JJ
The origin of JJ’s name might be of some interest. Many years ago when my wife and I started caring for the feral cats in the park by the building where we worked, there was a huge black and white male feral cat. I called him Lug. After a while he disappeared and and smaller copy of Lug showed up. We named him Junior, assuming Lug was his daddy. Junior left us (one way or another) and a large kitten showed up. He/she looked just like Lug and Junior so I jokingly named her (as we eventually found out) Junior Junior. The name stuck and we just shortened it to JJ.
Out of the six cats in The Pen JJ is the only one that has remained feral and untouchable. In the last 7 years I’ve managed to actually touch her once when she ran past me and I got a fleeting stroke down her back as she passed by.
She hates strong wind and lightening. During a storm I went out to The Pen and she was under the lean-to shelter (you can see it in one of the photos of The Pen) just cowering and meowing.
She’s the same age as Bandit. She’s fairly close with Silvie. They can often be found in the same kitty house together.
We’d hoped that over the years she would have become tame enough to pet, but she remains just as elusive as when she was running free, which is fine. We’re just happy she’s healthy.
Bandit
Until one has loved an animal a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.
– Anatole France
The above photo was taken December 14, 2002 when Bandit was probably not quite a year old and still “in the wild.” From then until forever he was the cutest and most gentle kitty boy I’ve ever known. One could hardly refer to him as feral, although that is what he was in some ways.
On Sunday afternoon, about 4:00, I went out to The Pen to take care of things as usual. Bandit was laying on the rug in front of the door and didn’t move when I walked in. He usually jumps up on top of the litter boxes and for his loves and scratches. I noticed his extremely fast and shallow breathing. I called to my wife and said something’s wrong with Bandit. As she approached, he let out a cry of pain and tried to stand up. His back legs seemed paralyzed. He had raspy breathing. The last time we had contact with him was 24 hours before and he seemed normal.
We got the pet carrier and with some difficulty got him in and drove to the after-hours pet emergency clinic. He was in so much pain that the staff had to sedate him to examine him. After x-rays came the diagnosis: Feline Cardiomyopathy. He was in congestive heart failure. His lungs were full of fluid. The heart had thrown a clot that had moved down the aorta to the hind legs, blocking circulation. The prognosis was worse than grim. We gave the OK for euthanasia. He was probably only about 7 years old.
I can’t remember crying so much. Ever. His disposition and attitude were always so sweet and innocent. He not only awoke part of my soul, he illuminated it. He has gone, but his light continues.
He and all the rest will change me in ways that, sometimes, are impossible to describe.
I need to supply some background about “The Pen” before relating the tragedy from Sunday, October 11th.
About 8 years ago, my wife and I found a colony of ferals living in the small park next to the parking lot where we both worked. We trapped them, spayed/neutered them and started feeding them. We set up a nice area hidden quite well by bushes for them, complete with straw-filled coolers wrapped in plastic and water dishes and dry food feeders. Every morning before work we’d feed them and even on weekends we’d make a special trip out and make sure all was well. There were 6 of them. This went on for over a year.
Then one day we found the bushes all torn out, the shelters broken and scattered and the feeders completely destroyed. The “Kitty City” we had so carefully built and nurtured was no more. We learned that the person in charge of the park had found the cats and shelters and ordered everything destroyed.
Facing impending death, we decided the best thing we could do for the colony was to trap and relocate them. But where to? In our backyard we had an unused dog run, about 7 feet wide and 18 feet long. A few visits to Home Depot and we had a roof over the top and pavers for the floor. Over time we added shelves and shelters, makeshift litter boxes and the existing dog house was used to put their dry food in.
We trapped them and transported them to their new home, where they’ve been for almost 7 hears now. Since then, 3 have died. Their names are:
- Mr. Pib (acronym for Pain In the Butt)
- Jasmine
- Silvie
- Misty
- Bandit
- JJ
And that’s the short of it. The most recent tragedy involves Bandit and will be chronicled tomorrow or soon after that.
Newbie
Say hi to Newbie. One of the neighborhood kids brought him by and said the kids over at the school were being mean to him. Now, why would the kids know to bring him here? Sigh… At that time he was almost an adult. That was in 2002 (give or take).
We called him Newbie because I kept referring to the “newcomer” as “Newbie”. The name stuck. We tried to find who he belonged to with no luck.
He’s a big guy now. 16 pounds and not much fat. He’s a real marshmallow, except he gets after Fletcher something terrible. Tommy (more on him to come) is Newbie’s only enemy.
Newbie is polydactyl. He has two extra toes on each front paw and one extra one on each rear paw. His front paws look like he’s wearing mittens. He’s a large cat anyway, and his front paws look huge.
Newbie develops deposits (the vet calls them crystals) in his bladder, preventing him from urinating. He’s had two operations to open up and flush out his bladder. Now he has to have four Uroeze® tablets each day or the deposits come back rather quickly. They taste so terrible, the only way we can give them to him is grind them up in a bit of canned cat food juice and smear the mixture on his front paws so he can lick it off. Maybe you have a better idea?
When you have to do this twice a day, Newbie becomes rather adept at avoiding capture. It’s now a morning and evening game to get him nabbed and medicated. Most of the time we win, but sometimes we don’t.
He’s a very affectionate cat and just loves to be scratched and lay by your side. We’re convinced he was guided here because of his medical problems and no one else would put out the effort and money to take care of him.
Yesterday, we lost Tonto.
I can’t tell you how agonizing it is to make the decision to have an animal euthanized, especially one you love. To put him (or her) in a pet taxi and make that drive to the vet. Then to drive home afterwards feeling as though you’ve had your heart torn from your breast. And then there’s the digging of the grave and the emptiness that is infinitely larger than the hole you’re filling up….
He died from the same ailment Thackery Binx had: A failing liver. He was throwing up a lot and wouldn’t eat. He was almost 19. He was gentle and loving right up until he breathed his last.
To say we’ll miss him is an inadequate understatement.
Thackery
About an hour ago, we buried our beloved Thackery. It’s a travesty that after 14 years, we have no photos of him except the one above taken just minutes before we took his final drive to the vet.
Thackery was here before I arrived on the scene. He became an outside cat after discovering his marking the inside of the house after I moved in, which isn’t unusual. Three others joined him.
He was my buddy. Before his exile to outside, he used to curl up with me and we’d take a nap together. When I’d read at night in bed he’d make his bed between my legs. Even outside, he was affectionate and loving and would always come to me for loves and scratches. He never made trouble for the other cats. He was a lover, not a fighter.
When I’d take the cover off the grill, he was right there at my feet meowing. He knew he’d get a piece of steak or chicken or hot dog.
Before I came, his leg was broken and it had to be pinned. It never healed just right and he always sat with that leg in a funny position.
Thunder and fireworks scared him and we usually let him spend the night downstairs until it was over.
He was suffering from liver failure. We had changed to low-protein food (which he didn’t like) and at one point had to administer sub-cutaneous fluids every night for a week to get him hydrated. In the end he didn’t eat or drink and barfed a lot, which was the sign that his levels were rising to an intolerable height.
We made the (always!) painful decision this morning for his sake. He’s buried out in the vegetable garden with so many others, and so many will follow.
Goodbye, Buddy. We love you.
* With apologies to The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
Fletcher
Fletcher showed up here about 3 years ago. As with most strays, we have no idea where he came from and what his story is. He’s mild-mannered and affectionate. However, he turns into Kamikaze Kitty when a dog shows up at the back fence. If we hadn’t have stopped him, he would have jumped over and tried to attack the dog in the back lot behind the house. Big dog, too.
Fletch has a few problems. His biggest problem is he has a painful virus in his mouth that inflames his gums and teeth. He’ll eat for a few minutes and then hiss and growl and run away when the pain hits. We’ve tried shots of steroids every six weeks for the last few months that seem to help for a while. The vet says that the only practical solution is to pull all his teeth. We’ll probably have that done in August. We have several cats that only have a few teeth and get along just fine.
His other problem is actually more problematic. None of the other cats like him. That’s something we can’t quite figure out. He’s nice and never aggressive. I guess nice guys really do finish last. He’s taken to spending more time next door at the neighbor’s where he can relax unmolested. I hope he comes back during winter, where there will be a warm house and a heating pad waiting for him.
Tonto
Tonto actually belongs to our next-door neighbor. Well, used to, anyway. He found the grass was greener on the other side of the fence, so to speak. He’s strictly an outside cat, so he gets a heated and insulated house for the winter and, as they used to say a few generations ago, three squares a day. The neighbor asks about him maybe once a year, if that.
He’s, well, old. We figure he’s at least 18, maybe 19. He doesn’t bother anybody and nobody messes with him. He likes to be scratched behind his ears and under his chin. He likes to lay in the late afternoon sun on the leaves in the fall (photo above). He likes to sit on our lap when we come out to the patio to read or just sit. He doesn’t go far, mostly inhabits the carport and the patio.
He’s one of four “special needs” cats we have. They’re on a low-protien diet and, like most cats, hate it.
He’s long-haired and hates to be brushed, so right now his hair is full of mats. We used to take him to the vet in the summer and be put out so they could completely shave him, but he’s too old for that now. We’re going to buy some heavy duty electric clippers and see if we can hold him down long enough to get rid of some of those mats.
He also has chronic ear problems with black stuff in his ears (not ear mites). We usually have to give him ear drops two or three times a year. He’s also had most of his teeth pulled.
Anytime we’re working outside he shows up for scratches and loves. I don’t think he’s been back over the fence for 7 or 8 years.
My wife and I are a “Trapping Post”, a volunteer arm of No More Homeless Pets in Utah. We issue vouchers and loan traps to people who need to spay or neuter a feral.
Last week we made an appointment with a lady who came by to get a voucher and trap. My wife had told her over the phone that we have 20 cats.
When she came inside, she immediately remarked that our house didn’t smell at all. In fact, she said, it smelled and looked great. She was surprised.
Yeah, that’s my first impression: When someone says they have an abnormal amount of cats (whatever that is) the first thing I think of is smell and mess.
Not all of those 20 are inside cats. In fact, “only” 7 are (they come and go). We have 4 litter boxes inside and they get scooped twice daily. The house gets vacuumed thoroughly regularly.
Just because we have 20 cats doesn’t mean we live like a family from Deliverance.
Callie
Sigh. How many calico cats do you know named Callie?
My wife’s daughter lives on a farm in a rural community in the county. She gave us a call one day and said she’d caught a feral kitten that had been limping around for about 2 weeks. She had taken the kitten to the vet on her way to work and asked us if we’d check it out and make a decision on what to do.
Wifey was tied up so I went to the vet to have a look. She was huddled in the back of the cage, nothing moving but her eyes as only a feral can do. I reached in and just about lost my hand. The vet speculated that she’d been hit by a car.
He said we had two options: Euthanasia or amputation. I refuse to put an animal down because it’s “too expensive” to do otherwise, so I told the vet to do his best. That was November 6th, 2001.
We brought Callie home a few days later. Her front left leg was gone. It turns out she had been shot. Entry wound was the shoulder, deflecting down and out the leg. I’d really like to meet the person that did that and properly thank them.
We left her in the pet taxi and put it face-to-face with another open pet taxi, her litter box in one end and some food and water in the other end. After a while we separated the two and she ventured out, limping around the basement TV room. I spend a fair amount of time on the computer in that room. She would tentatively approach and I’d let my hand hang down so she could sniff. I guess you could say that in those days we, well, bonded. She’s now considered my kitty.
You should see her run across the back lawn! She can even climb one of the trees we have. You would never know that she was once a firecracker of a feral. She is one the nicest cats we have.
