“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
Sunday, February 25, 2007
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
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