Back in the bad old days of February, when I was missing work every other day to drive Bitey to the kitty neurologist in Orange County, I got to the area way ahead of time. What does one do with a cat in the car when you're 45 minutes early?
As I pondered this question heading towards my exit off the 57, I remembered a question the boyfriend, in his infinite curiosity, asked me one summer. We were sitting on the beach in Hermosa, looking out at the vast expanse beyond.
BF: What would Bitey do if he saw the ocean?
ME: He would FREAK OUT and run away.
BF: Really? I mean what would he make of the waves? The sand?
ME: He wouldn't. He would overpower you and take off at lightning speed, with his ears flat against his head towards the nearest thing he could hide under, and never be seen again.
BF: Oh. Okay.
As I thought about this question that February morning I realized had missed my exit on the 57 and was headed to Newport Beach. With my cat, who now had no use of his back legs.
And, I'll admit, I was curious. What would a cat do at the beach?
So I drove all the way to Newport Beach, into the parking lot right up against the sand, just north of the pier where those kids from The O.C. eat lots of pancakes and never get fat.
I parked the car and took out Bitey's soft black carrying case. Predictably he meowed in protest. We went and sat on the beach. Silence. Slowly I opened the zipper.
A little orange and white head peeked out, then rapidly retreated. I pulled him gently out of the carrier. He began to make a particularly loud wailing noise. I saw the thoughts of the people around me as clear as if they were on a banner towed by a biplane...Who IS this scrubby looking girl and why does she have a CAT on the BEACH???? Of course, this being California, no one said a single word.
I put Bitey in my lap. He struggled to get back in the case, but I held him tight.
I tried to get him to look at the ocean, and he stared for a while, looked at the birds, then struggled some more to get back in the case. I let him get back in and zipped him up tight.
I sat for a little while longer, looking at the water. I wondered if Bitey could even see the ocean, if it even had any meaning for him...the way you wonder when you hold a cat to a mirror and they stare into it, unimpressed: Are they so blase because they see and understand their reflection and wonder what the fuss is about? Or is there no cognitive recognition of what they are even seeing...do cats recognize themselves?
We packed up and walked back to the car...I drove to the doctor's office, and straight into several more months of doctor bills. I guess any sane person, (after first asking why someone would spend so much money on a cat with a fatal disease), would ask why I made that trip.
I don't really have a good answer. I could joke and say that the boyfriend's curiousity is like a slow incubating virus. First you think it's silly, three weeks later, you're starting to wonder.
So the closest I can come to a better answer is that in this case it's less about the cat and more about the ocean. Defying reason and logic, the sea makes you believe that no living creature should go his or her or its whole life without one brief glimpse.
Bitey has seen the sea.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Friday, August 11, 2006
Slow swishing hope
To recap:
My cat Bitey who is FeLV+ lost the use of his back legs a little over five months ago. We spent a boat load of money trying to make him better, to little avail. Finally we stopped all treatment, because it was making him miserable and putting us in the poor house.
To compensate for the loss of his four-leggedness, Bitey learned to drag his body around using his front paws, which have become freakishly strong. His withered back legs often lay straight like two sticks at a 90 degree angle to the rest of his body. Sometime they catch on half open doors and I have to go "unhook" him.
His back legs come to life occasionally in the form of random spasms (usually while being bathed in the kitchen sink). Sometimes you can hear the back legs thumping against the wood floors in the next room.
His magnificent orange raccoon tail, so evocative of his mood in the past, has been silenced.
To relieve Bitey's burdensome mode of travel, we often grab his tail, hold it upright, and lift his back legs off the ground so that he can walk, jog or sometimes flat out gallop wherever he choses. Most often he uses the opportunity to rub up against our legs and purr. This is lovely, but we often end up a bit tangled.
Bitey's most favored destination is, of course, the food bowl. He's trying to bulk up his rapidly thinning frame. His food bowl sits on a blue kitchen mat. Every time I'm around while he eats, I place his back legs in a standing position on the blue mat. In the beginning of his sickness he could barely hold his body in a sitting position, and would let his backside flop over into a resting position.
Lately however, things have been different. For the past few days at the food bowl he has supporting his full weight on his back legs, which are almost fully extended. The moment he tries to move, flop. But there is a certain beauty in seeing him standing so tenuously, head in food bowl, crunch, crunch, crunching away.
This was progress, I thought...could there be a real change taking place in the Body Bitey? Then, on the morning of Boyfriend's Birthday, I took out Bitey's favorite toy. Two tiny rolls of cardboard attached to a long curving wire (cost to produce: 2 cents / cost to customer at petco: $6.50)
Bitey has always been deeply enthralled with this toy. When the little cardboard thingies were dangled above his head, he would leap high in the air, like a third baseman defying gravity to snare a rocket. He'd also make that odd "ack, ack, ack" predator noise...the cat equivalent of a duck tooters.
Now, in his limited mobility phase, the most he can do is whack at the toy while lying on his back. But on B-friend's B-day, he was so focused on the toy that I saw him suddenly jerk his whole body off the floor and into the approximation of a crouch. His front paws did most of the work, but the back legs somehow got into a normal sitting position, all by themselves.
For a brief moment, real hope, which I had been carefully burying all this time, exploded in my heart. Was Bitey healing? Were his nerves magically regenerating? Had the tumor, (or whatever) in his spine shifted to a less damaging position? Could this have all been just been a bad, wildly overpriced dream? I scratched him behind his ears, under his neck and looked in his eyes like a proud mama. I smiled as he revved up the purring machine. Then I looked in his eyes again. One of his pupils was fully dilated. The other, befitting the daylight, was a mere slit.
Bummer.
Turns out this is a common neurological sympton of cats with spinal injuries and FLV. And after a day, the pupils evened out and he was fine. But it was a sobering reminder of Bitey's precarious status (as if, with the bladder expression, bandages, and wee wee pads, I could forget).
Yet today, at feeding time, with his legs propped up in a standing position, supporting his own weight, I saw something I haven't seen five long months; a slowly swishing tail. Bitey's tail, which had lain limp and grounded for so long, was elevated and slowly dancing.
And watching that small private miracle, hope returned, refreshed.
My cat Bitey who is FeLV+ lost the use of his back legs a little over five months ago. We spent a boat load of money trying to make him better, to little avail. Finally we stopped all treatment, because it was making him miserable and putting us in the poor house.
To compensate for the loss of his four-leggedness, Bitey learned to drag his body around using his front paws, which have become freakishly strong. His withered back legs often lay straight like two sticks at a 90 degree angle to the rest of his body. Sometime they catch on half open doors and I have to go "unhook" him.
His back legs come to life occasionally in the form of random spasms (usually while being bathed in the kitchen sink). Sometimes you can hear the back legs thumping against the wood floors in the next room.
His magnificent orange raccoon tail, so evocative of his mood in the past, has been silenced.
To relieve Bitey's burdensome mode of travel, we often grab his tail, hold it upright, and lift his back legs off the ground so that he can walk, jog or sometimes flat out gallop wherever he choses. Most often he uses the opportunity to rub up against our legs and purr. This is lovely, but we often end up a bit tangled.
Bitey's most favored destination is, of course, the food bowl. He's trying to bulk up his rapidly thinning frame. His food bowl sits on a blue kitchen mat. Every time I'm around while he eats, I place his back legs in a standing position on the blue mat. In the beginning of his sickness he could barely hold his body in a sitting position, and would let his backside flop over into a resting position.
Lately however, things have been different. For the past few days at the food bowl he has supporting his full weight on his back legs, which are almost fully extended. The moment he tries to move, flop. But there is a certain beauty in seeing him standing so tenuously, head in food bowl, crunch, crunch, crunching away.
This was progress, I thought...could there be a real change taking place in the Body Bitey? Then, on the morning of Boyfriend's Birthday, I took out Bitey's favorite toy. Two tiny rolls of cardboard attached to a long curving wire (cost to produce: 2 cents / cost to customer at petco: $6.50)
Bitey has always been deeply enthralled with this toy. When the little cardboard thingies were dangled above his head, he would leap high in the air, like a third baseman defying gravity to snare a rocket. He'd also make that odd "ack, ack, ack" predator noise...the cat equivalent of a duck tooters.
Now, in his limited mobility phase, the most he can do is whack at the toy while lying on his back. But on B-friend's B-day, he was so focused on the toy that I saw him suddenly jerk his whole body off the floor and into the approximation of a crouch. His front paws did most of the work, but the back legs somehow got into a normal sitting position, all by themselves.
For a brief moment, real hope, which I had been carefully burying all this time, exploded in my heart. Was Bitey healing? Were his nerves magically regenerating? Had the tumor, (or whatever) in his spine shifted to a less damaging position? Could this have all been just been a bad, wildly overpriced dream? I scratched him behind his ears, under his neck and looked in his eyes like a proud mama. I smiled as he revved up the purring machine. Then I looked in his eyes again. One of his pupils was fully dilated. The other, befitting the daylight, was a mere slit.
Bummer.
Turns out this is a common neurological sympton of cats with spinal injuries and FLV. And after a day, the pupils evened out and he was fine. But it was a sobering reminder of Bitey's precarious status (as if, with the bladder expression, bandages, and wee wee pads, I could forget).
Yet today, at feeding time, with his legs propped up in a standing position, supporting his own weight, I saw something I haven't seen five long months; a slowly swishing tail. Bitey's tail, which had lain limp and grounded for so long, was elevated and slowly dancing.
And watching that small private miracle, hope returned, refreshed.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Happy Anniversary
On February 28th, 2006 Bitey the Cat was given four months to live. If, the vet said, we were lucky.
In those four months the boyfriend and I learned many things: how to take a cat's temperature; how to express a cat's bladder; how to wash a cat's hind quarters in the sink without getting raked bloody by his freakishly strong front paws.
We learned the quickest way to get from Hollywood to the west side (hint: there isn't one); how to give subcutaneous injections of kitty chemo at home without spilling the poisionous chemicals on ourselves, the kitchen counter or the cat; how to block up the yard so Bitey could drag around in the grass, lie contentedly under the cool stone table, or hide under the trailing strands of bouganveilla.
We learned that advanced kitty medicine is cripplingly expensive, and gratifying results come in the tiniest increments; but we also learned that kitty doctors are among the kindest people on this earth...the many vets, techs, and office staff we encountered all seem to love what they do, and love their charges so much it practically radiates from their pores.
We learned that Bitey has many friends. Friends who gave up their Sunday to lug carfuls of stuff to our house to raise money for treatment at a Bitey yard sale. Friends who wrote email after email requesting more Bitey updates, trying to make me an honest chronicler. Friends I didn't even know I had, who upon meeting me for the first time on the roof of the Formosa said, "You're Bitey's mom!" And of course, Bitey has loving grandparents, who wrote large checks for his care and support, long after their daughter should have been writing checks for theirs!
Bitey learned some things too, like how to meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, moew, until he got what he wanted: help up the stairs from the garden, help down into the garden, chicken, tuna, broccoli, butter, head rubbing, bellyrubbing, a lift into the bathtub to drink from the spigot, a lift out of the bathtub when he was done and you had forgotten he was in there. The once proud cat who could jump from the floor to the bed to the dresser to the closet shelf now has no hesistation to cry like a baby to get what he wants. I think he knows there's a certain power there too...
I learned that it was okay to leave, to not cancel a vacation to Italy to martyr myself to St. Bitey of Bladderini. My boyfriend learned how to express a cat's bladder, which is a huge accomplishment, and one of those skills that neither of thought we would EVER learn. We met two lovely catsitters, who brought Bitey to the vet each evening while I was away so that the boyfriend could have some relief from Bladder Duty.
Bitey got some more nicknames: Bitey Bum Bum, Reginald McPee Bottom, and (after seeing an advertisement for cellulite cream in Italy) Dolce Bum Bum. The boyfriend, a creative type not generally known for his skill in navigating the practical side of life, got a small taste of what it's like to completely care for another living creature: from what goes in the front, to what comes out the back (all over the nice wood floors)and everything in between. He knocked it out of the park.
I got two weeks of rest, sun, culture, gelato, granitas and gnocci so smooth it tasted like potato silk; more mozzarella di bufala than any one girl has a right to ingest, and most important, time with friends; the kind of friends that click right back into your heart, no matter how far away they live and how little you see them; the kind of friends that 'fill up the tank' so you can go back to your life and deal with all the bullshit.
Somewhere in there, we stopped paying attention to the deadline. We incorporated a daunting level of cat care into our daily lives, and learned how to say "when" when it came to expensive kitty care, which in turn helped us stop feeling like we were living on the deck of the financial Titanic. We stopped feeling like every day might be Bitey's last, but we also learned that we were ready, should that day arrive.
And lo and behold, I looked at the calendar the other day and realized that five months had passed. Bitey beat the odds. Our plucky little street cat with the big bad tumor in his spine had slithered his little backside right past the zero hour.
So now we are living in the golden hour. The time of day photographers love, when the sun is setting and everything is bathed in a warm, soft light. You never know how long the golden hour will last, or whether there'll be another one tommorow, so you take as many pictures as you can, hold your face up to the sun, and breathe deeply.
This is the view from an old stone villa in the tiny town of San Tereziano, in Umbria. Golden hour indeed.
Have you ever....
...seen a cat...
...who loves to POSE THIS MUCH????
In those four months the boyfriend and I learned many things: how to take a cat's temperature; how to express a cat's bladder; how to wash a cat's hind quarters in the sink without getting raked bloody by his freakishly strong front paws.
We learned the quickest way to get from Hollywood to the west side (hint: there isn't one); how to give subcutaneous injections of kitty chemo at home without spilling the poisionous chemicals on ourselves, the kitchen counter or the cat; how to block up the yard so Bitey could drag around in the grass, lie contentedly under the cool stone table, or hide under the trailing strands of bouganveilla.
We learned that advanced kitty medicine is cripplingly expensive, and gratifying results come in the tiniest increments; but we also learned that kitty doctors are among the kindest people on this earth...the many vets, techs, and office staff we encountered all seem to love what they do, and love their charges so much it practically radiates from their pores.
We learned that Bitey has many friends. Friends who gave up their Sunday to lug carfuls of stuff to our house to raise money for treatment at a Bitey yard sale. Friends who wrote email after email requesting more Bitey updates, trying to make me an honest chronicler. Friends I didn't even know I had, who upon meeting me for the first time on the roof of the Formosa said, "You're Bitey's mom!" And of course, Bitey has loving grandparents, who wrote large checks for his care and support, long after their daughter should have been writing checks for theirs!
Bitey learned some things too, like how to meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, moew, until he got what he wanted: help up the stairs from the garden, help down into the garden, chicken, tuna, broccoli, butter, head rubbing, bellyrubbing, a lift into the bathtub to drink from the spigot, a lift out of the bathtub when he was done and you had forgotten he was in there. The once proud cat who could jump from the floor to the bed to the dresser to the closet shelf now has no hesistation to cry like a baby to get what he wants. I think he knows there's a certain power there too...
I learned that it was okay to leave, to not cancel a vacation to Italy to martyr myself to St. Bitey of Bladderini. My boyfriend learned how to express a cat's bladder, which is a huge accomplishment, and one of those skills that neither of thought we would EVER learn. We met two lovely catsitters, who brought Bitey to the vet each evening while I was away so that the boyfriend could have some relief from Bladder Duty.
Bitey got some more nicknames: Bitey Bum Bum, Reginald McPee Bottom, and (after seeing an advertisement for cellulite cream in Italy) Dolce Bum Bum. The boyfriend, a creative type not generally known for his skill in navigating the practical side of life, got a small taste of what it's like to completely care for another living creature: from what goes in the front, to what comes out the back (all over the nice wood floors)and everything in between. He knocked it out of the park.
I got two weeks of rest, sun, culture, gelato, granitas and gnocci so smooth it tasted like potato silk; more mozzarella di bufala than any one girl has a right to ingest, and most important, time with friends; the kind of friends that click right back into your heart, no matter how far away they live and how little you see them; the kind of friends that 'fill up the tank' so you can go back to your life and deal with all the bullshit.
Somewhere in there, we stopped paying attention to the deadline. We incorporated a daunting level of cat care into our daily lives, and learned how to say "when" when it came to expensive kitty care, which in turn helped us stop feeling like we were living on the deck of the financial Titanic. We stopped feeling like every day might be Bitey's last, but we also learned that we were ready, should that day arrive.
And lo and behold, I looked at the calendar the other day and realized that five months had passed. Bitey beat the odds. Our plucky little street cat with the big bad tumor in his spine had slithered his little backside right past the zero hour.
So now we are living in the golden hour. The time of day photographers love, when the sun is setting and everything is bathed in a warm, soft light. You never know how long the golden hour will last, or whether there'll be another one tommorow, so you take as many pictures as you can, hold your face up to the sun, and breathe deeply.
This is the view from an old stone villa in the tiny town of San Tereziano, in Umbria. Golden hour indeed.
Have you ever....
...seen a cat...
...who loves to POSE THIS MUCH????
Thursday, April 27, 2006
The Well Meaning
I have been thinking about this for a long time...
At the start of Bitey's sudden illness when emotions were raw and the future cloudy, I thought about what I would say to the "Just Put Him Down" crowd. I was actually afraid of them, because I thought, if they said that to me, I would break down in tears. And since I figured a lot of people in my "tough crowd" office were of this variety I told very few people about Bitey's illness.
But word started to leak out, and I did encounter several people of the "Just Be Done With It" persuasion. And some of them were at my work. Except they weren't who I thought they'd be.
For the most part they were pet owners. Loving pet owners who, just like me, had experienced the pain of sudden illness in a beloved cat or dog. But their philosophy was clear, and unrelenting. You don't spend that kind of money on a pet. You don't try to extend the life of a pet past a certain point. Or to paraphrase something a wonderful man with ten children said to me...."White people have pets, other people have children..." (Only he has the rights to the exact quote, but you can take a guess).
And frankly, I don't disagree with any of the people who put limits on what they are willing to spend on pets. If you have any number of children (one, three, ten) it seems silly to spend more than the minimum on a pet. I often joke that my future children are really going to enjoy community college...such is the weight of the debt on my shoulders.
But there's another side to that joke...I don't have children now, nor do I expect to in the next, say, three years. What I have is a great boyfriend and a once in a generation cat. A cat whose life span has closely mirrored that our my relationship with my boyfriend.
When I arrived in Los Angeles, I became a full time part of my boyfriend's life the same way Bitey became part of our--suddenly. When Bitey made his scared little sounds outside my window, the boyfriend and I were just finding our way. The guy, the girl and the cat all grew closer, together.
While I can't give Bitey all the credit for our eventual success, he certainly became a common focus, something, someone we both loved in a way that didn't need to be expressed in words. When you love a cat or dog you don't need to worry about defensive posturing, work through the snit of the day, or dilute the message in an attempt not to freak the other party out. It's a simple, pure almost overwhelming feeling. And if you find that feeling once, it's a lot easier to find it again for the more complicated people in your life.
So saying goodbye to Bitey is more than letting a beloved pet go. It's the boyfriend and I saying goodbye to the first part of our lives together...and going it alone.
Of course we'll always have the Red Sox...
At the start of Bitey's sudden illness when emotions were raw and the future cloudy, I thought about what I would say to the "Just Put Him Down" crowd. I was actually afraid of them, because I thought, if they said that to me, I would break down in tears. And since I figured a lot of people in my "tough crowd" office were of this variety I told very few people about Bitey's illness.
But word started to leak out, and I did encounter several people of the "Just Be Done With It" persuasion. And some of them were at my work. Except they weren't who I thought they'd be.
For the most part they were pet owners. Loving pet owners who, just like me, had experienced the pain of sudden illness in a beloved cat or dog. But their philosophy was clear, and unrelenting. You don't spend that kind of money on a pet. You don't try to extend the life of a pet past a certain point. Or to paraphrase something a wonderful man with ten children said to me...."White people have pets, other people have children..." (Only he has the rights to the exact quote, but you can take a guess).
And frankly, I don't disagree with any of the people who put limits on what they are willing to spend on pets. If you have any number of children (one, three, ten) it seems silly to spend more than the minimum on a pet. I often joke that my future children are really going to enjoy community college...such is the weight of the debt on my shoulders.
But there's another side to that joke...I don't have children now, nor do I expect to in the next, say, three years. What I have is a great boyfriend and a once in a generation cat. A cat whose life span has closely mirrored that our my relationship with my boyfriend.
When I arrived in Los Angeles, I became a full time part of my boyfriend's life the same way Bitey became part of our--suddenly. When Bitey made his scared little sounds outside my window, the boyfriend and I were just finding our way. The guy, the girl and the cat all grew closer, together.
While I can't give Bitey all the credit for our eventual success, he certainly became a common focus, something, someone we both loved in a way that didn't need to be expressed in words. When you love a cat or dog you don't need to worry about defensive posturing, work through the snit of the day, or dilute the message in an attempt not to freak the other party out. It's a simple, pure almost overwhelming feeling. And if you find that feeling once, it's a lot easier to find it again for the more complicated people in your life.
So saying goodbye to Bitey is more than letting a beloved pet go. It's the boyfriend and I saying goodbye to the first part of our lives together...and going it alone.
Of course we'll always have the Red Sox...
Apology and Bitey Update Thursday April 27th, 2006
Dear fans and friends and family of Bitey:
I am SO SORRY that I haven't written lately. Bitey is doing very well. In fact he has been mostly the same since the last time I wrote, which is why I haven't updated.
But I understand and appreciate the scorn and frustration associated with sporadically updated blog, so I am checking in from the Jury Assembly Room at Superior Court to update you on Bitey's condition.
Bitey is still reliant on me for bladder expression. I have been very lucky in that I have not had to travel a lot lately (knock on wood). Bitey only goes to the vet for chemo and if I am not around to squeeze his parts. I have been trying to teach the boyfriend the fine art of bladder expression, and he is willing, but it is a hard skill to learn, especially when you can't stand hearing the cat squeal in discomfort at your hand. Also I think boyfriend is somewhat afraid that he's going to squeeze too hard and pop Bitey's colon out his backside. So it's a work in progress.
While Bitey's back leg strength has improved, his coordination is still minimal. In the interim he has become a professional slitherer. He uses his freakishly strong front legs to pull his body forward while his limp back legs have enough life in them to push back and forth against the floor...kind of like rowing a boat, or paddling in a canoe. He can really move!
We have now made it to almost exactly two months out of the four he has been tentatively allotted. Bitey has also made it to the next cycle of chemo in which he will be treated every three weeks instead of every week. This is helpful for the wallet to say the least. Hopefully we can begin to pay down the national kitty debt.
A funny story: Yesterday I let Bitey out in the yard and he sat for a while in the long green grass. I sat on the patio steps, watching Bitey radiate kitty contentment. I looked in his eyes, he looked in mine....
...and then the sprinklers went off. Boy, if you want to see a partially paralyzed cat hustle, just turn on the water!
Best wishes and many posts to come...
I am SO SORRY that I haven't written lately. Bitey is doing very well. In fact he has been mostly the same since the last time I wrote, which is why I haven't updated.
But I understand and appreciate the scorn and frustration associated with sporadically updated blog, so I am checking in from the Jury Assembly Room at Superior Court to update you on Bitey's condition.
Bitey is still reliant on me for bladder expression. I have been very lucky in that I have not had to travel a lot lately (knock on wood). Bitey only goes to the vet for chemo and if I am not around to squeeze his parts. I have been trying to teach the boyfriend the fine art of bladder expression, and he is willing, but it is a hard skill to learn, especially when you can't stand hearing the cat squeal in discomfort at your hand. Also I think boyfriend is somewhat afraid that he's going to squeeze too hard and pop Bitey's colon out his backside. So it's a work in progress.
While Bitey's back leg strength has improved, his coordination is still minimal. In the interim he has become a professional slitherer. He uses his freakishly strong front legs to pull his body forward while his limp back legs have enough life in them to push back and forth against the floor...kind of like rowing a boat, or paddling in a canoe. He can really move!
We have now made it to almost exactly two months out of the four he has been tentatively allotted. Bitey has also made it to the next cycle of chemo in which he will be treated every three weeks instead of every week. This is helpful for the wallet to say the least. Hopefully we can begin to pay down the national kitty debt.
A funny story: Yesterday I let Bitey out in the yard and he sat for a while in the long green grass. I sat on the patio steps, watching Bitey radiate kitty contentment. I looked in his eyes, he looked in mine....
...and then the sprinklers went off. Boy, if you want to see a partially paralyzed cat hustle, just turn on the water!
Best wishes and many posts to come...
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Special Guest Post 4/9/05: Thoughts from Mom
Bitey is my grandcat.
I came to visit and am very relieved for a bunch of reasons. Although his mobility is greatly reduced, he gets around and seems to have lost little of his zeal for life. My kid is also handling this like a trooper. We all have an inordinate amount of feeling for Bitey and his ways.
Bitey loves being out in the backyard providing all kinds of photo ops for anyone interested in his story. Despite his current handicap, he has twice,
using upper body strength alone, pushed open the back door. This is not easy as the door is a bit sticky and swollen from recent rains. He then proceeds to drag his back half over the grass and bricks to get to a sunny spot in the grass where he hunkers down for a salad. He has two modes of dealing with his powerless back legs, either dragging them straight out in the “froggy” position or curled together to the left. Dragging this load is a bit easier in the house on the polished wood floors, however, one must also consider that getting a grip on these floors isn’t easy. Grass and dirt are much preferred.
J and The Boyfriend are keeping strong. J is doing yeoman service keeping Bites clean, fed and “expressed”. Cats pretty much take care of business when doing their business but he now needs lots of assistance. She “expresses” his pee and tries to coax out any other elements of waste. Surely Bitey has seen the trash compactor scene in Star Wars and it must remind him of that.
Sunday a.m., after his second escape, I returned him from an especially muddy area of the yard and it clearly was bath time. With un-catlike forbearance, he let J soap and suds his back half, peeking out from under her arm. I coached him in some deep breathing and he made it through like a champ. I got the drying detail and we were even able to use a hairdryer.
His reward was snuggling up with The Boyfriend under the covers. It didn’t take long for him to achieve Purrdom and he spent the day with various members of the household watching the Red Sox game and snoozing.
The atmosphere in Bitey’s house is realistic, we all know that he may never make it out of the woods but there isn’t a lot of hand wringing. J and The BF are dealing with his problems, pouring a huge amount of money and effort into his care. Bitey isn’t in pain and is still able to meet most of his cat needs—birdwatching, grass grazing, rolling in the mud and snuggling and seeking out all sources of heat. It’s a good life! Roll on, Bitey, roll on!
Eds Note: It's worth mentioning that both of my parents have made extremely generous donations towards the cost of Bitey's treatment, despite the fact that their daughter is almost, like, thirty.
I came to visit and am very relieved for a bunch of reasons. Although his mobility is greatly reduced, he gets around and seems to have lost little of his zeal for life. My kid is also handling this like a trooper. We all have an inordinate amount of feeling for Bitey and his ways.
Bitey loves being out in the backyard providing all kinds of photo ops for anyone interested in his story. Despite his current handicap, he has twice,
using upper body strength alone, pushed open the back door. This is not easy as the door is a bit sticky and swollen from recent rains. He then proceeds to drag his back half over the grass and bricks to get to a sunny spot in the grass where he hunkers down for a salad. He has two modes of dealing with his powerless back legs, either dragging them straight out in the “froggy” position or curled together to the left. Dragging this load is a bit easier in the house on the polished wood floors, however, one must also consider that getting a grip on these floors isn’t easy. Grass and dirt are much preferred.
J and The Boyfriend are keeping strong. J is doing yeoman service keeping Bites clean, fed and “expressed”. Cats pretty much take care of business when doing their business but he now needs lots of assistance. She “expresses” his pee and tries to coax out any other elements of waste. Surely Bitey has seen the trash compactor scene in Star Wars and it must remind him of that.
Sunday a.m., after his second escape, I returned him from an especially muddy area of the yard and it clearly was bath time. With un-catlike forbearance, he let J soap and suds his back half, peeking out from under her arm. I coached him in some deep breathing and he made it through like a champ. I got the drying detail and we were even able to use a hairdryer.
His reward was snuggling up with The Boyfriend under the covers. It didn’t take long for him to achieve Purrdom and he spent the day with various members of the household watching the Red Sox game and snoozing.
The atmosphere in Bitey’s house is realistic, we all know that he may never make it out of the woods but there isn’t a lot of hand wringing. J and The BF are dealing with his problems, pouring a huge amount of money and effort into his care. Bitey isn’t in pain and is still able to meet most of his cat needs—birdwatching, grass grazing, rolling in the mud and snuggling and seeking out all sources of heat. It’s a good life! Roll on, Bitey, roll on!
Eds Note: It's worth mentioning that both of my parents have made extremely generous donations towards the cost of Bitey's treatment, despite the fact that their daughter is almost, like, thirty.
Bitey Update: Sunday April 9th, 2006
Bitey's condition this week has been stable. No major changes between one visit to the vet and the last.
We cuddle with him in the bed, squeeze his bladder, wipe his bum, feed him tuna, give him meds, wrap him in blankets, prop him up by the heater, let him sit in the yard, wash his back legs which are black after being dragged through the dirt, torture him with the blowdryer, feed him more tuna, squeeze his bladder, wipe his bum, and cuddle with him in the bed.
My mom is here this weekend visiting and it is lovely to have someone else mothering the cat. I get to read the paper, a book, write in the blog, and just take it easy.
Now, off to manicure pedicure, because my nails and toes are starting to look like inviting to Digger the Dermatiphite.
We cuddle with him in the bed, squeeze his bladder, wipe his bum, feed him tuna, give him meds, wrap him in blankets, prop him up by the heater, let him sit in the yard, wash his back legs which are black after being dragged through the dirt, torture him with the blowdryer, feed him more tuna, squeeze his bladder, wipe his bum, and cuddle with him in the bed.
My mom is here this weekend visiting and it is lovely to have someone else mothering the cat. I get to read the paper, a book, write in the blog, and just take it easy.
Now, off to manicure pedicure, because my nails and toes are starting to look like inviting to Digger the Dermatiphite.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Bitey yard sale
Haven't written for a while...and this week's excuse is...
Last weekend was devoted entirely to planning and executing a fundraising yard sale for Bitey. Two of my cat loving friends from work who make up the Kitty Council came over on Sunday April 2nd with two full car loads of stuff.
It was of course the first day of daylight savings, so I got a late start, and the professional yard-salers were in my driveway picking through the jewelery and grabbing bag fulls of CDs.
Then people starting coming in two's and three's for the rest of the day, until about 2pm when traffic dropped off dramatically. I think that's the time that people start thinking about groceries and Sunday dinner.
The most amazing part was that all of my neighbors came by and bought something, all refusing change for their tens and twenties.
My friends also came by to see Bitey, who received visitors while wrapped in blanket on my bed. We've become so accustomed to seeing Bitey drag his behind around the house that I was suprised by their strong reaction to his new mode of transport.
We ended up making $340 which is a pretty good haul($20 of which went to a big pizza). An organized blogger would have taken pictures, but I, as you may have gleaned, am not so organized. So I'll leave you with a mental picture instead
Around 2pm as traffic began to slow, I wrapped Bitey in his blanket and brought him down the driveway to be the guest star of his own yard sale. He wasn't entirely comfortable so close to the street, and after a brief time struggled to get back to the house. I put him down on the driveway, grabbed his back legs, and ran, full speed, behind my cat who raced like a leopard back to the safety of the house. My friends were howling with laughter at the sight of me, bent full double trying to keep up with my speed demon cat.
I think Bitey was, while admittedly terrified, also exhilarated to be running that fast. I really need to get him a kitty cart...
Last weekend was devoted entirely to planning and executing a fundraising yard sale for Bitey. Two of my cat loving friends from work who make up the Kitty Council came over on Sunday April 2nd with two full car loads of stuff.
It was of course the first day of daylight savings, so I got a late start, and the professional yard-salers were in my driveway picking through the jewelery and grabbing bag fulls of CDs.
Then people starting coming in two's and three's for the rest of the day, until about 2pm when traffic dropped off dramatically. I think that's the time that people start thinking about groceries and Sunday dinner.
The most amazing part was that all of my neighbors came by and bought something, all refusing change for their tens and twenties.
My friends also came by to see Bitey, who received visitors while wrapped in blanket on my bed. We've become so accustomed to seeing Bitey drag his behind around the house that I was suprised by their strong reaction to his new mode of transport.
We ended up making $340 which is a pretty good haul($20 of which went to a big pizza). An organized blogger would have taken pictures, but I, as you may have gleaned, am not so organized. So I'll leave you with a mental picture instead
Around 2pm as traffic began to slow, I wrapped Bitey in his blanket and brought him down the driveway to be the guest star of his own yard sale. He wasn't entirely comfortable so close to the street, and after a brief time struggled to get back to the house. I put him down on the driveway, grabbed his back legs, and ran, full speed, behind my cat who raced like a leopard back to the safety of the house. My friends were howling with laughter at the sight of me, bent full double trying to keep up with my speed demon cat.
I think Bitey was, while admittedly terrified, also exhilarated to be running that fast. I really need to get him a kitty cart...
Happy Anniversary (one day late)
Yesterday, March 30th, was the one month anniversary of Bitey's revised life expectancy. Of the four months he was given on February 28th, he has made it through one of them. Although in my heart I believe he can make it for longer, that clock continues to tick.
Bitey spent yesterday at the West LA Kitty Oncologist's. I have to drop him off by 7:30am in order to get to work on time. Then after work, I have to drive back, pick him up and fight hellacious traffic to get home. You may ask, where is Boyfriend in all of this? Well, in my head I'm "saving" him. My work occasionally demands that I jump on a plane with no notice and go somewhere for an indeterminate period of time. And then all the burdens of caring for Bitey end up on the boyfriend's shoulders. Which means I should really try to teach him bladder expression!
So the oncologist was again pleased with Bitey's progress. The cat seems to be making motions towards walking, and holding his own weight, although he can't do both at the same time.
I asked about Bitey's epic bout of drooling this past week. I would come home from work to find the cat's mouth and neck covered in an odorific slime. He said it was probably nausea, as Bitey's latest chemo drug was the toughest on cats. Bitey's on L-Asparagin this week, which is the first chemo drug he took last month. So hopefully the drool factory will close up shop.
I also asked another question, knowing full well that there was no real medical answer. Why did Bitey, who loved to hide under the covers and sleep there for hours, all of a sudden last Sunday reject being anywhere near the bed? If I picked him up and put him on the bed, he reacted as if I had put him in a wriggling mass of puppies. One of the main things keeping his parents going was the fact that he would curl up between us at night and purr as we scratched him behind his ears and rubbed his belly. Did he have a bad experience on the bed? Did he hate us because of all the medications we made him take? Or worst, had the cancer begun to eat into his brain, changing his behaviors?
The vet, while an accomplished kitty oncologist was not a kitty psychologist. He didn't have an answer for us in that department. I might have to settle for the fact that Bitey felt most comfortable sleeping in his cage, alone.
So, we drove home. I let Bitey out of his carrier for the hour plus drive back to Hollywood. He has gotten bolder in the car, and around Beverly Glen and Sunset hauled himself up onto the passenger seat and began looking out the window. I would worry about the safety factor, except we never go more than ten mph the whole way home...
So imagine the surprise of Mr. Rich Bald Guy in his Bentley, Little Miss Precious in her Beamer, and Mr. Macho Metrosexual in his tiny convertible with the top down, despite the frigid weather. They are chatting on cell, oblivious to the world, but turn their heads to check out the status of the car next to them. And what do they see? An orange and white kitty head staring quizzically at them from my car. Now that's something you don't see everyday, even in Los Angeles.
I would have written about this yesterday, but I got home and fell asleep almost immediately at 6:31pm, woke up briefly around 11pm to realize that I hadn't expressed the cat or given him his prednisone and conked out again. So, on the one month anniversary of Bitey's prognosis, I treated myself to ELEVEN HOURS OF SLEEP.
And the best part of that sleep? Bitey spent seven of those hours in the bed with us. Boyfriend spent two hours with him on the couch, and then brought him into the bedroom around 11pm, just to see if he would stay. And stay he did. I was awoken at 5:31 this morning by the gentle track of claws across my face. Just enough claw to ensure I would wake up, but never enough to wound. That's my guy. Happy Anniversary Bitey Boo, let's hope there will be many more.
Bitey spent yesterday at the West LA Kitty Oncologist's. I have to drop him off by 7:30am in order to get to work on time. Then after work, I have to drive back, pick him up and fight hellacious traffic to get home. You may ask, where is Boyfriend in all of this? Well, in my head I'm "saving" him. My work occasionally demands that I jump on a plane with no notice and go somewhere for an indeterminate period of time. And then all the burdens of caring for Bitey end up on the boyfriend's shoulders. Which means I should really try to teach him bladder expression!
So the oncologist was again pleased with Bitey's progress. The cat seems to be making motions towards walking, and holding his own weight, although he can't do both at the same time.
I asked about Bitey's epic bout of drooling this past week. I would come home from work to find the cat's mouth and neck covered in an odorific slime. He said it was probably nausea, as Bitey's latest chemo drug was the toughest on cats. Bitey's on L-Asparagin this week, which is the first chemo drug he took last month. So hopefully the drool factory will close up shop.
I also asked another question, knowing full well that there was no real medical answer. Why did Bitey, who loved to hide under the covers and sleep there for hours, all of a sudden last Sunday reject being anywhere near the bed? If I picked him up and put him on the bed, he reacted as if I had put him in a wriggling mass of puppies. One of the main things keeping his parents going was the fact that he would curl up between us at night and purr as we scratched him behind his ears and rubbed his belly. Did he have a bad experience on the bed? Did he hate us because of all the medications we made him take? Or worst, had the cancer begun to eat into his brain, changing his behaviors?
The vet, while an accomplished kitty oncologist was not a kitty psychologist. He didn't have an answer for us in that department. I might have to settle for the fact that Bitey felt most comfortable sleeping in his cage, alone.
So, we drove home. I let Bitey out of his carrier for the hour plus drive back to Hollywood. He has gotten bolder in the car, and around Beverly Glen and Sunset hauled himself up onto the passenger seat and began looking out the window. I would worry about the safety factor, except we never go more than ten mph the whole way home...
So imagine the surprise of Mr. Rich Bald Guy in his Bentley, Little Miss Precious in her Beamer, and Mr. Macho Metrosexual in his tiny convertible with the top down, despite the frigid weather. They are chatting on cell, oblivious to the world, but turn their heads to check out the status of the car next to them. And what do they see? An orange and white kitty head staring quizzically at them from my car. Now that's something you don't see everyday, even in Los Angeles.
I would have written about this yesterday, but I got home and fell asleep almost immediately at 6:31pm, woke up briefly around 11pm to realize that I hadn't expressed the cat or given him his prednisone and conked out again. So, on the one month anniversary of Bitey's prognosis, I treated myself to ELEVEN HOURS OF SLEEP.
And the best part of that sleep? Bitey spent seven of those hours in the bed with us. Boyfriend spent two hours with him on the couch, and then brought him into the bedroom around 11pm, just to see if he would stay. And stay he did. I was awoken at 5:31 this morning by the gentle track of claws across my face. Just enough claw to ensure I would wake up, but never enough to wound. That's my guy. Happy Anniversary Bitey Boo, let's hope there will be many more.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
What Price Love?
2/11/06:
Visit to local vet to find out if cat's back legs are hurt several days after fall from tree:
$87.00
2/18/06:
Deposit for Bitey's hospitalization and diagnosis at Kitty Surgical Center: $2,000
2/21/06:
The balance for the rest of Bitey's diagnostic tests and hospital care at the Kitty Surgical Center:
$733.00 (See Invoice).
(FYI: The $2,733.00 total at the Kitty Surgical Center was discounted from $3,400 by the kindly doctor who cared for Bitey. I guess she knew what was coming.)
2/21/06:
Cage and sick kitty care items at Petco:
$136.34
2/22/06:
First (and least expensive) visit to the lovely Orange County kitty neurologist: $79.00
2/27/06:
Kitty MRI, including anesthesia, as ordered by lovely OC kitty neurologist, and performed by Kitty Medical Imagining Center (also in the OC):
$1,169.95 (See Invoice).
3/1/06:
Re-check and first dose of Kitty Chemo at Orange County Neurologist's: $249.00
3/2/06
Consultation, chemo, and first radiation treatment (including anesthesia) from West LA Kitty Oncologist:
$796.27
3/2/06
Another visit to Petco for wee-wee pads, kitty wipes, and kitty diapers:
$65.91
3/9/06
2nd radiation treatment, chemo etc at West LA Oncologist:
$393.62
3/13/06
Total costs for all hospitalization, bladder expression ($10 per squeeze), medication, and loving care at local vet's office for several weeks (and I'm almost positive there was a big "kitty pity" discount somewhere in here:
$423.00
3/16/06
3rd radiation treatment and chemo at West LA Oncologist:
$388.90
3/20/06
Bitey's stay at local vet while his parent's take brief pre-scheduled weekend vacation in San Diego for World Baseball Classic (and come home early b/c they miss their sick kitty:
$105
3/23/06
Chemo, recheck and blood count at West LA Oncologist:
$226.98
3/30/06
Re-Check, Blood Count, Kitty Chemo at West LA Oncologist:
$279.44
So, without bothering to factor in gas prices all the drives to the O.C. and West LA, the grand total comes to:
(Drumroll please)
$7,133.41
This Picture?
And This?
And This?
Priceless.
(Okay, has the priceless thing been done enough? Yes. But I charged this all to my Mastercard, so I earned it!)
Speaking of which, here are my favorite invoices:
Visit to local vet to find out if cat's back legs are hurt several days after fall from tree:
$87.00
2/18/06:
Deposit for Bitey's hospitalization and diagnosis at Kitty Surgical Center: $2,000
2/21/06:
The balance for the rest of Bitey's diagnostic tests and hospital care at the Kitty Surgical Center:
$733.00 (See Invoice).
(FYI: The $2,733.00 total at the Kitty Surgical Center was discounted from $3,400 by the kindly doctor who cared for Bitey. I guess she knew what was coming.)
2/21/06:
Cage and sick kitty care items at Petco:
$136.34
2/22/06:
First (and least expensive) visit to the lovely Orange County kitty neurologist: $79.00
2/27/06:
Kitty MRI, including anesthesia, as ordered by lovely OC kitty neurologist, and performed by Kitty Medical Imagining Center (also in the OC):
$1,169.95 (See Invoice).
3/1/06:
Re-check and first dose of Kitty Chemo at Orange County Neurologist's: $249.00
3/2/06
Consultation, chemo, and first radiation treatment (including anesthesia) from West LA Kitty Oncologist:
$796.27
3/2/06
Another visit to Petco for wee-wee pads, kitty wipes, and kitty diapers:
$65.91
3/9/06
2nd radiation treatment, chemo etc at West LA Oncologist:
$393.62
3/13/06
Total costs for all hospitalization, bladder expression ($10 per squeeze), medication, and loving care at local vet's office for several weeks (and I'm almost positive there was a big "kitty pity" discount somewhere in here:
$423.00
3/16/06
3rd radiation treatment and chemo at West LA Oncologist:
$388.90
3/20/06
Bitey's stay at local vet while his parent's take brief pre-scheduled weekend vacation in San Diego for World Baseball Classic (and come home early b/c they miss their sick kitty:
$105
3/23/06
Chemo, recheck and blood count at West LA Oncologist:
$226.98
3/30/06
Re-Check, Blood Count, Kitty Chemo at West LA Oncologist:
$279.44
So, without bothering to factor in gas prices all the drives to the O.C. and West LA, the grand total comes to:
(Drumroll please)
$7,133.41
This Picture?
And This?
And This?
Priceless.
(Okay, has the priceless thing been done enough? Yes. But I charged this all to my Mastercard, so I earned it!)
Speaking of which, here are my favorite invoices:
Friday, March 24, 2006
The Bedbug
Just because it's Friday, here's my favorite Bitey picture of all time. There's nothing my cat loves (loved?) more than getting his grimy, muddy paws on newly changed sheets. Sometimes he'd end up under the fitted sheet, content just to sit there. I wondered about oxygen levels, but he always seemed content.
This time he ended up above the fitted sheet but deep under the duvet. I had walked away for a moment and when I came back he had stuck his head out from under the covers. I ran for the camera...
Under the covers is the place where Bitey feels the safest lately. He sleeps there, between us, all night long, until I am awakened at 5:30am by a slapshot from his paw, saying "Get up, lady, I'm hungry!"
This time he ended up above the fitted sheet but deep under the duvet. I had walked away for a moment and when I came back he had stuck his head out from under the covers. I ran for the camera...
Under the covers is the place where Bitey feels the safest lately. He sleeps there, between us, all night long, until I am awakened at 5:30am by a slapshot from his paw, saying "Get up, lady, I'm hungry!"
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Bitey Update: Thursday March 23rd
Bitey went to West LA today, presumably for his fourth dose of kitty radiation. But I got a call from the kitty radiologist who said that he didn't recommend giving the fourth dose.
He said that radiation had probably reached the limit of what it could do in terms of making Bitey walk again. "If it hasn't worked by now, it probably isn't going to."
It was hard to hear. Bitey has gotten progressively better after each radiology field trip. To have that taken away...
But Bitey will still get kitty chemo and kitty steroids, and the doctor suprised me by enthusiastically recommending the K-9 Kittycart. So this weekend, I'll attempt to take Bitey's measurements for the kitty cart. And believe me, there WILL be video.
He said that radiation had probably reached the limit of what it could do in terms of making Bitey walk again. "If it hasn't worked by now, it probably isn't going to."
It was hard to hear. Bitey has gotten progressively better after each radiology field trip. To have that taken away...
But Bitey will still get kitty chemo and kitty steroids, and the doctor suprised me by enthusiastically recommending the K-9 Kittycart. So this weekend, I'll attempt to take Bitey's measurements for the kitty cart. And believe me, there WILL be video.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
One Eyed Jack
There is a cat at my local vet who is looking for a home. His name is One Eyed Jack. Three guesses why. He was taken in by a technician there, but she can't keep him. He is a long haired tabby, about five years old, with a strong resemblence to a Maine Coon Cat. The tech says he is very good and patient, you can pick him up and hold him without resistance. He sits all day long in a cage in the front of the vet's office looking patient and sad, staring at the world from his one good eye. Every day I see him I want to take him home, but obviously I can't. Want a cat? Swing by my vet and check out Jack. Click here for the address.
Goin' Mobile
On the mobility front, Bitey is still dragging, but he is more than happy to allow me to grab his hind legs like a wheelbarrow. This allows him to run around the house with ease and grace. I, on the other hand, am bent double, running around like a kitty sherpa.
I've tried wrapping the cat's rear in a long Hawaiian print scarf so that I can hold his rear upright without turning myself into a hunchback, but he ineveitably twists his way out of that.
I've also tried creating a "do it yourself" kitty cart with roller skates and a cardboard box. The results were, to say the least, predictable.
So, while wincing at the $275 dollar cost, I am seriously considering investinging in a proper "kitty cart."
K-9 Carts has an impressive looking device. I'd love to see Bitey tooling around the yard what looks like a mobile Pilates reformer. However, with the total Bitey tab closing in on $7000, and my credit score in freefall, I have to ask whether this is a wise investment for a cat with a life expectancy of four months. On the other hand, there is nothing more pathetic than watching your once active and graceful cat dragging his rear end around from door to door, looking longingly through the glass at the little universe he once ruled.
I do let Bitey out at least twice a day, at least long enough to chew on some grass and watch the birds. We have not yet encountered any of the neighborhood felines, for which Bitey and I are both grateful. I think he would be humiliated to be caught using his human as a transportation device.
You know of course that this sucker is totally going to be ordering a kitty cart, right? I just hope my future children enjoy community college.
I've tried wrapping the cat's rear in a long Hawaiian print scarf so that I can hold his rear upright without turning myself into a hunchback, but he ineveitably twists his way out of that.
I've also tried creating a "do it yourself" kitty cart with roller skates and a cardboard box. The results were, to say the least, predictable.
So, while wincing at the $275 dollar cost, I am seriously considering investinging in a proper "kitty cart."
K-9 Carts has an impressive looking device. I'd love to see Bitey tooling around the yard what looks like a mobile Pilates reformer. However, with the total Bitey tab closing in on $7000, and my credit score in freefall, I have to ask whether this is a wise investment for a cat with a life expectancy of four months. On the other hand, there is nothing more pathetic than watching your once active and graceful cat dragging his rear end around from door to door, looking longingly through the glass at the little universe he once ruled.
I do let Bitey out at least twice a day, at least long enough to chew on some grass and watch the birds. We have not yet encountered any of the neighborhood felines, for which Bitey and I are both grateful. I think he would be humiliated to be caught using his human as a transportation device.
You know of course that this sucker is totally going to be ordering a kitty cart, right? I just hope my future children enjoy community college.
Bitey Update: Wednesday March 22nd
Okay, so as a blogger, I am definitely lacking.
Since I last wrote, Bitey has had his third radiation treatment, and tomorrow will go to the kitty oncologist for his 4th and presumably final treatment. One the one hand, my wallet is profoundly grateful to be nearing the conclusion of this $400 dollar a week drain. However, Bitey has made such marked improvement after each treatment that I am sorry and scared to see it end.
After last week's treatment,the kitty oncologist called Bitey's progress "miraculous." Of course, he followed this by saying that this improvement is most likely a brief reprieve before the inevitable end.
It's hard to hear about the end, especially when Bitey is putting more and more weight on his back legs. When he is at the food bowl, you can arrange his back legs in a standing position, and he'll, for the most part, stay that way. He still lacks the strength to balance his rear end, so if you take your hand away completely he'll gently fall over to one side. However, if you keep just the slightest pressure on one side of his back end, he'll do all the work to hold up his rear.
Another positive sign: While Bitey cannot walk on his back legs, they do "twitch" often, and if he is dragging along the floor with his legs splayed out behind him, he can actually "twitch" his left leg into a better position.
On the negative side: He's getting nosebleeds. This is a classic Feline Leukemia Virus symptom, which means that whatever good the chemo and radiation are doing, it's not quite enough.
So we wait and see what tomorrow brings.
Since I last wrote, Bitey has had his third radiation treatment, and tomorrow will go to the kitty oncologist for his 4th and presumably final treatment. One the one hand, my wallet is profoundly grateful to be nearing the conclusion of this $400 dollar a week drain. However, Bitey has made such marked improvement after each treatment that I am sorry and scared to see it end.
After last week's treatment,the kitty oncologist called Bitey's progress "miraculous." Of course, he followed this by saying that this improvement is most likely a brief reprieve before the inevitable end.
It's hard to hear about the end, especially when Bitey is putting more and more weight on his back legs. When he is at the food bowl, you can arrange his back legs in a standing position, and he'll, for the most part, stay that way. He still lacks the strength to balance his rear end, so if you take your hand away completely he'll gently fall over to one side. However, if you keep just the slightest pressure on one side of his back end, he'll do all the work to hold up his rear.
Another positive sign: While Bitey cannot walk on his back legs, they do "twitch" often, and if he is dragging along the floor with his legs splayed out behind him, he can actually "twitch" his left leg into a better position.
On the negative side: He's getting nosebleeds. This is a classic Feline Leukemia Virus symptom, which means that whatever good the chemo and radiation are doing, it's not quite enough.
So we wait and see what tomorrow brings.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Bitey Update: Sunday March 12th, 2006
Long time, no post.
Tuesday: The long run of not traveling for work came to an end Tuesday. I had to jump a plane to Phoenix, leaving Boyfriend to care for Bitey.
Unfortunately, the Boyfriend is in the thick of writing a new screenplay and time is of the essence. Also he is not a board-certified Bitey bladder expresser, so he has to leave his writing partner to take Bitey to the vet two times a day. Not good.
Wednesday: In an attempt to get any work done whatsoever, Boyfriend takes Bitey to the vet. In Phoenix, I feel like a Bad Mommy.
Thursday: Boyfriend wakes up super early (a real feat) and takes Bitey for his weekly radiation field trip. The kitty radiologist calls me after Bitey's treatment to say that he has seen some improvement in the cat, but says that if he doesn't see significant improvement this next week, he will stop radiation and chemo. In the middle of my job, it's hard to process this, but on the plane ride home that evening, I start thinking about the implications of that statement. I wonder what significant improvement means. Walking? Peeing on his own? What?
The vet also tells me that for the next two days, Bitey's pee is toxic. "Don't panic," he says. "Just wear gloves, and if he pees anywhere else, wipe it down with bleach." Great. Toxic kitty.
I come home late Thursday night. In front of my car at LAX I realize I have lost the car keys. So Best Boyfriend Ever has to drive all the way from Hollywood to LAX to give me the spare key. Then we both go to pick up Bitey at the kitty radiologists. It's 10:30pm by the time we all get home.
Friday: I bumble through work at the office, then take Bitey to the local vet for a professional expression. The local vet is very pleased with Bitey's progress. His front legs have become incredibly strong, like steel bars, and he uses them to full effect to try and resist being put on the scale. He also has increased "bum strength" which means he can make the necessary squeezing motion needed to evacuate his own bowels. He just has no back leg strength.
So we make it, barely, to another weekend. I have spent this weekend blissfully doing very little. Most time spent pulling stuff together for a Bitey fundraising yard sale, watching Red Sox spring training games, and smearing various creams on my cat's bum.
Bitey spends most of his time sleeping, which is not abnormal. Healthy cats can sleep 18-20 hours a day anyway. Our cat has developed a fondness for burrowing under the covers on the bed. He stays there for hours. He also stares out the window longingly.
I wish I could let him go outside, but you can't say to a cat, Bitey, you're sick. Why don't you just sun yourself on the porch, instead of trying to drag your paralyzed behind down the steps and onto the dirt. They lack the concept of restraint.
Right now, Bitey is hiding under the duvet, curled up against my leg as I type. He has developed a fondness for hiding under the covers, sometimes for hours. He has also developed a disdain for normal cat food, almost as if to say,
"You have put things up my butt, down my throat, and in my veins. You squeeze my bladder until toxic urine scalds my backside. Give me tuna."
So we do. Tuna straight from the can, milk in a bowl, and all the broccoli he wants. I mean, what's it going to do?
Tuesday: The long run of not traveling for work came to an end Tuesday. I had to jump a plane to Phoenix, leaving Boyfriend to care for Bitey.
Unfortunately, the Boyfriend is in the thick of writing a new screenplay and time is of the essence. Also he is not a board-certified Bitey bladder expresser, so he has to leave his writing partner to take Bitey to the vet two times a day. Not good.
Wednesday: In an attempt to get any work done whatsoever, Boyfriend takes Bitey to the vet. In Phoenix, I feel like a Bad Mommy.
Thursday: Boyfriend wakes up super early (a real feat) and takes Bitey for his weekly radiation field trip. The kitty radiologist calls me after Bitey's treatment to say that he has seen some improvement in the cat, but says that if he doesn't see significant improvement this next week, he will stop radiation and chemo. In the middle of my job, it's hard to process this, but on the plane ride home that evening, I start thinking about the implications of that statement. I wonder what significant improvement means. Walking? Peeing on his own? What?
The vet also tells me that for the next two days, Bitey's pee is toxic. "Don't panic," he says. "Just wear gloves, and if he pees anywhere else, wipe it down with bleach." Great. Toxic kitty.
I come home late Thursday night. In front of my car at LAX I realize I have lost the car keys. So Best Boyfriend Ever has to drive all the way from Hollywood to LAX to give me the spare key. Then we both go to pick up Bitey at the kitty radiologists. It's 10:30pm by the time we all get home.
Friday: I bumble through work at the office, then take Bitey to the local vet for a professional expression. The local vet is very pleased with Bitey's progress. His front legs have become incredibly strong, like steel bars, and he uses them to full effect to try and resist being put on the scale. He also has increased "bum strength" which means he can make the necessary squeezing motion needed to evacuate his own bowels. He just has no back leg strength.
So we make it, barely, to another weekend. I have spent this weekend blissfully doing very little. Most time spent pulling stuff together for a Bitey fundraising yard sale, watching Red Sox spring training games, and smearing various creams on my cat's bum.
Bitey spends most of his time sleeping, which is not abnormal. Healthy cats can sleep 18-20 hours a day anyway. Our cat has developed a fondness for burrowing under the covers on the bed. He stays there for hours. He also stares out the window longingly.
I wish I could let him go outside, but you can't say to a cat, Bitey, you're sick. Why don't you just sun yourself on the porch, instead of trying to drag your paralyzed behind down the steps and onto the dirt. They lack the concept of restraint.
Right now, Bitey is hiding under the duvet, curled up against my leg as I type. He has developed a fondness for hiding under the covers, sometimes for hours. He has also developed a disdain for normal cat food, almost as if to say,
"You have put things up my butt, down my throat, and in my veins. You squeeze my bladder until toxic urine scalds my backside. Give me tuna."
So we do. Tuna straight from the can, milk in a bowl, and all the broccoli he wants. I mean, what's it going to do?
Monday, March 06, 2006
Bitey Update: Monday March 6th
Took the weekend off from writing just to try and get a grip. Things have settled into a routine that, while far from normal, is at least a routine.
The day after radiation, Bitey was once again able to feel his back paws. If you pinch his toe, he pulls away. Another small improvement: If you position Bitey in a sitting position, he is able to stay there for a while, rather than flop immediately over.
He seems to be handling the chemo and steroids fairly well, although I feel like Bitey doesn't drink enough liquids. He rejects water, and will only drink milk occasionally.
TMI ALERT
This past weekend, I practiced a new skill: bladder expression. It's not easy, you have to find the bladder with your hand, grip it firmly through skin, fat and muscle, and squeeze firmly in and upward and outward direction. It feels like a water balloon and can slip easily out of your grasp. But if you squeeze firmly enough, sure enough the pee comes out. Sometimes you get a bonus treat too.
We still have to take Bitey to the vet at least once a day, because I can't fully empty his bladder.
Bitey's next radiation treatment is Thursday. I still hope he'll walk again, even if only for a little while. But, be fully warned, the girl who put her cat in a doggy diaper is not above buying a kitty cart. I think Bitey would take well to wheels. He is definitely frustrated with his lack of speed.
So far we've been lucky. Since last Thursday, when I was off work, Bitey has always had company during the day. But tomorrow it will be just Bitey here all day. I'm definitely worried, because he needs to be moved during the day, flipped from side to side, so his bones don't cut through his skin. I hope he'll motivate on his own. Anyone want to come to my house and flip my cat like a pancake?
The day after radiation, Bitey was once again able to feel his back paws. If you pinch his toe, he pulls away. Another small improvement: If you position Bitey in a sitting position, he is able to stay there for a while, rather than flop immediately over.
He seems to be handling the chemo and steroids fairly well, although I feel like Bitey doesn't drink enough liquids. He rejects water, and will only drink milk occasionally.
TMI ALERT
This past weekend, I practiced a new skill: bladder expression. It's not easy, you have to find the bladder with your hand, grip it firmly through skin, fat and muscle, and squeeze firmly in and upward and outward direction. It feels like a water balloon and can slip easily out of your grasp. But if you squeeze firmly enough, sure enough the pee comes out. Sometimes you get a bonus treat too.
We still have to take Bitey to the vet at least once a day, because I can't fully empty his bladder.
Bitey's next radiation treatment is Thursday. I still hope he'll walk again, even if only for a little while. But, be fully warned, the girl who put her cat in a doggy diaper is not above buying a kitty cart. I think Bitey would take well to wheels. He is definitely frustrated with his lack of speed.
So far we've been lucky. Since last Thursday, when I was off work, Bitey has always had company during the day. But tomorrow it will be just Bitey here all day. I'm definitely worried, because he needs to be moved during the day, flipped from side to side, so his bones don't cut through his skin. I hope he'll motivate on his own. Anyone want to come to my house and flip my cat like a pancake?
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Bitey Update: Thursday,March 2nd 2006
Another day off from work. Can only picture colleagues gathered around water cooler..."Where is she? A cat? Really?"
Great.
TMI ALERT
Anyway, I take Bitey out of his cage at around 6:30 am. I lift him up by his front half and hold him in my arms. Oh, Gravity, you fickle mistress. Bitey, who has really had no trouble in the "Number Two" department, shits all over my exposed leg.
One hour later.
I take Bitey to the local vet to have his bladder expressed. I really have to learn this skill. While Bitey is being squeezed, I glance over at Winky, who is occupying a top level cage in the hospital area. Winky is my favorite orphan cat. Found under a building, he has one horribly red and infected eye. Today however his eye is stapled shut, and he looks even more like the Terminator. Winky is young and alive and happy. It's nice to see.
A few hours later we are on our way back to West LA to see the specialty oncologist.
When the doctor comes into the room, Bitey hisses at him. This is the first time Bitey has ever hissed at a vet (unless of course the vet has his finger up Bitey's bum). The cat must be really tired of doctors. Doc tells me the options, tries to diminish my expectations, and then describes what he will do to attack the mass choking Bitey's spinal cord.
Bitey will receive four radiation treatments, one every Thursday. He will also be started on a chemotherapy protocol. (Promise, names of drugs this weekend!)
Since no pet hospital is large enough for a giant radiation emitting device, the vet takes The Caravan of Cancer Cats over to UCLA. It's like a radioactive field trip.
So the doctor takes Bitey, and I am told to return at 4pm. I spend the time wandering around the Century City mall, then return to the kitty hospital.
The doctor brings Bitey back into the room. He is sacked OUT. This is from the anesthesia needed to keep Bitey perfectly still while he is irradiated. I can just picture this perfect row of anesthetized cats outside the radiation chamber.
One in, ZAP! One out, another in, ZAP!
Anyway, the doctor takes extra time with me to try and teach me how to express Bitey's bladder. He draws diagrams, explains the theory, places my hands in the right place, and is generally extremely patient. (I guess there are bad vets out there somewhere, but I have yet to meet one.)
After being assured that it would take a lot to burst the bladder by over squeezing, and that it wasn't likely I would mistakenly grab hold of a kidney or a spleen, I started feeling around my cat's gut. After much exploration, I am briefly able to grab hold of the squishy round thing that feels like a water balloon. I squeeze, hard, and a little dribble of pee comes out the other end.
It's a start. The vet expresses the rest, and we call it a day. Next appointment is one week from today. Round 2 of radiation and chemo.
We drive home in hellacious traffic, Bitey curled up in a nest of towels on the floor of the car. When we get home, he stays awake long enough to eat. He's not really drinking water with great enthusiasm, so I have to work on that.
tomorrow, I attempt expression!
J
Great.
TMI ALERT
Anyway, I take Bitey out of his cage at around 6:30 am. I lift him up by his front half and hold him in my arms. Oh, Gravity, you fickle mistress. Bitey, who has really had no trouble in the "Number Two" department, shits all over my exposed leg.
One hour later.
I take Bitey to the local vet to have his bladder expressed. I really have to learn this skill. While Bitey is being squeezed, I glance over at Winky, who is occupying a top level cage in the hospital area. Winky is my favorite orphan cat. Found under a building, he has one horribly red and infected eye. Today however his eye is stapled shut, and he looks even more like the Terminator. Winky is young and alive and happy. It's nice to see.
A few hours later we are on our way back to West LA to see the specialty oncologist.
When the doctor comes into the room, Bitey hisses at him. This is the first time Bitey has ever hissed at a vet (unless of course the vet has his finger up Bitey's bum). The cat must be really tired of doctors. Doc tells me the options, tries to diminish my expectations, and then describes what he will do to attack the mass choking Bitey's spinal cord.
Bitey will receive four radiation treatments, one every Thursday. He will also be started on a chemotherapy protocol. (Promise, names of drugs this weekend!)
Since no pet hospital is large enough for a giant radiation emitting device, the vet takes The Caravan of Cancer Cats over to UCLA. It's like a radioactive field trip.
So the doctor takes Bitey, and I am told to return at 4pm. I spend the time wandering around the Century City mall, then return to the kitty hospital.
The doctor brings Bitey back into the room. He is sacked OUT. This is from the anesthesia needed to keep Bitey perfectly still while he is irradiated. I can just picture this perfect row of anesthetized cats outside the radiation chamber.
One in, ZAP! One out, another in, ZAP!
Anyway, the doctor takes extra time with me to try and teach me how to express Bitey's bladder. He draws diagrams, explains the theory, places my hands in the right place, and is generally extremely patient. (I guess there are bad vets out there somewhere, but I have yet to meet one.)
After being assured that it would take a lot to burst the bladder by over squeezing, and that it wasn't likely I would mistakenly grab hold of a kidney or a spleen, I started feeling around my cat's gut. After much exploration, I am briefly able to grab hold of the squishy round thing that feels like a water balloon. I squeeze, hard, and a little dribble of pee comes out the other end.
It's a start. The vet expresses the rest, and we call it a day. Next appointment is one week from today. Round 2 of radiation and chemo.
We drive home in hellacious traffic, Bitey curled up in a nest of towels on the floor of the car. When we get home, he stays awake long enough to eat. He's not really drinking water with great enthusiasm, so I have to work on that.
tomorrow, I attempt expression!
J
Bitey Update: Wednesday, March 1st, 2006
I picked Bitey up at 9am from our local vet. He was quite alert, and immediately began trying to push his way out of his carrier. I know how I would feel about being crammed into a small black bag all the way down to Orange County, so I decided to let him spend the drive on the passenger side floor. This isn't something I would let a healthy cat get away with on a freeway drive, because it's not the safest mode of travel. But this is not a healthy cat, and I'd rather have him comfortably nested in a towel on the floor, licking his paws than going stir-crazy in a carrier for fifty-three miles.
We got to Irvine way ahead of our appointment time, so we took a little field trip to Newport Beach. (More on that later.)
Then we re-arrived at the kitty neurologist office. She re-examined Bitey, and told me that he wasn't feeling anything in his back paws. Which is bad. She also saw that Bitey was leaking urine, something I had already smelled on the drive down. This also concerned her, because it means that the mass may be spreading "south."
Then the kitty neurologist showed me Bitey's MRI films. It was chilling to see the cross sections of his spine. You could see where the "mass" was surrounding, then choking Bitey's spinal cord. Everyone is assuming that it's lymphoma, although without a biopsy there may never be a 100% positive diagnosis.
Then they took Bitey away for his first major treatment, a shot of allspar (?) The tech who brought him back said Bitey weighed a little over 14lbs. Is it possible that he's lost almost 2 pounds in two weeks? Part of the weight loss is muscle atrophy in his back legs.
We drove home. I brought Bitey into the house, the first time he'd been home since last Thursday. He was so deliriously happy to be home, purring like a maniac.
Later in the afternoon, I took him back to our local vet. After seeing his joy at being home, I was really resistant to the idea of leaving him there another night, but I know he needs their help with his bladder.
Fortunately, the vet agreed. He expressed Bitey's bladder as much as possible and told me to take him home. And that's where he is now. Tomorrow, a new doctor, who was praised by a friend as the "cocky, aggressive kitty radiologist." Will wonders never cease.
We got to Irvine way ahead of our appointment time, so we took a little field trip to Newport Beach. (More on that later.)
Then we re-arrived at the kitty neurologist office. She re-examined Bitey, and told me that he wasn't feeling anything in his back paws. Which is bad. She also saw that Bitey was leaking urine, something I had already smelled on the drive down. This also concerned her, because it means that the mass may be spreading "south."
Then the kitty neurologist showed me Bitey's MRI films. It was chilling to see the cross sections of his spine. You could see where the "mass" was surrounding, then choking Bitey's spinal cord. Everyone is assuming that it's lymphoma, although without a biopsy there may never be a 100% positive diagnosis.
Then they took Bitey away for his first major treatment, a shot of allspar (?) The tech who brought him back said Bitey weighed a little over 14lbs. Is it possible that he's lost almost 2 pounds in two weeks? Part of the weight loss is muscle atrophy in his back legs.
We drove home. I brought Bitey into the house, the first time he'd been home since last Thursday. He was so deliriously happy to be home, purring like a maniac.
Later in the afternoon, I took him back to our local vet. After seeing his joy at being home, I was really resistant to the idea of leaving him there another night, but I know he needs their help with his bladder.
Fortunately, the vet agreed. He expressed Bitey's bladder as much as possible and told me to take him home. And that's where he is now. Tomorrow, a new doctor, who was praised by a friend as the "cocky, aggressive kitty radiologist." Will wonders never cease.
Decision Making Philosophy
Throughout this ordeal, several people have echoed a dilemma I've been struggling with for some time. "If only you knew what Bitey wanted," they say.
I've thought about that a lot lately.
Bitey and I communicate on a basic level. He lets me know, with different meows, when he's hungry, happy, or disgruntled. If he's angry, or in pain, he'll hiss. On the flip side, I let Bitey know verbally when I'm not pleased with him (like the time he made off with an entire turkey carcass after Thanksgiving...although I clearly sent a mixed message because I was also laughing so hard I thought I might pee).
Bitey also has a vast array of subtler facial expressions, but the meaning of these are unclear. I know he's thinking something, but what?
So it took me until yesterday to realize that I did, indeed know what my cat wanted.
Bitey wants to eat (cat food, tuna, turkey carcasses, broccoli, butter). Bitey wants to sleep (on the back cushion of the sofa, in our bed, on the warm cover of our non-functional hot tub). Bitey wants to look at birds, and make that weird predatory "ack, ack, ack" noise. In short, Bitey wants to be at home, living his normal life.
Obviously, only some of this is possible now. But thinking about Bitey's simple pleasures helped me figure out which treatment option (see previous post) to choose.
Option 1) Putting him to sleep just doesn't seem right...yet. There's still too much life in his eyes, too much lust for food. That time may come, and soon, but it is not today.
Option 4) Surgery to remove the mass. This option was very tempting to a girl who likes to clean, clean, clean. But the post-op hospital stay is 3-7 days, and real recovery could take weeks. It just didn't seem to be a good way to spend our potentially limited Bitey quality time. Also, when we asked the kitty surgeon what she would do if this was her cat, surgery was not her choice.
That left Options 2 and 3. Option 2 was steroids combined with a shot of the kitty cancer "wonder drug" whose name I promise I will learn at some point (allspar?) That's what we did today (see next post).
Option 3 is chemotherapy and radiation. This is what we will do tomorrow.
And, in keeping with the theory of "what would Bitey want", our cat is finally home, at least for tonight. Bitey is laying at my side as I type, purring.
I've thought about that a lot lately.
Bitey and I communicate on a basic level. He lets me know, with different meows, when he's hungry, happy, or disgruntled. If he's angry, or in pain, he'll hiss. On the flip side, I let Bitey know verbally when I'm not pleased with him (like the time he made off with an entire turkey carcass after Thanksgiving...although I clearly sent a mixed message because I was also laughing so hard I thought I might pee).
Bitey also has a vast array of subtler facial expressions, but the meaning of these are unclear. I know he's thinking something, but what?
So it took me until yesterday to realize that I did, indeed know what my cat wanted.
Bitey wants to eat (cat food, tuna, turkey carcasses, broccoli, butter). Bitey wants to sleep (on the back cushion of the sofa, in our bed, on the warm cover of our non-functional hot tub). Bitey wants to look at birds, and make that weird predatory "ack, ack, ack" noise. In short, Bitey wants to be at home, living his normal life.
Obviously, only some of this is possible now. But thinking about Bitey's simple pleasures helped me figure out which treatment option (see previous post) to choose.
Option 1) Putting him to sleep just doesn't seem right...yet. There's still too much life in his eyes, too much lust for food. That time may come, and soon, but it is not today.
Option 4) Surgery to remove the mass. This option was very tempting to a girl who likes to clean, clean, clean. But the post-op hospital stay is 3-7 days, and real recovery could take weeks. It just didn't seem to be a good way to spend our potentially limited Bitey quality time. Also, when we asked the kitty surgeon what she would do if this was her cat, surgery was not her choice.
That left Options 2 and 3. Option 2 was steroids combined with a shot of the kitty cancer "wonder drug" whose name I promise I will learn at some point (allspar?) That's what we did today (see next post).
Option 3 is chemotherapy and radiation. This is what we will do tomorrow.
And, in keeping with the theory of "what would Bitey want", our cat is finally home, at least for tonight. Bitey is laying at my side as I type, purring.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Bitey Update: Tuesday February 28th
TMI ALERT first two graphs
Monday Bitey went for his MRI in Orange County. Boyfriend and I picked him up at the local vet's around 7:30am. He was in better spirits, having solved his "excretory issues" the night before, with a "helping hand" from both the on-call vet and her lab tech.
(How different is your life when the best news of the day comes from a kind vet tech, calling you at 7pm on a Sunday to tell you that your sick cat has pooped prodigiously?)
End TMI ALERT
So Boyfriend, (I'd call him Comedy Guy but I worry the Sports Guy might litigate) took Bitey to Orange County ahead of a massive rainstorm.
I went to work.
Several hours later we got the results. Boyfriend called from the doctor's office, and the phone on speaker. This is what I heard.
...arge mass...inside spinal...umn but...side...
So that didn't work too well.
Later I got the translation. Bitey has a large mass inside his spinal column but outside of his spinal cord. The mass is putting pressure on the cord, creating the paralysis. The mass was consistent with feline lymphoma, although they still didn't know for sure.
Bitey, sacked out from the anethesia, went back to the vet. He lay on the cold metal table oblivious as our family vet tried to gently gauge our readiness for Bitey's further decline. Then I carried him back to his cage, stroked his fur, and left.
Here's a picture I took Monday night, taken on my cell phone. Bitey is resting his head on a small stuffed chicken. He likes it because it's at just the right angle for his head.
---------------
Tuesday's first piece of information was that Bitey was negative for toxoplasmosis. You think?
Later I got a call from the kitty neurologist. She gave me the first really detailed set of options. Here they are in order of, well...
1) We could put Bitey to sleep. Every vet I talked to has told me that no one would think poorly of me if I did that...he's in that bad shape. More on that later.
2) We could treat Bitey with a steroid and a "wonder drug", the names of which I keep forgetting. It's the simplest option. Combined, these drugs are supposed to reduce lymphoma. You find out in a couple of days whether it's working or not.
3) We could embark on a full course of chemotherapy and radiation with a kitty oncologist. Kitty chemo is not as bad as human chemo. The dosages are less. It's still not easy. Lymphoma apparently responds well to chemo.
4) Then, there is the surgical option. The kitty neurologist would open Bitey up and do her best to relieve the compression on his spinal cord by cutting as much of the tumor out as she could. If Bitey made it through the surgery without complications, he would spend 3-7 days in the hospital and then need several weeks of recovery, and possibly chemo and radiation post-surgery.
And finally, the worst news. Whichever option we choose, it is very likely that Bitey will not live longer than four more months.
After all this news, I left work. I took Bitey's films over to the West LA Surgical Center for a second opinion. All the way west and all the way back east on Santa Monica Blvd, I thought about the four choices. I worked myself up into a pretty good state. I hadn't planned on visiting Bitey until later, but my car took the right turn automatically.
The moment I turned the corner into the hospital section Bitey started meowing. I opened the cage door and sat down on the floor. Bitey looked so much more alert than the night before. Own his own accord, he stood up, bearing his weight on his two front paws. He hasn't done that since last Friday. He started eating the food, as if to show me he still had an appetite. Then he dragged his useless back half out of the cage and onto my lap. This was a deliberate show of strength. For good measure, he peed all over my jeans. What a cat.
We sat for a while, both watching as a large black and white dog was put under anesthesia. We listened to the whimpers of the small terrier in the cage above, who fell out of the window of a moving car. We sized up the French Connection; three sad-eyed cats named Cleo, Shaquil, and Paris. And then I left, to think.
Which treatment do we choose? Which one is the most likely to give us the most time with the least discomfort? These are tonight's questions.
Monday Bitey went for his MRI in Orange County. Boyfriend and I picked him up at the local vet's around 7:30am. He was in better spirits, having solved his "excretory issues" the night before, with a "helping hand" from both the on-call vet and her lab tech.
(How different is your life when the best news of the day comes from a kind vet tech, calling you at 7pm on a Sunday to tell you that your sick cat has pooped prodigiously?)
End TMI ALERT
So Boyfriend, (I'd call him Comedy Guy but I worry the Sports Guy might litigate) took Bitey to Orange County ahead of a massive rainstorm.
I went to work.
Several hours later we got the results. Boyfriend called from the doctor's office, and the phone on speaker. This is what I heard.
...arge mass...inside spinal...umn but...side...
So that didn't work too well.
Later I got the translation. Bitey has a large mass inside his spinal column but outside of his spinal cord. The mass is putting pressure on the cord, creating the paralysis. The mass was consistent with feline lymphoma, although they still didn't know for sure.
Bitey, sacked out from the anethesia, went back to the vet. He lay on the cold metal table oblivious as our family vet tried to gently gauge our readiness for Bitey's further decline. Then I carried him back to his cage, stroked his fur, and left.
Here's a picture I took Monday night, taken on my cell phone. Bitey is resting his head on a small stuffed chicken. He likes it because it's at just the right angle for his head.---------------
Tuesday's first piece of information was that Bitey was negative for toxoplasmosis. You think?
Later I got a call from the kitty neurologist. She gave me the first really detailed set of options. Here they are in order of, well...
1) We could put Bitey to sleep. Every vet I talked to has told me that no one would think poorly of me if I did that...he's in that bad shape. More on that later.
2) We could treat Bitey with a steroid and a "wonder drug", the names of which I keep forgetting. It's the simplest option. Combined, these drugs are supposed to reduce lymphoma. You find out in a couple of days whether it's working or not.
3) We could embark on a full course of chemotherapy and radiation with a kitty oncologist. Kitty chemo is not as bad as human chemo. The dosages are less. It's still not easy. Lymphoma apparently responds well to chemo.
4) Then, there is the surgical option. The kitty neurologist would open Bitey up and do her best to relieve the compression on his spinal cord by cutting as much of the tumor out as she could. If Bitey made it through the surgery without complications, he would spend 3-7 days in the hospital and then need several weeks of recovery, and possibly chemo and radiation post-surgery.
And finally, the worst news. Whichever option we choose, it is very likely that Bitey will not live longer than four more months.
After all this news, I left work. I took Bitey's films over to the West LA Surgical Center for a second opinion. All the way west and all the way back east on Santa Monica Blvd, I thought about the four choices. I worked myself up into a pretty good state. I hadn't planned on visiting Bitey until later, but my car took the right turn automatically.
The moment I turned the corner into the hospital section Bitey started meowing. I opened the cage door and sat down on the floor. Bitey looked so much more alert than the night before. Own his own accord, he stood up, bearing his weight on his two front paws. He hasn't done that since last Friday. He started eating the food, as if to show me he still had an appetite. Then he dragged his useless back half out of the cage and onto my lap. This was a deliberate show of strength. For good measure, he peed all over my jeans. What a cat.
We sat for a while, both watching as a large black and white dog was put under anesthesia. We listened to the whimpers of the small terrier in the cage above, who fell out of the window of a moving car. We sized up the French Connection; three sad-eyed cats named Cleo, Shaquil, and Paris. And then I left, to think.
Which treatment do we choose? Which one is the most likely to give us the most time with the least discomfort? These are tonight's questions.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
You may wonder...
...if you have read enough posts, does this young lady have a life? Why, yes, yes, I do. I am a moderately well-adjusted pre-30 year old with a good job, a great guy, and a gorgeous cottage in Los Angeles. On any given day prior to the start of this odyssey, my cat was one of many things I was thankful for in life, but I did not sit home on weekends staring into his magnificent amber eyes. I traveled a lot for work, rode my bike, saw lots of movies, tried to make brunching an art form, and occasionally indulged my desire for high-priced electronic gadgets.
For the first two years after his FeLV+ diagnosis, whenever my cat did something particularly smart or funny, I smiled, but the same thought always bubbled to the surface of my brain: How long? Often it wasn't even a consciously worded question...I would just feel my smile twist a little. After we moved to the cottage, the question was still there, but it was silenced for long stretches by his continued good health.
Until two weeks ago, when the question resurfaced with renewed ferocity. How long? How long? How long? I'm writing now because posting kitty anecdotes to the web is cheaper than paying a therapist $130 dollars to talk about my cat. Or turning into the weeping cat lady at work. Because that would really be too much.
For the first two years after his FeLV+ diagnosis, whenever my cat did something particularly smart or funny, I smiled, but the same thought always bubbled to the surface of my brain: How long? Often it wasn't even a consciously worded question...I would just feel my smile twist a little. After we moved to the cottage, the question was still there, but it was silenced for long stretches by his continued good health.
Until two weeks ago, when the question resurfaced with renewed ferocity. How long? How long? How long? I'm writing now because posting kitty anecdotes to the web is cheaper than paying a therapist $130 dollars to talk about my cat. Or turning into the weeping cat lady at work. Because that would really be too much.
The Great New Jersey Adventure
In August of 2004, my comedy writer boyfriend got a job in New York City writing for a television show. This was a big deal for his career, but had the inescapable side effect of moving to New York for an amount of time to be determined. As I had successfully escaped the city of my birth, I stayed put in Los Angeles. We were long distance couple once more.
Since I also travel a lot for my job, I needed a lot of Bitey sitters. This is rarely a problem, as we live in a house with 500 satellite channels, a PS2 and the baseball package. The only time I hit a wall is Thanksgiving and Christmas. That's when all the East Coast expats I rely on for catsitting make the pilgrimage home. I've never called early enough in the year to board Bitey or get a professional sitter, so when I go home for the holidays, so does the cat.
Bitey is a pretty good flier. He (barely)fits under the seat, doesn't need to be drugged, and has learned to prevent Deep Vein Thrombosis by stretching, half-in, half-out of his carrier every hour. One time we were even upgraded to business class, only to end up next to the one neurotic East Side cat-hater on the whole plane. She hissed so loudly about cat hair and passenger rights, and I became so shaken and upset that the flight attendants were one step away from implementing the 'dangerous passenger' plan. In the end, Bitey and I sipped champagne and enjoyed moist towelettes; she was moved to coach.
But I digress. In November of 2004, I took Bitey east for a triple purpose visit.
1) Visit Boyfriend, who had been sleeping on a couch in Brooklyn for the past three months;
2) Celebrate my birthday, which was the week before Thanksgiving;
3) Spend a classic 'divorced child' Thanksgiving with both of my parents. (This, by the way, is magic trick that involves a car, a time machine, and many helpings of turkey).
Bitey and I arrived the night before my birthday. My mother picked us up in her silver Mustang at Newark Airport. By this time Bitey has been in the travel bag for over eight hours. He is at his limit, and we still have a long drive to my mom's new lake cottage in wilderness of Northern New Jersey. So I let him out of his carrier. Bitey promptly disappeared under the passenger seat of the car and took a piss on Mom's mail.
An hour later we arrived at my mom's cottage. I opened the car door to try and coax Bitey out from under the seat, but he was one step ahead of me. Bitey leapt out of the car, and sprinted off through the snow into the woods.
I was horrified. My mom lives in bear country. I couldn't believe I had lugged my cat 3,000 miles across the country only to have him turn into some lumbering bear's midnight snack. Poor boyfriend had been living like a hobo for three months, and now, instead of kitty comfort, he would be faced with kitty carcass.
We searched the neighborhood, yelling his name. We looked under the house, in the woods, even down by the lake. I cried. I called boyfriend and cried some more. My birthday would be here in four hours, and I had let my cat escape into a cold unfamiliar environment. I sucked.
Eventually my mom convinced me that Bitey would come home eventually. She went to bed. I grabbed a blanket, sat on the sofa and looked out at the front yard. Nothing. I opened a window, despite the cold, so as to better hear any noise.
Eventually, exhausted by tears and paranoia, I drifted off. Some time later, I awoke to the best noise possible; a plaintive and confused meow just outside the open window. I opened the front door quietly, and there was Bitey, sitting below the window boxes. I grabbed him and went inside. As I settled under the five layers of blankets with my cat on my pillow, I looked at the clock. 12:10 am. Happy Birthday. J
This is Bitey in the closet of my room at my mom's house. He loves closets, and used to be able to jump quite high to reach them. (And no, I have not read War and Peace).
Here is Bitey in our closet at home.
Since I also travel a lot for my job, I needed a lot of Bitey sitters. This is rarely a problem, as we live in a house with 500 satellite channels, a PS2 and the baseball package. The only time I hit a wall is Thanksgiving and Christmas. That's when all the East Coast expats I rely on for catsitting make the pilgrimage home. I've never called early enough in the year to board Bitey or get a professional sitter, so when I go home for the holidays, so does the cat.
Bitey is a pretty good flier. He (barely)fits under the seat, doesn't need to be drugged, and has learned to prevent Deep Vein Thrombosis by stretching, half-in, half-out of his carrier every hour. One time we were even upgraded to business class, only to end up next to the one neurotic East Side cat-hater on the whole plane. She hissed so loudly about cat hair and passenger rights, and I became so shaken and upset that the flight attendants were one step away from implementing the 'dangerous passenger' plan. In the end, Bitey and I sipped champagne and enjoyed moist towelettes; she was moved to coach.
But I digress. In November of 2004, I took Bitey east for a triple purpose visit.
1) Visit Boyfriend, who had been sleeping on a couch in Brooklyn for the past three months;
2) Celebrate my birthday, which was the week before Thanksgiving;
3) Spend a classic 'divorced child' Thanksgiving with both of my parents. (This, by the way, is magic trick that involves a car, a time machine, and many helpings of turkey).
Bitey and I arrived the night before my birthday. My mother picked us up in her silver Mustang at Newark Airport. By this time Bitey has been in the travel bag for over eight hours. He is at his limit, and we still have a long drive to my mom's new lake cottage in wilderness of Northern New Jersey. So I let him out of his carrier. Bitey promptly disappeared under the passenger seat of the car and took a piss on Mom's mail.
An hour later we arrived at my mom's cottage. I opened the car door to try and coax Bitey out from under the seat, but he was one step ahead of me. Bitey leapt out of the car, and sprinted off through the snow into the woods.
I was horrified. My mom lives in bear country. I couldn't believe I had lugged my cat 3,000 miles across the country only to have him turn into some lumbering bear's midnight snack. Poor boyfriend had been living like a hobo for three months, and now, instead of kitty comfort, he would be faced with kitty carcass.
We searched the neighborhood, yelling his name. We looked under the house, in the woods, even down by the lake. I cried. I called boyfriend and cried some more. My birthday would be here in four hours, and I had let my cat escape into a cold unfamiliar environment. I sucked.
Eventually my mom convinced me that Bitey would come home eventually. She went to bed. I grabbed a blanket, sat on the sofa and looked out at the front yard. Nothing. I opened a window, despite the cold, so as to better hear any noise.
Eventually, exhausted by tears and paranoia, I drifted off. Some time later, I awoke to the best noise possible; a plaintive and confused meow just outside the open window. I opened the front door quietly, and there was Bitey, sitting below the window boxes. I grabbed him and went inside. As I settled under the five layers of blankets with my cat on my pillow, I looked at the clock. 12:10 am. Happy Birthday. J
This is Bitey in the closet of my room at my mom's house. He loves closets, and used to be able to jump quite high to reach them. (And no, I have not read War and Peace). 
Here is Bitey in our closet at home.
Bitey Update: Sunday February 26th
The local vet is closed today, but they are kind enough to let us visit. We ring the doorbell, and a kind woman named Judy lets us in. I lead Boyfriend back to the room where Bitey is staying.
I look for my cat in his regular cage and see 'Paris,' the sad little tabby who makes no noise and moves very little.
"We put Bitey in the great dane cage," says the on-call vet. "We thought he might like it." I look down to see my cat lounging in the largest cage in the whole building. It's practically a kitty condo. I open the cage and pick Bitey up. He howls. I'm immediately concerned because it's not his usual "Why am I here, and where have you been" query, but a howl of real pain.
We pet him, but he continues to howl and I can see the muscles that run along his spine rippling, even as his back legs lie useless beneath him. I look at his eyes, which are fixed on a far distant location. Aha.
(Warning: All but the most devoted cat people should do themselves a favor and skip to the next few graphs. In other words, TMI ALERT)
The dignified yet absent look on Bitey's face is the one you see when you catch him in the litter. It says 'I know you're looking at me while I'm going to the bathroom, but I'm to going to pretend you're not."
The vet confirms that while Bitey's bladder is being 'expressed' several times a day, his bowels have not 'expressed' anything lately. So she straps on a latex glove and well, checks things out. I would imagine it is not easy to keep your dignity when some lady is rooting around in your behind, but somehow Bitey manages.
When the worst is over, the vet strips the glove and pets my cat. "I'm sorry," she says "don't worry, you're still the most spoiled cat in here." Bitey is returned, still in pain, to his kitty condo. He spends most of the rest of our visit still trying to 'express himself.'
(Okay, normal people, you can come back now.)
Usually, I leave these visits feeling better than when I arrived. Not today. My cat is in pain. I can't do shit and neither can he. Tomorrow, Boyfriend will take Bitey to Orange County for his MRI. I hope they find something, although I constantly remind myself to be careful what I wish for.
And if by chance you feel it is silly to put a cat in a Great Dane cage, check this out.
I look for my cat in his regular cage and see 'Paris,' the sad little tabby who makes no noise and moves very little.
"We put Bitey in the great dane cage," says the on-call vet. "We thought he might like it." I look down to see my cat lounging in the largest cage in the whole building. It's practically a kitty condo. I open the cage and pick Bitey up. He howls. I'm immediately concerned because it's not his usual "Why am I here, and where have you been" query, but a howl of real pain.
We pet him, but he continues to howl and I can see the muscles that run along his spine rippling, even as his back legs lie useless beneath him. I look at his eyes, which are fixed on a far distant location. Aha.
(Warning: All but the most devoted cat people should do themselves a favor and skip to the next few graphs. In other words, TMI ALERT)
The dignified yet absent look on Bitey's face is the one you see when you catch him in the litter. It says 'I know you're looking at me while I'm going to the bathroom, but I'm to going to pretend you're not."
The vet confirms that while Bitey's bladder is being 'expressed' several times a day, his bowels have not 'expressed' anything lately. So she straps on a latex glove and well, checks things out. I would imagine it is not easy to keep your dignity when some lady is rooting around in your behind, but somehow Bitey manages.
When the worst is over, the vet strips the glove and pets my cat. "I'm sorry," she says "don't worry, you're still the most spoiled cat in here." Bitey is returned, still in pain, to his kitty condo. He spends most of the rest of our visit still trying to 'express himself.'
(Okay, normal people, you can come back now.)
Usually, I leave these visits feeling better than when I arrived. Not today. My cat is in pain. I can't do shit and neither can he. Tomorrow, Boyfriend will take Bitey to Orange County for his MRI. I hope they find something, although I constantly remind myself to be careful what I wish for.
And if by chance you feel it is silly to put a cat in a Great Dane cage, check this out.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Bitey Update: Saturday February 25th
Bitey is still boarding at the local vet. I took him there Thursday morning when his lethargy and misery at home became more than I could bear. It turned out his bladder was rock hard and full of pee. He has spent the last three days there having his bladder "expressed." This is when the vet squeezes Bitey in a way that make the pee shoot out of him like a water gun. The cat doesn't like it, but it's amazing to watch (and better than a catheter!) The vet can actually aim the stream of urine into a garbage can.
Bitey also got a steroid shot, which was the only thing that helped him feel better last time. He still can't walk on his hind legs, but he is way more alert and doesn't howl when you pick him up. Of all the sick cats and dogs in the vet's ICU, Bitey's eyes are the most alert. On second thought, he may be tied with the young "leopard twins." These two tawny siblings have beautiful black spots, and each is wearing a goofy white collar, which only accentuates the ill intent in their eyes.
Consistent with all the hospitals he's stayed at these last two weeks, the staff loves him. I don't just make this up. From the local clinic to the super fancy West LA surgical center, doctors, nurses, and lab techs alike tell me how much they adore my Bitey. "He's so friendly, so loving," they say. "At first I was afraid because of his name, but he's never bit me once!"
It makes me feel a little better when I hear that, because they understand why I would put so much money into these ridiculously pricey tests. It also helps to know that while he is locked up in a metal cage, miles from home, he is surrounded by people who like him. I know I always try harder for the people I like.
Bitey also got a steroid shot, which was the only thing that helped him feel better last time. He still can't walk on his hind legs, but he is way more alert and doesn't howl when you pick him up. Of all the sick cats and dogs in the vet's ICU, Bitey's eyes are the most alert. On second thought, he may be tied with the young "leopard twins." These two tawny siblings have beautiful black spots, and each is wearing a goofy white collar, which only accentuates the ill intent in their eyes.
Consistent with all the hospitals he's stayed at these last two weeks, the staff loves him. I don't just make this up. From the local clinic to the super fancy West LA surgical center, doctors, nurses, and lab techs alike tell me how much they adore my Bitey. "He's so friendly, so loving," they say. "At first I was afraid because of his name, but he's never bit me once!"
It makes me feel a little better when I hear that, because they understand why I would put so much money into these ridiculously pricey tests. It also helps to know that while he is locked up in a metal cage, miles from home, he is surrounded by people who like him. I know I always try harder for the people I like.
Love and Cats
An affectionate cat is a rarity. Cats are often guarded, standoff-ish and occasionally borderline psychotic. They value their personal space, and let you know it (Hello Babalu!) This doesn't stop their owners from loving them, in fact it often increases the significance when this kind of cat rubs against your leg, or lets you scratch him behind the ears.
From his first night with us, Bitey was different. When you sit on the sofa, resting your forearm on the cushion where he's sitting, Bitey will reach out and delicately put his paw on your arm, just to let you know he's there, and you're his.
Bitey spoons. Seriously. If you are curled up on your side in bed, he likes to curl right up next to your chest and purr. He even lets you tuck your arm around him and hold him like a teddy bear.
Bitey craves human attention. Like a dog. If you are reading, Bitey will jump up on the bed and settle all sixteen pounds of himself right in front of your book. Then he will look at you, victorious and unashamed. He also can detect "fake reading"-- a useless attempt to lure the cat off the person who is desperately trying to read the last chapter of a Stephen King novel.
I wonder why Bitey is so loving and personable. Sometimes I think his time on the streets frightened him so much that close contact with humans makes him feel safe. But everyone's seen "domesticated" street cats before, and very few of them will allow you to nuzzle their nose with yours without taking a swipe.
Then I thought it was because we found him so young. He was just a baby, less than four months old, hardly enough time to develop into a hardened kitty orphan. But some cats can be born into the most secure environments, stay with their mothers forever and end up as complete kitty jerks.
When we found out about Bitey's condition, I had a thought. Is it possible that somewhere inside him, Bitey senses his life could be very short? Does he shine so brightly because he fears the light will go out too soon? Or am I just imposing bad poetry on my genial cat because I fear losing him so much?
Perhaps, despite all this lovey mumbo jumbo, the answer is simple. Bitey loves us because we feed him.
From his first night with us, Bitey was different. When you sit on the sofa, resting your forearm on the cushion where he's sitting, Bitey will reach out and delicately put his paw on your arm, just to let you know he's there, and you're his.
Bitey spoons. Seriously. If you are curled up on your side in bed, he likes to curl right up next to your chest and purr. He even lets you tuck your arm around him and hold him like a teddy bear.
Bitey craves human attention. Like a dog. If you are reading, Bitey will jump up on the bed and settle all sixteen pounds of himself right in front of your book. Then he will look at you, victorious and unashamed. He also can detect "fake reading"-- a useless attempt to lure the cat off the person who is desperately trying to read the last chapter of a Stephen King novel.
I wonder why Bitey is so loving and personable. Sometimes I think his time on the streets frightened him so much that close contact with humans makes him feel safe. But everyone's seen "domesticated" street cats before, and very few of them will allow you to nuzzle their nose with yours without taking a swipe.
Then I thought it was because we found him so young. He was just a baby, less than four months old, hardly enough time to develop into a hardened kitty orphan. But some cats can be born into the most secure environments, stay with their mothers forever and end up as complete kitty jerks.
When we found out about Bitey's condition, I had a thought. Is it possible that somewhere inside him, Bitey senses his life could be very short? Does he shine so brightly because he fears the light will go out too soon? Or am I just imposing bad poetry on my genial cat because I fear losing him so much?
Perhaps, despite all this lovey mumbo jumbo, the answer is simple. Bitey loves us because we feed him.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Tests and possible diagnoses
Bitey has had:
An X-ray, several blood tests, a spinal tap, a myelogram, and a CT scan. He has been tested for cryptococcus (negative) and toxoplasmosis (still waiting). None of these tests have been conclusive, but they are still working with several possible diagnoses.
Because Bitey is FeLV+, Feline Lymphoma is at the top of their list.
Then there is Feline Infectious Peritonitis (FIP), which according to the vets, has no real treatment and no cure.
It could still be toxoplasmosis
or a simple blood clot in the spine.
Next up: MRI
I would give my left pinky toe for a diagnosis, no matter how grim. Not knowing really sucks.
An X-ray, several blood tests, a spinal tap, a myelogram, and a CT scan. He has been tested for cryptococcus (negative) and toxoplasmosis (still waiting). None of these tests have been conclusive, but they are still working with several possible diagnoses.
Because Bitey is FeLV+, Feline Lymphoma is at the top of their list.
Then there is Feline Infectious Peritonitis (FIP), which according to the vets, has no real treatment and no cure.
It could still be toxoplasmosis
or a simple blood clot in the spine.
Next up: MRI
I would give my left pinky toe for a diagnosis, no matter how grim. Not knowing really sucks.
The chain of events
Here's the play by play:
Prologue, late 2005: Bitey begins to hesitate before jumping up onto the kitchen counter, where he is fed twice a day. At 16 lbs, Bitey is a bit of a porker, so this hesitation seems natural. Sometimes he tries and fails, which is humiliating for him, but at the time, amusing to us. Little do we know. Proving that he is indeed a true member of my family, his desire to eat eventually overcomes any hesitation.
Thursday, February 9th, 2006:
During one of his outdoor field trips, Bitey falls out of the passion fruit tree. It's only about a four foot drop, but he doesn't twist, and lands on the brick pathway, squarely on his spine. He shakes it off, and seems fine.
Saturday, February 11th, 2006:
Bitey is hiding under the bed, in his sick place. The sick place is a rolling suitcase under our bed. He curls up on top, and if you need to see him, you roll him out like a drawer in a filing cabinet.
He howls when I pick him up. We take him to the vet, who thinks it could be bruising from the fall. He gives Bitey kitty aspirin, and a shot of cortisone.
Week of February 13th:
Bitey improves dramatically, so much so that by Wednesday he is jumping up on the bed and the kitchen counter.
Thursday, February 16th:
The cortisone begins to wear off. Bitey regains stiffness. This gets worse each day.
Saturday, February 18th:
When I wake up to feed Bitey, he is dragging one leg behind him. But he eats. I run an errand. When I come back, he is in the sick place again. When I pull him out, he tries to walk. Now both legs are paralyzed and he is dragging his whole lower body around using only his front paws. It is the most pathetic thing I have seen in a long time.
I call our vet, but he is booked solid. We are referred to an animal emergenecy hospital down Santa Monica Blvd.
I have never before advanced to this level of cat care. At our vet you make an appointment, you wait for a while when you arrive, then you go in with the cat, get the shots and get out.
In kitty hospitals, you walk in the door, hand over your cat, still in the travel bag, and they whisk him away. Then later, the doctor calls you in to a "family room", tells you the bad news and charges you $75 dollars for the expedited consult.
In our case, the doctor says: "I squeezed Bitey's paw hard, but there is no indication that he felt any pain." Then he says "I'm not even going to waste your time here" and sends us further west down Santa Monica to a veterinary surgical center. More disturbingly, the doctor waives his fee. I guess he knew what was coming.
We arrive at the Surgical Center and Bitey is again whisked away. We are invited into another "family room." A veterinary surgeon speaks with us. She explains the possible diagnoses (more on that later), gauges our willingness to pay for expensive tests, then admits our cat.
Tuesday, February 21st:
We have visted Bitey every day since his admittance. The wonderful surgeons have run every test they can think of. A battery of tests has show that Bitey has a blockage in or around his spine that is pressing on his nerves and causing the paralysis. But no one can pin down a cause.
They make us an appointment to see a kitty neurologist. In Orange County. Southern Orange County. Far from Hollywood. Bitey seems to have improved. He now has some use of his back legs, and can walk, tentatively, around the family room. I pay $2700 dollars and take Bitey home to his new cage. Which he hates. I find this encouraging.
Wednesday February 22nd:
Bitey wakes up paralyzed again. I put him in his case and take him to the O.C. for his appointment. It's an hour drive. He is disturbingly quiet along the way. Walking into the kitty neurologist's office, I cannot resist the temptation to say, "Welcome to the O.C., bitch." A woman I did not know was behind me says, "hmph."
The lovely kitty neurologist does some visual tests, but cannot find the problem. She suggests an MRI. That costs $1200 dollars. I wince, and schedule the MRI.
I take Bitey home. He is sluggish and prefers to lie in the cage he so desperately tried to head butt his way out of the night before.
I apply for a no-interest platinum card.
Thursday February 23rd (TMI ALERT)
230am. I awake to a gross noise and a bad smell. I find Bitey sacked out on the bathroom mat. He is covered in shit. But I am awed by the fact that he has dragged his (literally) paralyzed ass from his cage into the bathroom and made it to the litter in time. That's class. I spend an hour cleaning him up, thinking grim thoughts about his quality of life.
Later that morning, he is in so much pain that I take another day off from work and take him to our regular vet. The vet finds that Bitey's bladder is dangerously full. He admits Bitey into his care and give him another shot of cortisone. And that's where I visited him tonight.
Friday, February 24th
While he still cannot walk on his hind legs, Bitey is more alert, and clearly in less pain. The vet and his staff are emptying his bladder for him. If he can manage to do this on his own, he can come home. Otherwise he will be a guest at the vet's for an undetermined amount of time, at least until the MRI, possibly longer.
Prologue, late 2005: Bitey begins to hesitate before jumping up onto the kitchen counter, where he is fed twice a day. At 16 lbs, Bitey is a bit of a porker, so this hesitation seems natural. Sometimes he tries and fails, which is humiliating for him, but at the time, amusing to us. Little do we know. Proving that he is indeed a true member of my family, his desire to eat eventually overcomes any hesitation.
Thursday, February 9th, 2006:
During one of his outdoor field trips, Bitey falls out of the passion fruit tree. It's only about a four foot drop, but he doesn't twist, and lands on the brick pathway, squarely on his spine. He shakes it off, and seems fine.
Saturday, February 11th, 2006:
Bitey is hiding under the bed, in his sick place. The sick place is a rolling suitcase under our bed. He curls up on top, and if you need to see him, you roll him out like a drawer in a filing cabinet.
He howls when I pick him up. We take him to the vet, who thinks it could be bruising from the fall. He gives Bitey kitty aspirin, and a shot of cortisone.
Week of February 13th:
Bitey improves dramatically, so much so that by Wednesday he is jumping up on the bed and the kitchen counter.
Thursday, February 16th:
The cortisone begins to wear off. Bitey regains stiffness. This gets worse each day.
Saturday, February 18th:
When I wake up to feed Bitey, he is dragging one leg behind him. But he eats. I run an errand. When I come back, he is in the sick place again. When I pull him out, he tries to walk. Now both legs are paralyzed and he is dragging his whole lower body around using only his front paws. It is the most pathetic thing I have seen in a long time.
I call our vet, but he is booked solid. We are referred to an animal emergenecy hospital down Santa Monica Blvd.
I have never before advanced to this level of cat care. At our vet you make an appointment, you wait for a while when you arrive, then you go in with the cat, get the shots and get out.
In kitty hospitals, you walk in the door, hand over your cat, still in the travel bag, and they whisk him away. Then later, the doctor calls you in to a "family room", tells you the bad news and charges you $75 dollars for the expedited consult.
In our case, the doctor says: "I squeezed Bitey's paw hard, but there is no indication that he felt any pain." Then he says "I'm not even going to waste your time here" and sends us further west down Santa Monica to a veterinary surgical center. More disturbingly, the doctor waives his fee. I guess he knew what was coming.
We arrive at the Surgical Center and Bitey is again whisked away. We are invited into another "family room." A veterinary surgeon speaks with us. She explains the possible diagnoses (more on that later), gauges our willingness to pay for expensive tests, then admits our cat.
Tuesday, February 21st:
We have visted Bitey every day since his admittance. The wonderful surgeons have run every test they can think of. A battery of tests has show that Bitey has a blockage in or around his spine that is pressing on his nerves and causing the paralysis. But no one can pin down a cause.
They make us an appointment to see a kitty neurologist. In Orange County. Southern Orange County. Far from Hollywood. Bitey seems to have improved. He now has some use of his back legs, and can walk, tentatively, around the family room. I pay $2700 dollars and take Bitey home to his new cage. Which he hates. I find this encouraging.
Wednesday February 22nd:
Bitey wakes up paralyzed again. I put him in his case and take him to the O.C. for his appointment. It's an hour drive. He is disturbingly quiet along the way. Walking into the kitty neurologist's office, I cannot resist the temptation to say, "Welcome to the O.C., bitch." A woman I did not know was behind me says, "hmph."
The lovely kitty neurologist does some visual tests, but cannot find the problem. She suggests an MRI. That costs $1200 dollars. I wince, and schedule the MRI.
I take Bitey home. He is sluggish and prefers to lie in the cage he so desperately tried to head butt his way out of the night before.
I apply for a no-interest platinum card.
Thursday February 23rd (TMI ALERT)
230am. I awake to a gross noise and a bad smell. I find Bitey sacked out on the bathroom mat. He is covered in shit. But I am awed by the fact that he has dragged his (literally) paralyzed ass from his cage into the bathroom and made it to the litter in time. That's class. I spend an hour cleaning him up, thinking grim thoughts about his quality of life.
Later that morning, he is in so much pain that I take another day off from work and take him to our regular vet. The vet finds that Bitey's bladder is dangerously full. He admits Bitey into his care and give him another shot of cortisone. And that's where I visited him tonight.
Friday, February 24th
While he still cannot walk on his hind legs, Bitey is more alert, and clearly in less pain. The vet and his staff are emptying his bladder for him. If he can manage to do this on his own, he can come home. Otherwise he will be a guest at the vet's for an undetermined amount of time, at least until the MRI, possibly longer.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Four Years
We got four healthy years.
Four years in which Bitey went from starving baby to fat-n-happy adolescent. When we found him you could hold Bitey in the palm of your hand, now he measures almost three feet fully extended. (Should have known from the ears). From 3.6 lbs to 16, which, given his continuing preference to sleep above my head, left me with less and less pillow each year.
But I didn't mind. Because Bitey was one of those cats.
Two years after we found Bitey I left my West Hollywood starter apartment, the kind people who know better don't rent.
A mild digression: The apartment complex I lived in was three houses down from Santa Monica Blvd, and the club kids parked on my street, peed in my driveway and held drunken screaming matches under my streetlight. The bedrooms had tan carpets, tan walls, and tan plastic blinds on the plate glass windows. But it was the first apartment I ever rented in my own name, and I loved it.
But my roomie, Single Blonde Female, finally jumped the sanity cliff, and made our home a war zone. She banned my boyfriend from the apartment. The noise from the construction of new condos across the street was threatening my own mental health. The landlord was closing in on my illegal feline...and the beat goes on.
Lying awake at night, I pictured my perfect sanctuary. It would be a house, a tiny one, with a tiny garden, and maybe a garage. There would be flowers, and quiet, and privacy.
This dream kept me sane through uncertain times. And then, through a friend, I heard of a place for rent. It was way too expensive for one person, but I took a look, just to see. It was a tiny one-bedroom house in Hollywood, with a garden. And a garage. And it was so very quiet. Standing in the garden, staring at the long strands of bouganveilla growing from a thicket that covered the back wall, I knew. This was the place I had dreamed of.
I moved in in October of 2003, and ate pasta and peanut butter for a few months, until Boyfriend became Living Together Guy in January of 2004.
The garden, with its five magnificent fruit trees (orange, lime, fig, peach, passion fruit) presented a Bitey dilemma. FeLV cats cannot go outside, but you tell that to the feline love of your life who is staring longingly at grass he can't roll around in. After discussions with several vets, we decided to allow Bitey supervised visits to his own garden.
So two more years passed.
On Saturday, February 18th 2006, I woke up and went out to run errands. When I fed Bitey he was favoring one of his hind legs. When I came back, he unable to use either of his hind legs. He was paralyzed from the lower spine down.
Anyway, that's about all I have the heart for tonight. As of tonight, Bitey is staying with our local vet, because he cannot (TMI ALERT) evacuate on his own. We miss him. Stay tuned. j
Four years in which Bitey went from starving baby to fat-n-happy adolescent. When we found him you could hold Bitey in the palm of your hand, now he measures almost three feet fully extended. (Should have known from the ears). From 3.6 lbs to 16, which, given his continuing preference to sleep above my head, left me with less and less pillow each year.
But I didn't mind. Because Bitey was one of those cats.
Two years after we found Bitey I left my West Hollywood starter apartment, the kind people who know better don't rent.
A mild digression: The apartment complex I lived in was three houses down from Santa Monica Blvd, and the club kids parked on my street, peed in my driveway and held drunken screaming matches under my streetlight. The bedrooms had tan carpets, tan walls, and tan plastic blinds on the plate glass windows. But it was the first apartment I ever rented in my own name, and I loved it.
But my roomie, Single Blonde Female, finally jumped the sanity cliff, and made our home a war zone. She banned my boyfriend from the apartment. The noise from the construction of new condos across the street was threatening my own mental health. The landlord was closing in on my illegal feline...and the beat goes on.
Lying awake at night, I pictured my perfect sanctuary. It would be a house, a tiny one, with a tiny garden, and maybe a garage. There would be flowers, and quiet, and privacy.
This dream kept me sane through uncertain times. And then, through a friend, I heard of a place for rent. It was way too expensive for one person, but I took a look, just to see. It was a tiny one-bedroom house in Hollywood, with a garden. And a garage. And it was so very quiet. Standing in the garden, staring at the long strands of bouganveilla growing from a thicket that covered the back wall, I knew. This was the place I had dreamed of.
I moved in in October of 2003, and ate pasta and peanut butter for a few months, until Boyfriend became Living Together Guy in January of 2004. The garden, with its five magnificent fruit trees (orange, lime, fig, peach, passion fruit) presented a Bitey dilemma. FeLV cats cannot go outside, but you tell that to the feline love of your life who is staring longingly at grass he can't roll around in. After discussions with several vets, we decided to allow Bitey supervised visits to his own garden.
So two more years passed.
On Saturday, February 18th 2006, I woke up and went out to run errands. When I fed Bitey he was favoring one of his hind legs. When I came back, he unable to use either of his hind legs. He was paralyzed from the lower spine down.
Anyway, that's about all I have the heart for tonight. As of tonight, Bitey is staying with our local vet, because he cannot (TMI ALERT) evacuate on his own. We miss him. Stay tuned. j
It's always the best ones...
It didn't take long to get to know and adore Bitey. He had me from our flea ridden "hello."
Boyfriend was won over by Bitey's hilarious attempts to bat streams of running water with his tiny paw.
Long running streams of any liquid actually, which made for fun times in the bathroom.... Bitey also learned to be a bit less "bitey" which made for increased fondness and greater toe safety. Once the Percoset wore off, Single Blonde Female was less thrilled with Bitey's continued residence in our apartment, which was by landlord decree, supposed to be cat-free. But, like the pro she was, she faked it. (By the way, do you kind of get the idea that roomie is no longer my roomie?)
During Bitey's first trip to the vet we learned he was approximately three months old, and that, aside from being too skinny, he seemed healthy. So when the test results came back, it was a shock to learn he was positive for Feline Leukemia Virus.
Somewhere in the first three months of his life, either from his mother, or during his time on the streets, Bitey had contracted FeLV. This also explained why no one seemed to be looking for their lost kitten. Every spring, the vet's parking lot was the dumping ground of choice for unwanted kittens. Most were found there and put up for adoption. For whatever reason, Bitey took a hard right, skipped the house with the fake pond, and wound up hiding behind the tree in my front garden.
The idea that Bitey wasn't wanted eased my guilt at not putting up signs, but didn't stop my boyfriend from torturing me by imaging, out loud, the sad little girl searching the back alleys of West Hollywood for her lil' kitty Oliver.
But back to the FeLV. The vet explained this meant that while Bitey could be perfectly healthy for a while, we couldn't expect him to live as long as other cats. How long? Perhaps two years, perhaps five.
Damn.
One cat, three names
So of course I kept the cat. But "it" needed a name. When he went to the vet on Tuesday August 13th, he was listed as Barney. That was the name suggested by Single Blonde Female (after Barney's Beanery, her favorite bar.)
Thanks to sharp teeth and claws, he was immediately re-named Spike (after favorite Whedon vampire, not railroad tie or male-oriented cable channel). And that, I suppose, remains his real name to this day.
But as it often happens, rather than finding the cat a name, the name found the cat. My boyfriend was, at the time, somewhere between cat-neutral and cat-suspicious. It didn't help that he kept waking up from vivid dreams of his feet stuck in a blender, only to see the cat gnawing happily on his exposed toes. This cat loved to bite.
And it was my (formerly) cat-neutral boyfriend who found our kitten's true name. As comedy writer and improv comedian, not only does he loves The Simpsons, but he can stand in front of that Simpsons poster with all the characters and do each voice--well.
So he started quoting from Marge vs. the Monorail: "I call the big one Bitey."
And that's how Spike became Bitey.
(Don't worry, William the Bloody, you're still our favorite vampire.)
Thanks to sharp teeth and claws, he was immediately re-named Spike (after favorite Whedon vampire, not railroad tie or male-oriented cable channel). And that, I suppose, remains his real name to this day.
But as it often happens, rather than finding the cat a name, the name found the cat. My boyfriend was, at the time, somewhere between cat-neutral and cat-suspicious. It didn't help that he kept waking up from vivid dreams of his feet stuck in a blender, only to see the cat gnawing happily on his exposed toes. This cat loved to bite.
And it was my (formerly) cat-neutral boyfriend who found our kitten's true name. As comedy writer and improv comedian, not only does he loves The Simpsons, but he can stand in front of that Simpsons poster with all the characters and do each voice--well.
So he started quoting from Marge vs. the Monorail: "I call the big one Bitey."
And that's how Spike became Bitey.
(Don't worry, William the Bloody, you're still our favorite vampire.)
Ditched and Found
When I graduated from college and moved into my first apartment, my mother offered me a plant. I told her thanks, but I wasn't up for that level of commitment.
When I moved to Los Angeles, a city mad for flowers and foliage, my mother bought me a large planter full of hardy outdoor plants to compete with the mini-jungles cultivated by my neighbors. Sadly, the plants died. Only their dried stalks remained, a scarlet letter at my doorstep, for all West Hollywood to see.
On my journey past the twenty-something's four pillars of commitment, (plant, pet, boyfriend, baby) I had run out of steam in the first mile. To be fair, I was spending a lot of time and effort keeping my fragile relationship well watered. I had moved west to see if my long-distant boyfriend was the real thing or just a mirage, but the transition from vacation relations to reality was taking just about all the energy I had. Plants, pets, and (lord knows) babies, would just have to wait.
From February to July 2002, I tried to settle into LA. Some things were remarkably easy. The man at the electric company didn't just ask for my social security number, he wanted to know when I moved, and from where, and why, and how was it all going? The salesman at the mattress store, dismayed by the fact that I was sleeping on the floor of my new apartment, had his deliveryman make one last late night delivery, so that very night I could dream in comfort on my pillow-top deluxe.
Other things took time. Luckier than most of the unemployed dreamers trying to "make it" in LA, I had a new job, two friends, my favorite aunt and a boyfriend. Still, I battled the loneliness and insecurity brought on by leaving an east coast life padded by mom, dad, and all the best friends my life had produced so far.
And so it went, into the summer. I joined a book club, and went to the beach. Driving down Sunset Boulevard, I marveled at how the summer wind could be so warm and still have the bite of early spring. I cried more than usual. I bought a lot of furniture, pushing away the thought that each piece was another obstacle to a sudden escape from LA. I got cable, so I could have a wider selection of televised anesthesia.
Which brings me to a warm Monday evening in August. I was seated at my newly purchased dining room table with my roommate. (In the interest of never saying, speaking or writing her name again, we'll just call her Single Blonde Female. Let your mind do the rest). She was riding high on Percoset, describing the removal of her wisdom teeth in graphic detail.
I thought I heard something outside the window, but couldn't place the noise. I heard it again, low but frantic, the sound of something desperate to be noticed, but desperately afraid to be heard. Barefoot, I ran out the door, and walked slowly along the edge of the iron fence that enclosed our small front garden. I looked through shadowy plants, but saw nothing until I came to the end of the fence. Peering out from the growth was a scrawny orange and white kitten. He made the face of a howling cat, but only a small squeak emerged. I didn't think. I grabbed him by the scruff, pulled him tight to my chest and walked inside.
My roommate, in her prescription haze, could only stare at the wriggling creature. I let the cat down onto the floor and it howled, again making no noise. Then it started to run, back and forth across the wood floor. I could see all its ribs, and its face was dirty. It had no collar.
I told SBF that we would have to keep the cat overnight. Then I would take it to the vet the next day and determine if someone had lost a kitty. I ran to the 7-11, bought litter and food. The kitten wolfed his food, while I constructed temporary litter box out of cardboard. SBF picked up a carrier and some anti-flea soap from her boyfriend's house, then left for the night.
The wide-eyed kitten scrambled under the table as she shut the door. Trying to assess the situation, he peered out from amongst the forest of chair-legs. He was a long-haired white cat with a tiger-striped mask on his ears and face and orange spots on his body. He had a wild orange fox-tail, and lustrous dark lines curling from the corner of each amber eye.
I picked him up and looked him again. It didn't take long to discover that he had fleas. As the kitten continued to run frantically around the apartment, I decided that he probably wouldn't stay in one place long enough to let the fleas jump onto my furniture. Hah.
After a full evening of fussing, teaching him where to find the litter, and trying to decide if he was born wild or just lost, I decided to call it a night. As I lay my head down on the pillow, the kitten howled in the darkness, then jumped up onto the bed. He took a long look at me. Then he plopped down at the head of my pillow, curled up around the crown of my head, and pressed his soft-flea ridden belly directly against my scalp.
I jumped up and tried to place him on the ground. He yowled, and jumped back up on the pillow, nuzzling his flea-ridden head against mine. I flipped the pillow over and tried to place him at the foot of my bed, reasoning that the little buggies couldn't travel that far north by the end of the night. He returned to the pillow immediately. I looked at the clock-midnight. I picked up the cat and walked into the bathroom.
After bathing the cat in anti-flea soap, which he endured with a withering glare, I grabbed tweezers and started attacking the fleas. Looking back, it was probably somewhere in the middle of that late-night session of flea-plucking that I felt the first stirrings of love. Love, mixed with a certain revulsion induced by a pest-ridden kitty. Love, charged with the low-grade current of fear brought on by snatching something off the street and letting it into your bed.
Which is exactly what I did. I dug through my closet, took out a knit cap, and pulled it down around my ears. As the kitten snuggled against my head and began to purr, I resigned myself to the thought that I had slept with worse.
When I moved to Los Angeles, a city mad for flowers and foliage, my mother bought me a large planter full of hardy outdoor plants to compete with the mini-jungles cultivated by my neighbors. Sadly, the plants died. Only their dried stalks remained, a scarlet letter at my doorstep, for all West Hollywood to see.
On my journey past the twenty-something's four pillars of commitment, (plant, pet, boyfriend, baby) I had run out of steam in the first mile. To be fair, I was spending a lot of time and effort keeping my fragile relationship well watered. I had moved west to see if my long-distant boyfriend was the real thing or just a mirage, but the transition from vacation relations to reality was taking just about all the energy I had. Plants, pets, and (lord knows) babies, would just have to wait.
From February to July 2002, I tried to settle into LA. Some things were remarkably easy. The man at the electric company didn't just ask for my social security number, he wanted to know when I moved, and from where, and why, and how was it all going? The salesman at the mattress store, dismayed by the fact that I was sleeping on the floor of my new apartment, had his deliveryman make one last late night delivery, so that very night I could dream in comfort on my pillow-top deluxe.
Other things took time. Luckier than most of the unemployed dreamers trying to "make it" in LA, I had a new job, two friends, my favorite aunt and a boyfriend. Still, I battled the loneliness and insecurity brought on by leaving an east coast life padded by mom, dad, and all the best friends my life had produced so far.
And so it went, into the summer. I joined a book club, and went to the beach. Driving down Sunset Boulevard, I marveled at how the summer wind could be so warm and still have the bite of early spring. I cried more than usual. I bought a lot of furniture, pushing away the thought that each piece was another obstacle to a sudden escape from LA. I got cable, so I could have a wider selection of televised anesthesia.
Which brings me to a warm Monday evening in August. I was seated at my newly purchased dining room table with my roommate. (In the interest of never saying, speaking or writing her name again, we'll just call her Single Blonde Female. Let your mind do the rest). She was riding high on Percoset, describing the removal of her wisdom teeth in graphic detail.
I thought I heard something outside the window, but couldn't place the noise. I heard it again, low but frantic, the sound of something desperate to be noticed, but desperately afraid to be heard. Barefoot, I ran out the door, and walked slowly along the edge of the iron fence that enclosed our small front garden. I looked through shadowy plants, but saw nothing until I came to the end of the fence. Peering out from the growth was a scrawny orange and white kitten. He made the face of a howling cat, but only a small squeak emerged. I didn't think. I grabbed him by the scruff, pulled him tight to my chest and walked inside.
My roommate, in her prescription haze, could only stare at the wriggling creature. I let the cat down onto the floor and it howled, again making no noise. Then it started to run, back and forth across the wood floor. I could see all its ribs, and its face was dirty. It had no collar.
I told SBF that we would have to keep the cat overnight. Then I would take it to the vet the next day and determine if someone had lost a kitty. I ran to the 7-11, bought litter and food. The kitten wolfed his food, while I constructed temporary litter box out of cardboard. SBF picked up a carrier and some anti-flea soap from her boyfriend's house, then left for the night.
The wide-eyed kitten scrambled under the table as she shut the door. Trying to assess the situation, he peered out from amongst the forest of chair-legs. He was a long-haired white cat with a tiger-striped mask on his ears and face and orange spots on his body. He had a wild orange fox-tail, and lustrous dark lines curling from the corner of each amber eye.
I picked him up and looked him again. It didn't take long to discover that he had fleas. As the kitten continued to run frantically around the apartment, I decided that he probably wouldn't stay in one place long enough to let the fleas jump onto my furniture. Hah.
After a full evening of fussing, teaching him where to find the litter, and trying to decide if he was born wild or just lost, I decided to call it a night. As I lay my head down on the pillow, the kitten howled in the darkness, then jumped up onto the bed. He took a long look at me. Then he plopped down at the head of my pillow, curled up around the crown of my head, and pressed his soft-flea ridden belly directly against my scalp.
I jumped up and tried to place him on the ground. He yowled, and jumped back up on the pillow, nuzzling his flea-ridden head against mine. I flipped the pillow over and tried to place him at the foot of my bed, reasoning that the little buggies couldn't travel that far north by the end of the night. He returned to the pillow immediately. I looked at the clock-midnight. I picked up the cat and walked into the bathroom.
After bathing the cat in anti-flea soap, which he endured with a withering glare, I grabbed tweezers and started attacking the fleas. Looking back, it was probably somewhere in the middle of that late-night session of flea-plucking that I felt the first stirrings of love. Love, mixed with a certain revulsion induced by a pest-ridden kitty. Love, charged with the low-grade current of fear brought on by snatching something off the street and letting it into your bed.
Which is exactly what I did. I dug through my closet, took out a knit cap, and pulled it down around my ears. As the kitten snuggled against my head and began to purr, I resigned myself to the thought that I had slept with worse.
Does the world need another kitty blog?
No. Not in the least. But my cat is very sick, and no one can tell me why, which makes me sad, frustrated, and frightened. So I guess I need a kitty blog, and may the world forgive me for it.
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