn. The arrow turned green, Bob and Chuck turned and went down Bull Mtn Rd. As I followed, I remember thinking, “ I don't like this wide of a turn in such a busy intersection, but if I take it slow and look ahead to where I want to go, I should be fine.” (I also wondered what Bob was thinking, leading us this way at night, but he'd missed tmaking an earlier turn). I proceeded to turn, and as I was looking toward my destination, I heard a car horn. I looked up and saw there was another light, that I hadn't seen, which was red. I tried to stop, but it was too late. I felt my bike colliding with a Ford Explorer, saw and heard glass braking, hit the pavement and felt my bike slide forward out from under me, a few feet ahead. The driver got out of his SUV and appeared fine. He never came up to me, but I learned later on that he didn't speak any English. He also must've thought that he just killed a motorcyclist.
For those of you who have never been injured in an accident, it is quite the surreal experience. You might think you're alright, but sometimes shock can set in and mask more serious injuries. Having worked in emergency medicine, I was well aware of this phenomena, and mostly concentrated on the fact that I was still alive and cognizant of who I was and my surroundings. I then sat up and was keenly aware of pain in my right leg. I was pretty sure it wasn't broken, but didn't want to take off my boot to find out. My next thought was that I hoped the other cars had stopped, which they had. This was followed by the shock of not believing what had just happened, along with a myriad of other thoughts (How long will it take Bob to turn around? Is my bike ok?). A kind woman named Erin came up to me and told me not to move and to leave my helmet on; she had called 911 and help was on the way (actually by this time, the road was closed off, and both the sheriff and firefighters had arrived at the scene). Everyone was genuinely concerned-asking me where the pain was, did I hit my head at all, etc. I think my vitals were taken at least twice. By this time, Bob and Chuck had doubled back-they were fairly far ahead and when I didn't follow, they knew something was wrong. PJ and his girlfriend were behind me and saw the whole thing-I think they was just as shaken up as I was.
Once Bob could see I was alright, he gave all of my information to the police and arranged for my bike to be towed and gathered my things. Meanwhile, the paramedics helped me onto a stretcher and into their truck. I was starting to calm down a little, and their kindness made it that much easier. One thing about being a Vet tech, is that I can compare stories with those in human medicine. I spent much of the ambulance ride chatting with the paramedics about my work and some of the crazy clients we deal with. Once I got to the hospital, they checked me in and took me to triage-their work was done and they went back out on another call. I filled out paperwork, had my vitals taken again and waited for x-rays. At this point, I called my supervisor, as well as the overnight technician, told them what happened and that I wouldn't be in. I tried to play the evening's events down a little because I didn't want them to worry, but it's difficult to tell someone you've been in a motorcycle accident and not have them freak out. I'm thinking that I should probably never tell my parents about this.
X-rays revealed no fractures, just bruising and some muscle damage and I had fun comparing different types of digital x-ray equipment with the technician-I guess even when I'm not at work there is that tendency to talk shop. I was sent home on Advil and ice packs. So I'll be off work until Monday. In the meantime, I've been buried in insurance forms accident reports and the like. And just in case you're wondering, as soon as my bike and I are healed, I'll be back out riding again!
It's odd, but I've been burning the candle at both ends both physically and mentally for so long, that I knew I was due for something to happen that would slow me down. I thought it might crop up in the form of an illness; my body's rebuttal for too much working hard and playing hard. Little did I know that it would end up being Life throwing me a curve ball. This particular incident was just a warning, but I'm hoping that I never have to repeat the lesson it teaches: Life is an extremely precious gift. We need to slow down and enjoy it, whether that means spending less time at work, making more time for the things we enjoy, or simply setting limits. Whatever you do, enjoy Life and enjoy Living. We only get one shot.
Ellen M. White 7/25/07
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Bagheera's story
“OH, look at this kitty! He's adorable!” My co-worker Kelly came running back to the cat room with an 8 week old tabby kitten that had been brought into the shelter. This kitten was a myriad of spots and strips, giving it the appearance of a mini Ocelot. He was in perfect health and was as affectionate as any well-socialized kitten could be. Apparently the good Samaritans that brought him in had found him wandering around.....
It's not hard to fall in love with a kitten, no matter how beautiful they are; kittens have that certain innocence and wonder about them that somehow, for a moment, erases the negativity that often surrounds us in this world. It was no surprise that Kelly was immediately smitten and called her boyfriend to discuss adopting this kitten. He agreed, and shortly thereafter, they took the kitten home and named him Bagheera, after the jungle book character (even though he wasn't black).
Bagheera adjusted well to Kelly's household and her boyfriend's cat, but several months later, Kelly and her boyfriend decided to part ways. For Kelly, this meant a move back to Kansas, as she had no family in Ohio. Since she was moving back in with her parents, Kelly asked me to take care of Bagheera until she could find her own place. I of course agreed.
I took Bagheera home and then went over to Kelly's house to help load her things in her car and offer moral support. Once Kelly arrived in Kansas, we wrote back and forth a few times. The last note I sent her was a Christmas card letting her know that Bagheera was doing well and had mixed in nicely with my other kitties. I never heard from her again. I will never know why, but I suspect that she wasn't able to keep Bagheera and that she found it too painful to say goodbye. And since I had told her that Bagheera would have a home with me if she couldn't keep him, she may have just decided to take me up on my offer. Whatever the reason, I had acquired a new fur child in my life...
Fast forward 8 ½ years.......
It's May 2006, and I'm about to go into my second surgery for the evening at DoveLewis Emergency Animal hospital. The night has been non-stop, and I really don't want to deal with any phone calls, so when I'm told that my husband is on the line, I ask the receptionist to take a message. She informs me that he is bringing Bagheera in, as he seems to have hurt his leg. “What??!” I immediately call him back and try to get more info. As I go into surgery, my mind is racing: if it's a broken leg, will he need surgery? How will I keep him separated from the other cats? How on earth did this happen anyway?
The overnight shift comes on, and I look out the window of the surgery suite to see the doctors examining Bagheera. I ask the overnight tech to step in for me, so I can find out what's wrong. The news I am about to receive is not what I expected, nor is it good: Bagheera's leg is fine, but the docs are concerned because they hear crackles in his chest. X-rays reveal congestive heart failure, so he is admitted.
Having been in this field for many years, I am used to dealing with sickness and trauma. However, when it is one of my own, I find myself too close to the situation; I simply cannot work on my own cats. I turn Bagheera's care over to my trusted co-workers while I try and hold myself together for the remainder of my shift. An IV catheter is placed and Bagheera is given Lasix to drain the fluid in his lungs; a Nitroglycerin patch is placed as a vasodialator, and he is put in an oxygen cage. I set up a time with the doctors to have an echo cardiogram done the next morning.
After a sleepless night, I call to find out that although Bagheera did well overnight, the diagnosis is not good. He has Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy (HCM). For those of you not in the medical field, Hypertrophic Cardiomyopthy is a form of heart disease where the heart muscle becomes thickened, causing it to pump less efficiently. It has often been called the “silent killer”, as cats can have this disease without showing symptoms and then one day suddenly die of heart failure. These cats can also develop a blood clot, which paralyzes the back legs (called a saddle thrombus). This very painful condition often results in euthanasia, as it is difficult to dissolve the clot. Finally, cats with this disease can go into congestive heart failure, as Bagheera did. Often times a doctor can auscult a heart murmur or a gallop rhythm, indicating that the heart is working much harder than it should to pump blood. The cause of HCM is unknown, but it is thought to be mainly hereditary. Certain breeds, such as Ragdolls and Maine Coons seem to be more susceptible as well. Once a cat shows symptoms, the diagnosis is 1-2 years, although I have read about cats living longer on medication. This is not a disease that is curable, but it is manageable with medication, good nutrition, and a minimal stress.
Bagheera is started on Lasix (a diuretic) 6.25mg twice daily , Benazepril (a vasodialator) 2.5mg once daily, Diltiazam (a calcium channel blocker to slow the heart rate)60mg once daily, and a ¼ baby aspirin every 3 days. Aspirin is not something normally given to cats, as they don't metabolize it very quickly, but in Bagheera's case, he is at a greater risk of throwing a clot.
I make an appointment with a cardiologist to have Bagheera re-echoed 6 weeks later. He is concerned at that time about the possibility of a blood clot, and increases the aspirin dose to 1 whole tablet every 3 days and the Lasix to 12.5mg in the morning (the evening dose remains the same). He advises me that although Bagheera is asymptomatic, he is a “walking time bomb.” Six months later, in November, another echo revealed a little more thickening in the heart wall, but we kept his medications the same. This last week, Bagheera had another echo. The news is grave: the disease is progressing slowly and now the cardiologist has noticed a small pocket of fluid in the sac around the heart. Bagheera's bloodwork looks good, so his Lasix dose is increased to 12.5mg twice daily. The cardiologist wants to see Bagheera in another 6 months, or sooner, if there are problems. I am dishearted, as I feel that we are losing a little bit of ground. Still, Bagheera appears to be doing well and enjoying life. And the fact that he has a very mellow disposition has worked in his favour, especially in dealing with the vet visits and medications....
I know that in spite of all my best efforts, Bagheera will one day succumb to this disease. The fact that he has done well on medication for a year is encouraging because to me it means that we are managing his heart disease. And right now, that's all I can hope for.
We never realize how precious life is, until something like this happens. But in reality, any one of my kitties could become ill at any given moment. The difference is that I know what Bagheera will eventually die from and I can at least try and prepare myself. Regardless I've learned to treasure each and every one of my little urchins; to spend some time with them and show them they're loved; to appreciate all that they've taught me with the wisdom and unconditional love that only a companion animal can possess; and to be thankful for whatever time we have together in this life.
Ellen 5/6/07
It's not hard to fall in love with a kitten, no matter how beautiful they are; kittens have that certain innocence and wonder about them that somehow, for a moment, erases the negativity that often surrounds us in this world. It was no surprise that Kelly was immediately smitten and called her boyfriend to discuss adopting this kitten. He agreed, and shortly thereafter, they took the kitten home and named him Bagheera, after the jungle book character (even though he wasn't black).
Bagheera adjusted well to Kelly's household and her boyfriend's cat, but several months later, Kelly and her boyfriend decided to part ways. For Kelly, this meant a move back to Kansas, as she had no family in Ohio. Since she was moving back in with her parents, Kelly asked me to take care of Bagheera until she could find her own place. I of course agreed.
I took Bagheera home and then went over to Kelly's house to help load her things in her car and offer moral support. Once Kelly arrived in Kansas, we wrote back and forth a few times. The last note I sent her was a Christmas card letting her know that Bagheera was doing well and had mixed in nicely with my other kitties. I never heard from her again. I will never know why, but I suspect that she wasn't able to keep Bagheera and that she found it too painful to say goodbye. And since I had told her that Bagheera would have a home with me if she couldn't keep him, she may have just decided to take me up on my offer. Whatever the reason, I had acquired a new fur child in my life...
Fast forward 8 ½ years.......
It's May 2006, and I'm about to go into my second surgery for the evening at DoveLewis Emergency Animal hospital. The night has been non-stop, and I really don't want to deal with any phone calls, so when I'm told that my husband is on the line, I ask the receptionist to take a message. She informs me that he is bringing Bagheera in, as he seems to have hurt his leg. “What??!” I immediately call him back and try to get more info. As I go into surgery, my mind is racing: if it's a broken leg, will he need surgery? How will I keep him separated from the other cats? How on earth did this happen anyway?
The overnight shift comes on, and I look out the window of the surgery suite to see the doctors examining Bagheera. I ask the overnight tech to step in for me, so I can find out what's wrong. The news I am about to receive is not what I expected, nor is it good: Bagheera's leg is fine, but the docs are concerned because they hear crackles in his chest. X-rays reveal congestive heart failure, so he is admitted.
Having been in this field for many years, I am used to dealing with sickness and trauma. However, when it is one of my own, I find myself too close to the situation; I simply cannot work on my own cats. I turn Bagheera's care over to my trusted co-workers while I try and hold myself together for the remainder of my shift. An IV catheter is placed and Bagheera is given Lasix to drain the fluid in his lungs; a Nitroglycerin patch is placed as a vasodialator, and he is put in an oxygen cage. I set up a time with the doctors to have an echo cardiogram done the next morning.
After a sleepless night, I call to find out that although Bagheera did well overnight, the diagnosis is not good. He has Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy (HCM). For those of you not in the medical field, Hypertrophic Cardiomyopthy is a form of heart disease where the heart muscle becomes thickened, causing it to pump less efficiently. It has often been called the “silent killer”, as cats can have this disease without showing symptoms and then one day suddenly die of heart failure. These cats can also develop a blood clot, which paralyzes the back legs (called a saddle thrombus). This very painful condition often results in euthanasia, as it is difficult to dissolve the clot. Finally, cats with this disease can go into congestive heart failure, as Bagheera did. Often times a doctor can auscult a heart murmur or a gallop rhythm, indicating that the heart is working much harder than it should to pump blood. The cause of HCM is unknown, but it is thought to be mainly hereditary. Certain breeds, such as Ragdolls and Maine Coons seem to be more susceptible as well. Once a cat shows symptoms, the diagnosis is 1-2 years, although I have read about cats living longer on medication. This is not a disease that is curable, but it is manageable with medication, good nutrition, and a minimal stress.
Bagheera is started on Lasix (a diuretic) 6.25mg twice daily , Benazepril (a vasodialator) 2.5mg once daily, Diltiazam (a calcium channel blocker to slow the heart rate)60mg once daily, and a ¼ baby aspirin every 3 days. Aspirin is not something normally given to cats, as they don't metabolize it very quickly, but in Bagheera's case, he is at a greater risk of throwing a clot.
I make an appointment with a cardiologist to have Bagheera re-echoed 6 weeks later. He is concerned at that time about the possibility of a blood clot, and increases the aspirin dose to 1 whole tablet every 3 days and the Lasix to 12.5mg in the morning (the evening dose remains the same). He advises me that although Bagheera is asymptomatic, he is a “walking time bomb.” Six months later, in November, another echo revealed a little more thickening in the heart wall, but we kept his medications the same. This last week, Bagheera had another echo. The news is grave: the disease is progressing slowly and now the cardiologist has noticed a small pocket of fluid in the sac around the heart. Bagheera's bloodwork looks good, so his Lasix dose is increased to 12.5mg twice daily. The cardiologist wants to see Bagheera in another 6 months, or sooner, if there are problems. I am dishearted, as I feel that we are losing a little bit of ground. Still, Bagheera appears to be doing well and enjoying life. And the fact that he has a very mellow disposition has worked in his favour, especially in dealing with the vet visits and medications....
I know that in spite of all my best efforts, Bagheera will one day succumb to this disease. The fact that he has done well on medication for a year is encouraging because to me it means that we are managing his heart disease. And right now, that's all I can hope for.
We never realize how precious life is, until something like this happens. But in reality, any one of my kitties could become ill at any given moment. The difference is that I know what Bagheera will eventually die from and I can at least try and prepare myself. Regardless I've learned to treasure each and every one of my little urchins; to spend some time with them and show them they're loved; to appreciate all that they've taught me with the wisdom and unconditional love that only a companion animal can possess; and to be thankful for whatever time we have together in this life.
Ellen 5/6/07
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Blackjack
“You're new here,” I said to the little black cat in the bottom cage. I'd started cleaning the cat room at the Humane Society and noticed a small black cat in one of the bottom cages. A lack of paper work indicated that he was a new arrival and hadn't been checked in yet. A gentle nudge to my hand told me that this kitty was friendly, but shy. I spent a few minutes offering reassurance before returning to my cleaning duties.
The cat's long, black fur was sticky and matted, as though he'd gotten into something greasy. Apparently, he wandered into a machine shop, and a kind-hearted worker had brought him into the shelter. The little cat appeared to be about 6 months old. I gave him the name Tar because of the condition of his coat.
After we tested Tar for leukemia and vaccinated him, the kennel manager and I decided that the only way to get rid of those mats was to shave him. When we finished, the poor thing looked like he had a Mohawk; both sides were shaved, but the fur on his back remained. He still needed a bath, so we sedated him and I washed all of the grease out of his fur. Tar had a bit of a rough wakeup from the sedation, so I stayed at the shelter to make sure that he was alright. Although I was becoming attached, I knew that once his fur grew back, he be a beautiful cat and would have no problem finding a home. I kept telling myself that if I was going to add another charge, it should be one who was less adoptable.
The next morning, Tar was in a top cage, and when I went to open it, he put his arms around my neck, as if to give me a hug. This continued every time I opened his cage door, and I was the sole recipient of his hugs. I started seriously considering adopting Tar, yet telling myself tat he would have no problem finding a home when his fur grew back. I casually mentioned Tar my husband, only to hear “we don't need another cat!” I decided to be nonchalant about it, and mentioned that although I thought Tar would get adopted once he was better, Bob should come and see him ; I of course included the part about getting hugs. My lack of trying to convince Bob that we should adopt him lead to his caving in, and he went with me to the shelter. When we got there, Tar had been moved to the sick room because of an upper respiratory infection. Apparently, he had been in a big cage in the front lobby, and the wintry blasts that came in every time the front door was opened took their toll.
We went to the sick room to visit him, and as soon as a opened his cage door, Tar jumped onto my shoulder and wrapped his arms tightly around my neck, as if to say, “I choose you!” Bob had a resigned look on his face, and I put a hold on Tar's paperwork.
I continued to visit Tar, each time receiving the same hug, each time bonding even more. After his second course of antibiotics, I convinced the kennel manager to let me take him home, even though he was not quite over his infection. I knew that I could keep him isolated from my other cats, and I also knew that Tar would recover more quickly away from the shelter environment. We took him home, and changed his name to Blackjack.
Blackjack has grown into an exceptionally beautiful cat, with long, black fur with the texture of angel hair. His bright green eyes have just a hint of blue, and his tiny meow sounds almost feminine in nature. It doesn't surprise me, as Blackjack is our prissiest cat :) He's fit in very well with the other cats, and has formed a particularly strong bond with Uno, our 14 pound one-eyed bruiser. He loves to sit on my lap, and sleep next to me on the bed. And he still gives me hugs, each one telling me, “I choose you!”
Ellen 4/21/07
The cat's long, black fur was sticky and matted, as though he'd gotten into something greasy. Apparently, he wandered into a machine shop, and a kind-hearted worker had brought him into the shelter. The little cat appeared to be about 6 months old. I gave him the name Tar because of the condition of his coat.
After we tested Tar for leukemia and vaccinated him, the kennel manager and I decided that the only way to get rid of those mats was to shave him. When we finished, the poor thing looked like he had a Mohawk; both sides were shaved, but the fur on his back remained. He still needed a bath, so we sedated him and I washed all of the grease out of his fur. Tar had a bit of a rough wakeup from the sedation, so I stayed at the shelter to make sure that he was alright. Although I was becoming attached, I knew that once his fur grew back, he be a beautiful cat and would have no problem finding a home. I kept telling myself that if I was going to add another charge, it should be one who was less adoptable.
The next morning, Tar was in a top cage, and when I went to open it, he put his arms around my neck, as if to give me a hug. This continued every time I opened his cage door, and I was the sole recipient of his hugs. I started seriously considering adopting Tar, yet telling myself tat he would have no problem finding a home when his fur grew back. I casually mentioned Tar my husband, only to hear “we don't need another cat!” I decided to be nonchalant about it, and mentioned that although I thought Tar would get adopted once he was better, Bob should come and see him ; I of course included the part about getting hugs. My lack of trying to convince Bob that we should adopt him lead to his caving in, and he went with me to the shelter. When we got there, Tar had been moved to the sick room because of an upper respiratory infection. Apparently, he had been in a big cage in the front lobby, and the wintry blasts that came in every time the front door was opened took their toll.
We went to the sick room to visit him, and as soon as a opened his cage door, Tar jumped onto my shoulder and wrapped his arms tightly around my neck, as if to say, “I choose you!” Bob had a resigned look on his face, and I put a hold on Tar's paperwork.
I continued to visit Tar, each time receiving the same hug, each time bonding even more. After his second course of antibiotics, I convinced the kennel manager to let me take him home, even though he was not quite over his infection. I knew that I could keep him isolated from my other cats, and I also knew that Tar would recover more quickly away from the shelter environment. We took him home, and changed his name to Blackjack.
Blackjack has grown into an exceptionally beautiful cat, with long, black fur with the texture of angel hair. His bright green eyes have just a hint of blue, and his tiny meow sounds almost feminine in nature. It doesn't surprise me, as Blackjack is our prissiest cat :) He's fit in very well with the other cats, and has formed a particularly strong bond with Uno, our 14 pound one-eyed bruiser. He loves to sit on my lap, and sleep next to me on the bed. And he still gives me hugs, each one telling me, “I choose you!”
Ellen 4/21/07
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Samantha Sweetie
“That cat’s pregnant!” I can still hear the stern tone in my mother-in-law’s voice as Samantha walked up to greet her. I denied it, saying that my neighbor who had found her was going to get her spayed. My mother-law, however, would hear none of it. She looked directly at Samantha, and with a wag of her winger, declared “you look pregnant!”, as though she were admonishing a wayward daughter. Samantha blinked in response.
The little black stray had shown up my doorstep about a month prior, with a kitten in tow. She had long, back fur, with gold eyes. A crumpled right ear told stories of a life spent outdoors. She was starved for both food and affection, gobbling up the food I set out, and immediately taking up residence on my lap. The kitten, which may have been hers, was more feral and aloof, accepting only food, and even then, with hesitation. I named the black cat Samantha, and the kitten Rascal. I knew there had to be a story as to how they showed up on my doorstep.
I found out that my next door neighbor, John, had brought Samantha and her kitten home from an apartment complex where he’d done some work. He and his wife had the pair for a few weeks, and were bottle feeding the kitten. He said they were going to keep the kitten inside and let Samantha be an outdoor neighborhood cat, after getting her spayed. I told him that I would help care for her.
Well, as fate would have it, my mother-law was right; Samantha was indeed pregnant, but I didn’t realize it until she started showing. I’d been attributing her voracious appetite to having been starved, when actually; she was eating for 2 or more. At this point, I knew that I would be keeping her and her kittens.
As the weeks passed, it was evident that Samantha’s kittens were growing inside of her. She seemed pretty content, and had developed her own little routine. She had also accepted Tiger, my other cat, and was slowly warming up to the rest of my family. I did notice, however, that Samantha seemed terrified of men; every time she would see my husband coming, she would run and hide, especially when he wore black shoes. I can only imagine what her life must have been like.
I had planned on making Samantha an indoor only cat, once her kittens were born. For now, however, she was allowed to go outside, as she didn’t wander far, and I wasn’t sure where she wanted to have her litter. I also did not know what to expect when the day arrived for the kittens to be born, as I had not entered the veterinary field yet. A Westie breeder friend told me what to expect and how to know if things weren’t going well. I also kept the number of the local emergency clinic handy.
On July 18, 1993, at 6am, I heard Samantha scratching feverishly at my front door. I set a bowl of cat food out then went back inside. The scratching continued, so I brought her inside, only to witness her attack Tiger, something completely out of character for her. I immediately scooped her up and put her back outside, so I could go console Tiger. Upon returning outside, I noticed that the front or my nightgown was damp from where I’d held Samantha, and I also remembered how feverishly she’d been purring. It was time, and I realized that Samantha wanted me there. I was about to witness a miracle…
I found the box I’d prepared for Samantha and put it my front step next to her. After nesting in the box, Samantha went into labor. Boots was the first to be born, and as I watched, it amazed me how she knew what to. A gray kitten soon followed. After awhile, Samantha, settled down to the business of nursing her two kittens; I thought she was done, so I went back to bed for a couple hours. Imagine my surprise when I came back out and found two more gray kittens, nursing! I brought my new little family inside, and set up an area in my kitchen, where Samantha could tend to her brood.
I named the kittens based mostly on their emerging personalities, with the exception of Boots. Wiggles was the most active, and the first to venture out. Dusty would hide in the corner of the box, like a little dustball. Trouble was originally named “Belly-up-to-the-Bar,” because she would always have her spot to nurse; but I decided to change that. Her new name has suited her well :)
Samantha’s kittens have grown into lovely cats and will be 14 this July, with the exception of Wiggles, who died at 6 years from kidney problems. Samantha will be 16 in May and often acts like a kitten. I like to think that her brood, as well as my other cats keeps her young. Although she is smaller than her offspring, they still back down when she swats or hisses at them, much like children receiving discipline. I’ve often said that Samantha personifies the expression “she who must be obeyed.”
I will always be grateful for this wayward black stray who walked into my life and into my heart. She not only gave me four beautiful kittens, but the opportunity to witness and be a part of the miracle of new life
Ellen 2/25/07
The little black stray had shown up my doorstep about a month prior, with a kitten in tow. She had long, back fur, with gold eyes. A crumpled right ear told stories of a life spent outdoors. She was starved for both food and affection, gobbling up the food I set out, and immediately taking up residence on my lap. The kitten, which may have been hers, was more feral and aloof, accepting only food, and even then, with hesitation. I named the black cat Samantha, and the kitten Rascal. I knew there had to be a story as to how they showed up on my doorstep.
I found out that my next door neighbor, John, had brought Samantha and her kitten home from an apartment complex where he’d done some work. He and his wife had the pair for a few weeks, and were bottle feeding the kitten. He said they were going to keep the kitten inside and let Samantha be an outdoor neighborhood cat, after getting her spayed. I told him that I would help care for her.
Well, as fate would have it, my mother-law was right; Samantha was indeed pregnant, but I didn’t realize it until she started showing. I’d been attributing her voracious appetite to having been starved, when actually; she was eating for 2 or more. At this point, I knew that I would be keeping her and her kittens.
As the weeks passed, it was evident that Samantha’s kittens were growing inside of her. She seemed pretty content, and had developed her own little routine. She had also accepted Tiger, my other cat, and was slowly warming up to the rest of my family. I did notice, however, that Samantha seemed terrified of men; every time she would see my husband coming, she would run and hide, especially when he wore black shoes. I can only imagine what her life must have been like.
I had planned on making Samantha an indoor only cat, once her kittens were born. For now, however, she was allowed to go outside, as she didn’t wander far, and I wasn’t sure where she wanted to have her litter. I also did not know what to expect when the day arrived for the kittens to be born, as I had not entered the veterinary field yet. A Westie breeder friend told me what to expect and how to know if things weren’t going well. I also kept the number of the local emergency clinic handy.
On July 18, 1993, at 6am, I heard Samantha scratching feverishly at my front door. I set a bowl of cat food out then went back inside. The scratching continued, so I brought her inside, only to witness her attack Tiger, something completely out of character for her. I immediately scooped her up and put her back outside, so I could go console Tiger. Upon returning outside, I noticed that the front or my nightgown was damp from where I’d held Samantha, and I also remembered how feverishly she’d been purring. It was time, and I realized that Samantha wanted me there. I was about to witness a miracle…
I found the box I’d prepared for Samantha and put it my front step next to her. After nesting in the box, Samantha went into labor. Boots was the first to be born, and as I watched, it amazed me how she knew what to. A gray kitten soon followed. After awhile, Samantha, settled down to the business of nursing her two kittens; I thought she was done, so I went back to bed for a couple hours. Imagine my surprise when I came back out and found two more gray kittens, nursing! I brought my new little family inside, and set up an area in my kitchen, where Samantha could tend to her brood.
I named the kittens based mostly on their emerging personalities, with the exception of Boots. Wiggles was the most active, and the first to venture out. Dusty would hide in the corner of the box, like a little dustball. Trouble was originally named “Belly-up-to-the-Bar,” because she would always have her spot to nurse; but I decided to change that. Her new name has suited her well :)
Samantha’s kittens have grown into lovely cats and will be 14 this July, with the exception of Wiggles, who died at 6 years from kidney problems. Samantha will be 16 in May and often acts like a kitten. I like to think that her brood, as well as my other cats keeps her young. Although she is smaller than her offspring, they still back down when she swats or hisses at them, much like children receiving discipline. I’ve often said that Samantha personifies the expression “she who must be obeyed.”
I will always be grateful for this wayward black stray who walked into my life and into my heart. She not only gave me four beautiful kittens, but the opportunity to witness and be a part of the miracle of new life
Ellen 2/25/07
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Butterscotch Bear
This kitty must be a stray, I thought, as I tried to break up a squabble between my neighbor’s cat Oscar, and the big orange tom. Wary of people and sporting many battle scars, it was evident that the orange cat was no stranger to the often unforgiving street life. I decided that if he kept returning, I’d at least put food out for him, so he’d at least have regular meals.
Sure enough, the big orange tom started coming around. I’d actually been putting food out for Oscar, because I’d originally thought he was a stray, until I’d met my new neighbors and discovered he was part of their family. Old habits die hard, and I continued leaving food out for Oscar. It wasn’t long before the big orange tom found Oscar’s food on my front porch.
He was a solid orange tabby, with green eyes. His tattered ears were tangible reminders of battles won and lost. His wide face and large body gave him a bear-like appearance. His soulful green eyes contained untold stories of a hard life spent fending for himself.
The orange tom started frequenting my porch, partaking in the food I left out (much to Oscar’s dismay). Once he realized that I meant him no harm, he let me get close to him and stroke his long orange fur. He actually warmed up to me pretty quickly, which made me wonder if at one time he’d experienced positive human contact.
Inspired by the colour of his fur, I decided to name my new friend Butterscotch. Because of his wide face, I nicknamed him “Butterscotch Bear.” I also referred to him as “Scotch-kitty.”
That summer, Butterscotch and I developed a routine. As soon as I would open the front door, he’d run up the walkway, expecting breakfast. If I didn’t see him right away, all I had to do was call out to him and he’d come from out of nowhere. Afterwards Butterscotch would settle down on my doormat and spend the afternoon sleeping there. I used to joke that I had a squatter living on my porch; I even put down a thick towel on my doormat, just so he’d have a comfortable spot to lie.
Summer was nearing its end, with it came the promise of colder weather. I was beginning to worry about Butterscotch’s future and knew that I couldn’t just leave him outside, even though he was used to living outdoors. I decided to take him in, which meant first meant a visit to the vet for an FELV/FIV test.
The news wasn’t good. Butterscotch tested positive for feline leukemia (FELV), an infectious virus that produces fatal illness in cats. There is no cure, but cats can live with the virus before showing signs. The vet asked me if I wanted to put Butterscotch to sleep, based on the test results. That wasn’t even an option for me; Butterscotch wasn’t showing signs of illness, and had given me his trust. It would be like betraying a friend.
Now however, I was faced with a new dilemma: how do I take Butterscotch in without risking infecting my cats? And what is the best way to keep him separated from them without disrupting their routine?
I decided to make my studio Butterscotch’s new home. Even though it was a little smaller than I would have liked, there were windows to look out of, and I spent a great deal of time there. Plus my other cats wouldn’t mind giving up that room. I made the room as cat-friendly as possible: a litter box in the corner, far away from the food; shelves on both the windowsills; a thick comforter spread out on the floor; and a radio set to a classical music station. What more could a wayward kitty ask for?
Butterscotch seemed to adapt well to life indoors. He loved to lie on the window sills during the day and survey his former stomping grounds. At night, he would often sleep on the comforter. Sometimes he’d wake me up, meowing and scratching at the door, not to be let out, but to have some company. I would oblige him as often as I could. And when I was working on a project, he’d lay on my drawing table and purr. I used to joke that Butterscotch was like a little prince living in an ivory tower, and every time family and friends came over, they would make the trek upstairs, just to see him. My parents would often comment that Butterscotch found a nice home to retire to.
Butterscotch lived with me for 3 years. I had just gotten him through a nasty upper respiratory infection, when I noticed that his lymph nodes in his neck were swollen. I knew it was lymphoma even before the official diagnosis; I realized that it was probably secondary to his feline leukemia; and I suddenly understood the meaning of borrowed time. I decided to take Butterscotch to an internist for chemotherapy. I knew I was only buying him time, but he traveled well, and in spite of the odds being against him, I felt it was worth whatever time I could give him. After a couple months of chemo, Butterscotch’s white count plummeted. I knew it was time to stop treatment; I was hoping that he would tell me when he wanted to stop…..
Shortly after that, I was getting ready for work and noticed that Butterscotch was markedly weaker and periodically catching his breath. I knew he wasn’t long for this world, so I took him into work and helped him cross over to the Rainbow Bridge. Butterscotch went peacefully in my arms, with my husband there, as well as my co-workers who’d helped with his many blood draws. I remember hoping that I had given Butterscotch a good life in spite of his illness; that he finally felt loved and wanted, in spite of his many rough years prior. And I hoped that I had been able to make as much of a difference in his life as he’d made in mine.
Ellen 2/18/07
Sure enough, the big orange tom started coming around. I’d actually been putting food out for Oscar, because I’d originally thought he was a stray, until I’d met my new neighbors and discovered he was part of their family. Old habits die hard, and I continued leaving food out for Oscar. It wasn’t long before the big orange tom found Oscar’s food on my front porch.
He was a solid orange tabby, with green eyes. His tattered ears were tangible reminders of battles won and lost. His wide face and large body gave him a bear-like appearance. His soulful green eyes contained untold stories of a hard life spent fending for himself.
The orange tom started frequenting my porch, partaking in the food I left out (much to Oscar’s dismay). Once he realized that I meant him no harm, he let me get close to him and stroke his long orange fur. He actually warmed up to me pretty quickly, which made me wonder if at one time he’d experienced positive human contact.
Inspired by the colour of his fur, I decided to name my new friend Butterscotch. Because of his wide face, I nicknamed him “Butterscotch Bear.” I also referred to him as “Scotch-kitty.”
That summer, Butterscotch and I developed a routine. As soon as I would open the front door, he’d run up the walkway, expecting breakfast. If I didn’t see him right away, all I had to do was call out to him and he’d come from out of nowhere. Afterwards Butterscotch would settle down on my doormat and spend the afternoon sleeping there. I used to joke that I had a squatter living on my porch; I even put down a thick towel on my doormat, just so he’d have a comfortable spot to lie.
Summer was nearing its end, with it came the promise of colder weather. I was beginning to worry about Butterscotch’s future and knew that I couldn’t just leave him outside, even though he was used to living outdoors. I decided to take him in, which meant first meant a visit to the vet for an FELV/FIV test.
The news wasn’t good. Butterscotch tested positive for feline leukemia (FELV), an infectious virus that produces fatal illness in cats. There is no cure, but cats can live with the virus before showing signs. The vet asked me if I wanted to put Butterscotch to sleep, based on the test results. That wasn’t even an option for me; Butterscotch wasn’t showing signs of illness, and had given me his trust. It would be like betraying a friend.
Now however, I was faced with a new dilemma: how do I take Butterscotch in without risking infecting my cats? And what is the best way to keep him separated from them without disrupting their routine?
I decided to make my studio Butterscotch’s new home. Even though it was a little smaller than I would have liked, there were windows to look out of, and I spent a great deal of time there. Plus my other cats wouldn’t mind giving up that room. I made the room as cat-friendly as possible: a litter box in the corner, far away from the food; shelves on both the windowsills; a thick comforter spread out on the floor; and a radio set to a classical music station. What more could a wayward kitty ask for?
Butterscotch seemed to adapt well to life indoors. He loved to lie on the window sills during the day and survey his former stomping grounds. At night, he would often sleep on the comforter. Sometimes he’d wake me up, meowing and scratching at the door, not to be let out, but to have some company. I would oblige him as often as I could. And when I was working on a project, he’d lay on my drawing table and purr. I used to joke that Butterscotch was like a little prince living in an ivory tower, and every time family and friends came over, they would make the trek upstairs, just to see him. My parents would often comment that Butterscotch found a nice home to retire to.
Butterscotch lived with me for 3 years. I had just gotten him through a nasty upper respiratory infection, when I noticed that his lymph nodes in his neck were swollen. I knew it was lymphoma even before the official diagnosis; I realized that it was probably secondary to his feline leukemia; and I suddenly understood the meaning of borrowed time. I decided to take Butterscotch to an internist for chemotherapy. I knew I was only buying him time, but he traveled well, and in spite of the odds being against him, I felt it was worth whatever time I could give him. After a couple months of chemo, Butterscotch’s white count plummeted. I knew it was time to stop treatment; I was hoping that he would tell me when he wanted to stop…..
Shortly after that, I was getting ready for work and noticed that Butterscotch was markedly weaker and periodically catching his breath. I knew he wasn’t long for this world, so I took him into work and helped him cross over to the Rainbow Bridge. Butterscotch went peacefully in my arms, with my husband there, as well as my co-workers who’d helped with his many blood draws. I remember hoping that I had given Butterscotch a good life in spite of his illness; that he finally felt loved and wanted, in spite of his many rough years prior. And I hoped that I had been able to make as much of a difference in his life as he’d made in mine.
Ellen 2/18/07
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Bootleg Kitty
“Can you come up and take a look at this kitty?” As one of the more seasoned technicians at the ER clinic, I was used to hearing that request from the receptionists. They were the liaison between us and the clients, but they were not permitted to give any medical advice. I went up to the front desk to investigate and met a kind woman with a tiny orange and white kitten in a box, not more than 5 weeks old.
She explained to me that she’d found the kitten in her yard, and because he wasn’t moving, she thought he was dead. She had actually started digging a grave for the poor thing, when she heard him mewing, and brought him to our clinic.
I immediately took the kitten back to the treatment area to warm him up. He was responsive, but cold, so I put him in the incubator and checked his temperature periodically. Once he warmed up a bit, I checked his blood glucose, which turned out to be normal. I offered the kitten some food, and immediately he devoured it. After that, he reared up on his hind legs and hissed at the emergency doctor who was passing by. This kitten is a fighter, I told myself.
Amidst all the joy at having a baby kitten in the ER, there remained a looming, unanswered question: what are we going to do with the little guy, or more importantly, what will his fate be? At that time, the clinic did not have a relationship with the Humane Society. We were forbidden to take home strays ourselves, and if we accepted strays in the clinic, we would try to find local rescue groups to take them. The very young ones, however, were usually euthanized, due to age. I was beginning to worry about this kitten’s future……
I’d considered taking him home, but initially wasn’t sure if I should. The “conditions” were right: no managers working, a good Samaritan who signed him over to us, a way to make the paperwork disappear….but I had to consider my brood at home; how would they take to a new little brother? And what was I getting myself into?
As the night wore on I became closer to the realization that this kitten was indeed going home with me, especially when the ER doc asked me about it. I remember joking with my co-workers about the little guy being a “bootleg kitty,” since I was basically sneaking him out of the clinic. I literally could have fit him in my pocket. As I was nearing the end of my shift, I gathered up some food, towels, and box, made the paperwork disappear, and took my new charge home.
As I was driving home, I watched the kitten crawling around in his box, tiny, helpless and trusting. I remembered how some of mine were at that age and was grateful for the opportunity to give this little guy a new chance at life.
Once I brought my kitten home, I had to decide on a name. After much deliberation, I chose Schniklefritz (Fritz for short), for several reasons. My brother’s nickname is Fritz (after one of the Katzenjammer Kids), and I’d not named any of my kitties after him. Also, according to the German side of my family, the word “Schniklefritz” is a colloquial term meaning “mischievous child.” I couldn’t have picked a better name.
Fritz has grown into a handsome orange and white tabby with beautiful orange eyes that match his fur. At 8 years, he is currently my youngest cat. He is just as mischievous as ever, and I often refer to him as my “red-haired, freckle-faced boy.” I’ve also given him some other nicknames, but regardless of what I call him, he will always be my “bootleg kitty.”
Ellen 2/11/07
She explained to me that she’d found the kitten in her yard, and because he wasn’t moving, she thought he was dead. She had actually started digging a grave for the poor thing, when she heard him mewing, and brought him to our clinic.
I immediately took the kitten back to the treatment area to warm him up. He was responsive, but cold, so I put him in the incubator and checked his temperature periodically. Once he warmed up a bit, I checked his blood glucose, which turned out to be normal. I offered the kitten some food, and immediately he devoured it. After that, he reared up on his hind legs and hissed at the emergency doctor who was passing by. This kitten is a fighter, I told myself.
Amidst all the joy at having a baby kitten in the ER, there remained a looming, unanswered question: what are we going to do with the little guy, or more importantly, what will his fate be? At that time, the clinic did not have a relationship with the Humane Society. We were forbidden to take home strays ourselves, and if we accepted strays in the clinic, we would try to find local rescue groups to take them. The very young ones, however, were usually euthanized, due to age. I was beginning to worry about this kitten’s future……
I’d considered taking him home, but initially wasn’t sure if I should. The “conditions” were right: no managers working, a good Samaritan who signed him over to us, a way to make the paperwork disappear….but I had to consider my brood at home; how would they take to a new little brother? And what was I getting myself into?
As the night wore on I became closer to the realization that this kitten was indeed going home with me, especially when the ER doc asked me about it. I remember joking with my co-workers about the little guy being a “bootleg kitty,” since I was basically sneaking him out of the clinic. I literally could have fit him in my pocket. As I was nearing the end of my shift, I gathered up some food, towels, and box, made the paperwork disappear, and took my new charge home.
As I was driving home, I watched the kitten crawling around in his box, tiny, helpless and trusting. I remembered how some of mine were at that age and was grateful for the opportunity to give this little guy a new chance at life.
Once I brought my kitten home, I had to decide on a name. After much deliberation, I chose Schniklefritz (Fritz for short), for several reasons. My brother’s nickname is Fritz (after one of the Katzenjammer Kids), and I’d not named any of my kitties after him. Also, according to the German side of my family, the word “Schniklefritz” is a colloquial term meaning “mischievous child.” I couldn’t have picked a better name.
Fritz has grown into a handsome orange and white tabby with beautiful orange eyes that match his fur. At 8 years, he is currently my youngest cat. He is just as mischievous as ever, and I often refer to him as my “red-haired, freckle-faced boy.” I’ve also given him some other nicknames, but regardless of what I call him, he will always be my “bootleg kitty.”
Ellen 2/11/07
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Pirate
“What happened to that poor kitten’s right eye?” I wondered, as I watched a black one-eyed kitten play with his orange sibling. They were new arrivals at the shelter, and as I soon found out, the black kitten had been plagued with upper respiratory infections at an early age, resulting in the loss of his eye. It didn’t seem to bother him though; he was perfectly happy, playing with his marmalade sister.
Barbie and Ken were the names given to these kitties. I almost think that they were given those names to facilitate their adoption, especially Ken’s. My heart went out to him from the start; after all, he had two strikes against him: he was missing an eye, and he was black. Who would want him? Who, indeed….
I watched Ken over the next several days; because of his plight, he’d immediately become special to me. It wasn’t long before his perfect two-eyed sibling was adopted, leaving him in a smaller cage all alone. That was more than I could bear to see, and at that point I knew that he was going home with me.
I had only been working at the shelter for 2 weeks, so one can imagine the objections that I fielded at home. Yet, this was different, not only because of Ken’s physical limitations, but because I just knew that we were meant to be. So, I made it official and took Ken home. I renamed him Pirate and set him up in a safe room. At that time, he was #6 in my brood.
I kept Pirate separated until he had his last set of vaccinations and was neutered (he was about 5 months old when I adopted him). I would spend time with him every morning before I went to work, just holding him and letting him know that he was loved. During that time we bonded, and after awhile, I couldn’t remember what my life had been like without him.
The first time Pirate mixed with the rest of my cats was by accident: I’d left the door to his room unlatched and he went downstairs to explore. I heard Trouble hissing, and then saw Pirate calmly drinking out of a water dish. “Guess you can hold your own as part of the herd.” I thought to myself, and left him out to mingle from that day on.
Over time, Pirate blended in well, bringing his own unique personality to the group. He’d chase the other cats, compete with Wiggles for a spot on my lap, and sleep on my pillow at night. It took Pirate some time to learn how to jump up onto countertops, because his one eye was crossed, but he adjusted well. I also noticed that he would tap the water with his paw before drinking, because he had limited depth perception. All these things that would normally be perceived as handicaps were part of Pirate’s charm, as far as I was concerned. And none of them seemed to bother or hinder him in the least.
It was almost 2 years later. I had left the shelter to go work for a vet and had to attend a veterinary convention one weekend. Pirate didn’t seem to be eating well, and was losing weight. I also noticed that he’d been spending a lot of time in the basement….“I’ll take him in to work when I get back,” I thought to myself; “perhaps he’s just upset by my getting ready to leave; he’s a young cat-surely it’s something simple.”
If only that were the case.. Unfortunately, when animals are sick, their survival instincts dictate that they mask their illness. Domestication has not altered this, so often we don’t pick up on illnesses until they are pretty far along…
Blood work at the clinic revealed elevated kidney values, but also an elevated globulin level, which was alarming to the vet. She suspected FIP (feline infectious peritonitis), so we sent in a titer test. FIP is a deadly virus that manifests itself in two forms: wet and dry. Once symptoms appear, cats who have the first form don’t live much past a week if that, because their respiratory systems are affected. Cats with the second form (dry) can live longer, but only a couple months, due to organ failure. There is no definitive test, other than a necropsy, so usually a diagnosis is made based on symptoms and lab work. Pirate’s FIP titer came back high, indicating likelihood that he had FIP and that his kidney failure was a result of that. I was devastated. Not only was I faced with the reality of losing my beloved Pirate, but all off my other cats had been exposed. Fortunately, FIP is not as highly contagious as some other viruses, so I chose not to worry about the latter. Instead, I concentrated on treating Pirate for his kidney failure, while attempting to maintain his quality of life in the process, knowing what the end result would be.
A few weeks later, I knew it was time. I took Pirate into the emergency clinic, where I would later end up working.. He passed quietly, in my arms, and I was reminded of when I first saw him after his sister was adopted: quiet, unassuming and testing the waters in the new world he thrust into. Things have a way of coming full circle, and I knew that he was doing the same thing in heaven, but perhaps with both eyes.
Healing takes time and when we lose a companion animal, it is always a difficult decision as to whether or when we are ready to open our hearts to another lost soul (I often think that we are really the ones who are the lost souls). I think that often in times of extreme pain, the decision is taken out of our hands and made for us….
A couple months after Pirate crossed over the Rainbow Bridge, I went to the shelter to help out with their adopt-a-thon. I saw two brown and white tabby kittens named Sinbad and Pirate. The kitten named Pirate was missing his right eye. My former co-workers told me that they had named this kitten Pirate, in honor of my little guy. They had no idea of what had transpired, and with a heavy heart, I told them.
The shelter staff wanted to keep “Pirate’ and Sinbad together, and I’d actually considered adopting them both. I wasn’t ready for another cat, but for some reason, I felt a connection to the little one-eyed brown and white tabby, who was my beloved friend’s namesake. And if he was going to be a package deal, that was fine with me.
A week or so later, I came back to the shelter, only to find that Sinbad was spoken for by one of the kennel staff. A strong bond and sense of Deja Vue gave me an indication as to the change that was about to take place in my house hold….
After much deliberation on names, I decided to call my new adoptee Uno. I brought him home after he was neutered, and gradually introduced him to the rest of my herd. In many ways, he was like Pirate; bold, instigating, and a lap cat. But unlike Pirate, Uno had no trouble seeing, as his remaining eye was not crossed. He was also going to be much bigger…
I remember wondering what really compelled me to adopt this kitty so soon after Pirate died. I didn’t feel ready, so why did I feel such a strong bond with this kitten? As I looked over Uno’s paperwork, I found my answer: he had been brought the shelter on the same day that Pirate died.
Ellen M. White
January 28, 2007
Barbie and Ken were the names given to these kitties. I almost think that they were given those names to facilitate their adoption, especially Ken’s. My heart went out to him from the start; after all, he had two strikes against him: he was missing an eye, and he was black. Who would want him? Who, indeed….
I watched Ken over the next several days; because of his plight, he’d immediately become special to me. It wasn’t long before his perfect two-eyed sibling was adopted, leaving him in a smaller cage all alone. That was more than I could bear to see, and at that point I knew that he was going home with me.
I had only been working at the shelter for 2 weeks, so one can imagine the objections that I fielded at home. Yet, this was different, not only because of Ken’s physical limitations, but because I just knew that we were meant to be. So, I made it official and took Ken home. I renamed him Pirate and set him up in a safe room. At that time, he was #6 in my brood.
I kept Pirate separated until he had his last set of vaccinations and was neutered (he was about 5 months old when I adopted him). I would spend time with him every morning before I went to work, just holding him and letting him know that he was loved. During that time we bonded, and after awhile, I couldn’t remember what my life had been like without him.
The first time Pirate mixed with the rest of my cats was by accident: I’d left the door to his room unlatched and he went downstairs to explore. I heard Trouble hissing, and then saw Pirate calmly drinking out of a water dish. “Guess you can hold your own as part of the herd.” I thought to myself, and left him out to mingle from that day on.
Over time, Pirate blended in well, bringing his own unique personality to the group. He’d chase the other cats, compete with Wiggles for a spot on my lap, and sleep on my pillow at night. It took Pirate some time to learn how to jump up onto countertops, because his one eye was crossed, but he adjusted well. I also noticed that he would tap the water with his paw before drinking, because he had limited depth perception. All these things that would normally be perceived as handicaps were part of Pirate’s charm, as far as I was concerned. And none of them seemed to bother or hinder him in the least.
It was almost 2 years later. I had left the shelter to go work for a vet and had to attend a veterinary convention one weekend. Pirate didn’t seem to be eating well, and was losing weight. I also noticed that he’d been spending a lot of time in the basement….“I’ll take him in to work when I get back,” I thought to myself; “perhaps he’s just upset by my getting ready to leave; he’s a young cat-surely it’s something simple.”
If only that were the case.. Unfortunately, when animals are sick, their survival instincts dictate that they mask their illness. Domestication has not altered this, so often we don’t pick up on illnesses until they are pretty far along…
Blood work at the clinic revealed elevated kidney values, but also an elevated globulin level, which was alarming to the vet. She suspected FIP (feline infectious peritonitis), so we sent in a titer test. FIP is a deadly virus that manifests itself in two forms: wet and dry. Once symptoms appear, cats who have the first form don’t live much past a week if that, because their respiratory systems are affected. Cats with the second form (dry) can live longer, but only a couple months, due to organ failure. There is no definitive test, other than a necropsy, so usually a diagnosis is made based on symptoms and lab work. Pirate’s FIP titer came back high, indicating likelihood that he had FIP and that his kidney failure was a result of that. I was devastated. Not only was I faced with the reality of losing my beloved Pirate, but all off my other cats had been exposed. Fortunately, FIP is not as highly contagious as some other viruses, so I chose not to worry about the latter. Instead, I concentrated on treating Pirate for his kidney failure, while attempting to maintain his quality of life in the process, knowing what the end result would be.
A few weeks later, I knew it was time. I took Pirate into the emergency clinic, where I would later end up working.. He passed quietly, in my arms, and I was reminded of when I first saw him after his sister was adopted: quiet, unassuming and testing the waters in the new world he thrust into. Things have a way of coming full circle, and I knew that he was doing the same thing in heaven, but perhaps with both eyes.
Healing takes time and when we lose a companion animal, it is always a difficult decision as to whether or when we are ready to open our hearts to another lost soul (I often think that we are really the ones who are the lost souls). I think that often in times of extreme pain, the decision is taken out of our hands and made for us….
A couple months after Pirate crossed over the Rainbow Bridge, I went to the shelter to help out with their adopt-a-thon. I saw two brown and white tabby kittens named Sinbad and Pirate. The kitten named Pirate was missing his right eye. My former co-workers told me that they had named this kitten Pirate, in honor of my little guy. They had no idea of what had transpired, and with a heavy heart, I told them.
The shelter staff wanted to keep “Pirate’ and Sinbad together, and I’d actually considered adopting them both. I wasn’t ready for another cat, but for some reason, I felt a connection to the little one-eyed brown and white tabby, who was my beloved friend’s namesake. And if he was going to be a package deal, that was fine with me.
A week or so later, I came back to the shelter, only to find that Sinbad was spoken for by one of the kennel staff. A strong bond and sense of Deja Vue gave me an indication as to the change that was about to take place in my house hold….
After much deliberation on names, I decided to call my new adoptee Uno. I brought him home after he was neutered, and gradually introduced him to the rest of my herd. In many ways, he was like Pirate; bold, instigating, and a lap cat. But unlike Pirate, Uno had no trouble seeing, as his remaining eye was not crossed. He was also going to be much bigger…
I remember wondering what really compelled me to adopt this kitty so soon after Pirate died. I didn’t feel ready, so why did I feel such a strong bond with this kitten? As I looked over Uno’s paperwork, I found my answer: he had been brought the shelter on the same day that Pirate died.
Ellen M. White
January 28, 2007
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Uncle Tiger
I wasn’t quite ready to get a cat. I’d grown up with animals, but now I was on my own; or so I thought. The interesting thing about animals is that you can plan all you want as far as adoption, but it doesn’t matter; when the time is right, they will adopt you.
He showed up at my doorstep one evening; matted coat, hungry, friendly, and wanting to come in. I actually thought he was the neighbor’s cat; she had an orange tabby named Pumpkin that looked very much like this cat. I even came up with an elaborate theory: someone tried to bathe Pumpkin, and she got away and was looking for solace…..then the orange stray and Pumpkin showed up at the same time, discounting my theory. I did what any animal lover would do; I took the orange kitty in…
It was clear from his condition, that this cat had been around the block, and yet he was familiar with house behavior; at one time he must have had a family. It was obvious to me that I was his family now.
After determining that this kitty was not the neighbor’s cat, I promptly made an appointment with a local vet (whom I’ve found from the phonebook). At this time in my life, I was new to a lot of things concerning animals, so I relied on this vet to guide me in what I knew was a new journey unfolding.
I gave this kitty a name: Tiger. He actually looked the part because of his features. Then I found out that he is a neutered male. The next step was to test him for feline leukemia; the vet explained to me that it is just like a pregnancy test (eeek!!!). Tiger tested negative, so he is vaccinated and I leave him at the vet’s to be cleaned up. The first night I could tell he was so grateful to be safe; and I am grateful that such a wise old soul choose me, for I know that I am about to begin on a journey. Little do I know where this journey will take me and the impact it will have on the rest of my life…
Over the next couple months, we bonded. Once Tiger was feeling more secure in our house, he wanted to go outdoors. I didn’t want to take the chance of having him get hurt or worse, so I compromised and harness trained him. He loved it. I was working from home at the time, so I developed a routine; I’d take Tiger out at lunchtime; he actually go to the door and say: “me out.” It was our routine by day, and at night, he would sleep in bed with me. Tiger also enjoyed many hours on my lap. I look back and realize that perhaps in many ways we needed each other.
Tiger saw many changes in the household over the next few years. Shortly after he adopted me, I was also adopted by a stray kitty that I named Samantha. Samantha was brought home by our neighbor, who basically let her roam free outside. Like any unspayed female, Samantha ended up pregnant, and when I realized her: “delicate condition” I knew that not only was I going to keep her, but her kittens as well. Tiger and Samantha got along well, but Tiger had no idea as to the change he was in for…
After the kittens were born (there were 4), I introduced Tiger gradually to them, so as not to upset Samantha. She was very protective of her brood at this point, and any other cat was viewed as a threat. When I brought Tiger into my makeshift nursery, he seemed indifferent, yet I could sense the wheels turning: “All I wanted was a quiet house! What did I get myself into?!” Little did he know…
As Samantha’s kittens grew, they loved to play with Tiger. I could tell that he’d rather be left alone, and yet he was so tolerant. I gave him the nickname. “Uncle Tiger.”
Two years after Tiger adopted me, I found him one day in the bathroom, unwilling to eat, or even leave the room for that matter. A visit to the vet confirmed liver disease. I nursed him at home, and ended up having another wonderful year with him. Then one night, I took him to the emergency room for difficulty breathing. X-rays revealed heart failure, and after being hospitalized, Tiger went home on medication. The next few months were a rollercoaster of trying to help him fight, both of knowing that it was a losing battle. Eventually, Tiger got tired of fighting….
I’ll never forget that night. Tiger’s health took a dramatic turn for the worse. I really didn’t expect him to make it through the night. The next morning, he was still with us, but it was clear that he needed release. I made an appointment with my vet and called everyone who had been special to Tiger, so that they could say goodbye to him…..
Tiger crossed over to the rainbow bridge on a beautiful fall day in October. It was exactly the kind of day that Tiger liked to be out in. It seemed fitting somehow, as though heaven was waiting to receive his beautiful, but weary soul….
As I brought him home, I noticed a quietness in the air; almost as the Tiger was trying to tell me that he was finally at peace. I allowed the other cats to view and sniff his body if they wished; I had my closure, and I felt that they all deserved it too. Oddly, most of the other cats stayed far away, as if they knew that what was wrapped in a blanket was but a shell of their beloved friend.
My family and a couple close friends stopped by that night. I held a wake, and then a candlelight ceremony in the back yard, where we laid Tiger to rest. Our backyard was the perfect resting place, as Tiger loved it there, with all of its wonderful sounds and scents. Somehow, I was able to reflect on that and take comfort in knowing that he was finally in a better place, where illness and frailty do not exist.
After wards, we all went inside and talked about the wonderful ways that Tiger had touched all of us. I knew my life would never be the same, not did I want to go back. After everyone left, I remember feeling the same peacefulness and stillness I felt earlier right after Tiger had passed. A chapter in my life had now closed, but a new one was about to begin….
Ellen M. White
Copyright January, 27th, 2007
He showed up at my doorstep one evening; matted coat, hungry, friendly, and wanting to come in. I actually thought he was the neighbor’s cat; she had an orange tabby named Pumpkin that looked very much like this cat. I even came up with an elaborate theory: someone tried to bathe Pumpkin, and she got away and was looking for solace…..then the orange stray and Pumpkin showed up at the same time, discounting my theory. I did what any animal lover would do; I took the orange kitty in…
It was clear from his condition, that this cat had been around the block, and yet he was familiar with house behavior; at one time he must have had a family. It was obvious to me that I was his family now.
After determining that this kitty was not the neighbor’s cat, I promptly made an appointment with a local vet (whom I’ve found from the phonebook). At this time in my life, I was new to a lot of things concerning animals, so I relied on this vet to guide me in what I knew was a new journey unfolding.
I gave this kitty a name: Tiger. He actually looked the part because of his features. Then I found out that he is a neutered male. The next step was to test him for feline leukemia; the vet explained to me that it is just like a pregnancy test (eeek!!!). Tiger tested negative, so he is vaccinated and I leave him at the vet’s to be cleaned up. The first night I could tell he was so grateful to be safe; and I am grateful that such a wise old soul choose me, for I know that I am about to begin on a journey. Little do I know where this journey will take me and the impact it will have on the rest of my life…
Over the next couple months, we bonded. Once Tiger was feeling more secure in our house, he wanted to go outdoors. I didn’t want to take the chance of having him get hurt or worse, so I compromised and harness trained him. He loved it. I was working from home at the time, so I developed a routine; I’d take Tiger out at lunchtime; he actually go to the door and say: “me out.” It was our routine by day, and at night, he would sleep in bed with me. Tiger also enjoyed many hours on my lap. I look back and realize that perhaps in many ways we needed each other.
Tiger saw many changes in the household over the next few years. Shortly after he adopted me, I was also adopted by a stray kitty that I named Samantha. Samantha was brought home by our neighbor, who basically let her roam free outside. Like any unspayed female, Samantha ended up pregnant, and when I realized her: “delicate condition” I knew that not only was I going to keep her, but her kittens as well. Tiger and Samantha got along well, but Tiger had no idea as to the change he was in for…
After the kittens were born (there were 4), I introduced Tiger gradually to them, so as not to upset Samantha. She was very protective of her brood at this point, and any other cat was viewed as a threat. When I brought Tiger into my makeshift nursery, he seemed indifferent, yet I could sense the wheels turning: “All I wanted was a quiet house! What did I get myself into?!” Little did he know…
As Samantha’s kittens grew, they loved to play with Tiger. I could tell that he’d rather be left alone, and yet he was so tolerant. I gave him the nickname. “Uncle Tiger.”
Two years after Tiger adopted me, I found him one day in the bathroom, unwilling to eat, or even leave the room for that matter. A visit to the vet confirmed liver disease. I nursed him at home, and ended up having another wonderful year with him. Then one night, I took him to the emergency room for difficulty breathing. X-rays revealed heart failure, and after being hospitalized, Tiger went home on medication. The next few months were a rollercoaster of trying to help him fight, both of knowing that it was a losing battle. Eventually, Tiger got tired of fighting….
I’ll never forget that night. Tiger’s health took a dramatic turn for the worse. I really didn’t expect him to make it through the night. The next morning, he was still with us, but it was clear that he needed release. I made an appointment with my vet and called everyone who had been special to Tiger, so that they could say goodbye to him…..
Tiger crossed over to the rainbow bridge on a beautiful fall day in October. It was exactly the kind of day that Tiger liked to be out in. It seemed fitting somehow, as though heaven was waiting to receive his beautiful, but weary soul….
As I brought him home, I noticed a quietness in the air; almost as the Tiger was trying to tell me that he was finally at peace. I allowed the other cats to view and sniff his body if they wished; I had my closure, and I felt that they all deserved it too. Oddly, most of the other cats stayed far away, as if they knew that what was wrapped in a blanket was but a shell of their beloved friend.
My family and a couple close friends stopped by that night. I held a wake, and then a candlelight ceremony in the back yard, where we laid Tiger to rest. Our backyard was the perfect resting place, as Tiger loved it there, with all of its wonderful sounds and scents. Somehow, I was able to reflect on that and take comfort in knowing that he was finally in a better place, where illness and frailty do not exist.
After wards, we all went inside and talked about the wonderful ways that Tiger had touched all of us. I knew my life would never be the same, not did I want to go back. After everyone left, I remember feeling the same peacefulness and stillness I felt earlier right after Tiger had passed. A chapter in my life had now closed, but a new one was about to begin….
Ellen M. White
Copyright January, 27th, 2007
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Cinderellen
It was another day at the shelter; the end of a long week; animals coming in from cruelty situations, rearranging cages, too few animals being adopted out…
And then a little black kitten with a smidge of white was brought in….
A disabled person had found her, and immediately my heart went out the both the Good Samaritan and the little kitten; here was someone who had their own challenges in life taking time to help a creature less fortunate. If only we’d all take that time out of our busy schedules…
When she came in, her mouth was swollen; she couldn’t close it at all, and there was a wound on her forehead, along with irritation in her ears and left eye. We didn’t know what was wrong, but there was speculation: maybe someone threw boiling water on her, or she had a broken jaw…..there were many theories abound as to what had brought her to us; most of them blaming some cruel person…
In the meantime, we had to check her in, which meant drawing blood for an FeLV test, vaccinating her, getting her started on antibiotics, and putting her on the schedule for the next vet visit…and oh, yes, eventually naming her :)
I still remember how feisty this kitten was when we had to restrain her to draw blood. Here was this poor creature with a jaw/mouth injury, yet still she was fighting us tooth and nail just to be restrained. I couldn’t help but admire her spirit.
We set the kitten up in our sick room, with orders for antibiotics and A/D gruel (A/D is a soft, high calorie food that we feed to sick animals). I remember setting her up in a bottom cage and giving her the gruel, which she readily lapped up. I was hopeful; if she could eat, then she could live. Yet I was worried; here was a kitten that needed more attention than we could give, and to make matters worse, she was in the sick room. For those of you who have never worked in a shelter, not only are they overcrowded with well animals, but sick animals don’t stand much of a chance because of limited space and poor ventilation. At this point, several scenarios are running through my mind…..
The next morning, I am assigned to clean the sick room. I tend to this kitten first, administering antibiotics and offering her gruel. And I amazed at what I hear: this poor little creature who has been through so much is purring! I immediately go to the kennel manager and tell her that I want to foster this kitten, but if the vet finds injuries beyond our scope of repair, I will support euthanasia….I am trying so hard to be realistic and not get too attached, but I know it is already too late….
Hope springs eternal, and later that morning; my boss comes back with this kitten in tow!!
It seems that her injuries are not serious and not the result of abuse; the vet thinks she bit an electrical chord. She is all mine to foster (/adopt ;) ).
I give this kitten a name: Cinder-short for Cinderellen, after me. I bathe her at the shelter,
and then take her home. I set her up in a safe room, until she has her second set of shots. After that I introduce her to the rest of my herd. She blends in well creating her own niche. I notice that she is losing the hair on one said of her body (a temporary result of her injuries). My husband notices that Cinder is not only settling in, but that I am referring to him as her “daddy,” much to his feigned dismay...
Eventually, I made the adoption official, in spite of my husband’s half-hearted protests. If truth be told, I always knew she was mine from the very beginning. Besides, how could I bring her back to the shelter? She’s already bonded with me and her “siblings” and besides, she’s a black cat, which would decrease her chances for adoption (unfortunately, many people are superstitious about black cats). So it was settled; I had her spayed through the shelter, and filled out the paper work to make it official. She was now #9 in our little family.
Cinder has grown into a lovely cat and has healed from her injuries, with one exception: she has a smooth tongue. Evidently all of the barbs on her tongue were burned off, and have never grown back. The only problem it creates, is that she makes mats when she grooms herself and I eventually have to take her into work to be combed and bathed (she is so bad at home!). Needless to say, all of my colleagues are quite intrigued by a kitty with a smooth tongue.
Cinder has the same spirit she did when I first met her; she is a fighter and that has always inspired me, especially during the times I most want to quit. If we paid more attention to our animal friends, we could learn so many more lessons about Life.
Each of my kitties has a lesson they have taught me. This is but one of many lessons…
Ellen 1/21/07
And then a little black kitten with a smidge of white was brought in….
A disabled person had found her, and immediately my heart went out the both the Good Samaritan and the little kitten; here was someone who had their own challenges in life taking time to help a creature less fortunate. If only we’d all take that time out of our busy schedules…
When she came in, her mouth was swollen; she couldn’t close it at all, and there was a wound on her forehead, along with irritation in her ears and left eye. We didn’t know what was wrong, but there was speculation: maybe someone threw boiling water on her, or she had a broken jaw…..there were many theories abound as to what had brought her to us; most of them blaming some cruel person…
In the meantime, we had to check her in, which meant drawing blood for an FeLV test, vaccinating her, getting her started on antibiotics, and putting her on the schedule for the next vet visit…and oh, yes, eventually naming her :)
I still remember how feisty this kitten was when we had to restrain her to draw blood. Here was this poor creature with a jaw/mouth injury, yet still she was fighting us tooth and nail just to be restrained. I couldn’t help but admire her spirit.
We set the kitten up in our sick room, with orders for antibiotics and A/D gruel (A/D is a soft, high calorie food that we feed to sick animals). I remember setting her up in a bottom cage and giving her the gruel, which she readily lapped up. I was hopeful; if she could eat, then she could live. Yet I was worried; here was a kitten that needed more attention than we could give, and to make matters worse, she was in the sick room. For those of you who have never worked in a shelter, not only are they overcrowded with well animals, but sick animals don’t stand much of a chance because of limited space and poor ventilation. At this point, several scenarios are running through my mind…..
The next morning, I am assigned to clean the sick room. I tend to this kitten first, administering antibiotics and offering her gruel. And I amazed at what I hear: this poor little creature who has been through so much is purring! I immediately go to the kennel manager and tell her that I want to foster this kitten, but if the vet finds injuries beyond our scope of repair, I will support euthanasia….I am trying so hard to be realistic and not get too attached, but I know it is already too late….
Hope springs eternal, and later that morning; my boss comes back with this kitten in tow!!
It seems that her injuries are not serious and not the result of abuse; the vet thinks she bit an electrical chord. She is all mine to foster (/adopt ;) ).
I give this kitten a name: Cinder-short for Cinderellen, after me. I bathe her at the shelter,
and then take her home. I set her up in a safe room, until she has her second set of shots. After that I introduce her to the rest of my herd. She blends in well creating her own niche. I notice that she is losing the hair on one said of her body (a temporary result of her injuries). My husband notices that Cinder is not only settling in, but that I am referring to him as her “daddy,” much to his feigned dismay...
Eventually, I made the adoption official, in spite of my husband’s half-hearted protests. If truth be told, I always knew she was mine from the very beginning. Besides, how could I bring her back to the shelter? She’s already bonded with me and her “siblings” and besides, she’s a black cat, which would decrease her chances for adoption (unfortunately, many people are superstitious about black cats). So it was settled; I had her spayed through the shelter, and filled out the paper work to make it official. She was now #9 in our little family.
Cinder has grown into a lovely cat and has healed from her injuries, with one exception: she has a smooth tongue. Evidently all of the barbs on her tongue were burned off, and have never grown back. The only problem it creates, is that she makes mats when she grooms herself and I eventually have to take her into work to be combed and bathed (she is so bad at home!). Needless to say, all of my colleagues are quite intrigued by a kitty with a smooth tongue.
Cinder has the same spirit she did when I first met her; she is a fighter and that has always inspired me, especially during the times I most want to quit. If we paid more attention to our animal friends, we could learn so many more lessons about Life.
Each of my kitties has a lesson they have taught me. This is but one of many lessons…
Ellen 1/21/07
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Munchkin
When I first started working in this field, I worked at the Humane Society. Although I saw a lot of pain, I also saw some happy endings as well. Here is one such story:
Munchkin
It was another ordinary day at the shelter, too many animals being admitted, not enough being adopted. In spite of the overcrowding, my heart goes out to these poor lost souls, and as I go about my work, I try and come up with solutions to a seemingly impossible problem…..
My thoughts are interrupted by a tiny gray tabby that catches my eye. He is huddled in his little cage, head buried, body tense; afraid to make eye contact, wanting to disappear. My heart goes out to him; he is new here, and even though this is a better place for him, it is not any less frightening for such a little angel. I find out this kitten’s story from the humane officer: some neighborhood kids were abusing him; a Good Samaritan reported it and this little guy was rescued. At this point, he has been checked in and given a name: Munchkin. He appears to be about 5 weeks old.
I think it goes without saying that animal abuse angers me beyond what I can express. And it’s even worse when children are responsible because 1. They have obviously learned it from an adult, and 2. If they are starting to abuse an animal now, it will worsen as they grow older.
I decide to pay close attention to Munchkin to see if he will come around. Normally when animals are brought into the shelter, they are scared, but as time goes on they adjust with the help of very caring staff members. I was hoping that would hold true for Munchkin, and yet I am worried.
Over the next couple days I noticed little change; poor Munchkin would bury his face between his paws, wanting to hide, and hoping to disappear. I would try to hold him and love him in between my many chores, but couldn’t elicit a response except for a faint glimmer in his eyes….there was hope, but he needed more. I knew what I had to do.
I spoke with the kennel manager about fostering Munchkin, knowing it would be fine. One of the sad facts about shelters is that there are more animals waiting than there is cage space; so they were happy to allow me to take Munchkin home and give the extra cage to another lost soul. And at 5 weeks, Munchkin was too young to be adopted.
I took Munchkin home, determined to make him feel what it is to be truly loved; what it is to be a kitten again. I held him every chance I could; spoke softly to him, gave him kisses and head butts, and told him that he was loved and wanted…over time I think he understood. I also played with him and showed him how kittens are supposed to play. In no time, Munchkin was acting like a normal kitten; happy playful, and healed from the scars of abuse. He also had doting “grandparents” (thanks to my mom and dad).
Finally the time came to take Munchkin back to the shelter so that he could be put up for adoption. I held him and gave him a kiss, as I put him in a large cage with several other kittens. He looked at me intently for a moment, as if to say thank you, the scampered off to meet his new friends. Clearly this was not the same kitten I’d taken home several weeks earlier. And I knew at that moment that this why I am called to work with animals; while I may not always be able to heal their bodies, I can on some level, heal their souls.
Munchkin was adopted a few weeks later, along with one of his cage mates, to a very loving family with 2 nice boys. I didn’t facilitate the adoption, but I was working that day, so I was able to say goodbye, as well as meet Munchkin’s new family. And I knew that Munchkin would not only have a good life, but would enrich the lives of his new family, especially those 2 boys, who already had compassion for animals.
And as I watched them leave, I remembered how far Munchkin had come. And I thought to myself: out of darkness comes light; out of despair, comes hope. And it is possible be healed and live life fully again.
Ellen M. White
Copyright January 20, 2007
Munchkin
It was another ordinary day at the shelter, too many animals being admitted, not enough being adopted. In spite of the overcrowding, my heart goes out to these poor lost souls, and as I go about my work, I try and come up with solutions to a seemingly impossible problem…..
My thoughts are interrupted by a tiny gray tabby that catches my eye. He is huddled in his little cage, head buried, body tense; afraid to make eye contact, wanting to disappear. My heart goes out to him; he is new here, and even though this is a better place for him, it is not any less frightening for such a little angel. I find out this kitten’s story from the humane officer: some neighborhood kids were abusing him; a Good Samaritan reported it and this little guy was rescued. At this point, he has been checked in and given a name: Munchkin. He appears to be about 5 weeks old.
I think it goes without saying that animal abuse angers me beyond what I can express. And it’s even worse when children are responsible because 1. They have obviously learned it from an adult, and 2. If they are starting to abuse an animal now, it will worsen as they grow older.
I decide to pay close attention to Munchkin to see if he will come around. Normally when animals are brought into the shelter, they are scared, but as time goes on they adjust with the help of very caring staff members. I was hoping that would hold true for Munchkin, and yet I am worried.
Over the next couple days I noticed little change; poor Munchkin would bury his face between his paws, wanting to hide, and hoping to disappear. I would try to hold him and love him in between my many chores, but couldn’t elicit a response except for a faint glimmer in his eyes….there was hope, but he needed more. I knew what I had to do.
I spoke with the kennel manager about fostering Munchkin, knowing it would be fine. One of the sad facts about shelters is that there are more animals waiting than there is cage space; so they were happy to allow me to take Munchkin home and give the extra cage to another lost soul. And at 5 weeks, Munchkin was too young to be adopted.
I took Munchkin home, determined to make him feel what it is to be truly loved; what it is to be a kitten again. I held him every chance I could; spoke softly to him, gave him kisses and head butts, and told him that he was loved and wanted…over time I think he understood. I also played with him and showed him how kittens are supposed to play. In no time, Munchkin was acting like a normal kitten; happy playful, and healed from the scars of abuse. He also had doting “grandparents” (thanks to my mom and dad).
Finally the time came to take Munchkin back to the shelter so that he could be put up for adoption. I held him and gave him a kiss, as I put him in a large cage with several other kittens. He looked at me intently for a moment, as if to say thank you, the scampered off to meet his new friends. Clearly this was not the same kitten I’d taken home several weeks earlier. And I knew at that moment that this why I am called to work with animals; while I may not always be able to heal their bodies, I can on some level, heal their souls.
Munchkin was adopted a few weeks later, along with one of his cage mates, to a very loving family with 2 nice boys. I didn’t facilitate the adoption, but I was working that day, so I was able to say goodbye, as well as meet Munchkin’s new family. And I knew that Munchkin would not only have a good life, but would enrich the lives of his new family, especially those 2 boys, who already had compassion for animals.
And as I watched them leave, I remembered how far Munchkin had come. And I thought to myself: out of darkness comes light; out of despair, comes hope. And it is possible be healed and live life fully again.
Ellen M. White
Copyright January 20, 2007
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