The Amazing Life of Cats (10 page)
I heard of a pet loss support group at the Tacoma Humane Society so I went there for two consecutive Saturdays; luckily, I was the only person attending and had a one-on-one session with the same facilitator both times. She helped me find my conviction to go ahead and put together a detailed report of my findings to present to the veterinarian specialist who had given Spot the radioactive iodine treatment. I decided to send him my report and ask him to meet with me to discuss it. It took a while to make the connection with this doctor, but he eventually honoured my request and we talked through the entire experience over the phone. He pointed out where some of my conclusions were not correct, agreed with others of them, and also pointed out some details that were astonishing to me.
When Spot’s osteoarthritis was diagnosed, I had taken her to her doctor because she seemed to be in pain around her hips. They gave her an injection of Metacam, which they referred to as ‘Kitty Tylenol’, and also gave me a liquid form of the medication that I was to give her several more times at home. But this veterinarian specialist told me that Metacam is usually given to dogs and is known to be toxic to cats and especially damaging to their kidneys. There is a website that has some startling information regarding this:
www.metacamkills.com
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The specialist graciously offered to contact Spot’s vets at the Sumner facility for me. Eventually, all the vets involved in Spot’s care, including the specialist, conducted an in-depth review of her case and held a conference. As an outcome of their conference the hospital has made changes in their approach, and they have even named the new policy the ‘Spot McLaughlin Health Policy for Cats’ in honour of Spot. They will no longer prescribe Metacam to cats unless the owners insist on having it, in which case the owner must sign a disclaimer. In gratitude, I sent them one of my favourite photos of Spot, framed, to hang on their office wall, next to her health policy.
It was some consolation, although of course it didn’t replace Spot. But both Mack and I feel satisfied that our efforts have borne fruit for Spot to be long remembered, and know that she lives on in a way that will make life better for many other cats.
Ever since Spot died, I have often sensed her presence with me. She still goes walking with us, like she did in life. I know when Spot is walking with me now, because even though I cannot see her I can feel her and am filled with a joy that is like warm sunshine. There are other creatures, and a rare person, who also seem to notice her with me. Spot is here because she likes this place. It is still her earthly home and even though she can travel anywhere she wants at any time, she always comes to me when I call her. Sometimes, sitting at my computer, I feel her lightly brush my bare leg with her fur. Sometimes I see her from the corner of my eye, but when I turn to look she has disappeared into the shadows.
Now, more than a year later, we have another wonderful kitten. A Ragamuffin breed, he was given to us in circumstances filled with synchronous coincidence that leaves us in no doubt that Spot picked him for us to fill with joy the deep hole she left in our lives. His name is Socks. As a result of my veterinarian experiences with Spot, we chose to take a different health path for Socks and find an alternative to allopathic medicine for him. Just at the time we decided this, a friend introduced us to Dr Jennifer Preston, holistic veterinarian. Dr Preston has opened our eyes to the fact that there is a healthy alternative to the current widespread common use of vaccinations in animals. She provides a lot of excellent information on her website:
www.holisticvetexpert.com
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I am still shocked and amazed that I was so naive. But, I also know that I am not alone in blindly trusting allopathic animal doctors’ advice. I am also grateful that I want to learn and understand more. On behalf of Spot and Socks, Mack and I encourage you to do the same.
Mary Michele McLaughlin
Some people say man is the most
dangerous animal on the planet.
Obviously those people have never met
an angry cat.
Lilian Johnson
E
legant and handsome, true to his name he was a prince and a dancer.
He was a chocolate point Siamese cat with the bluest of blue eyes. When he purred, his entire body shook; when he was extremely affectionate—which was often—he headbutted with a force that almost gave you concussion! His sister Trouchka was very gentle, ladylike, and equally beautiful.
Igor, however, had one very bad habit, from my point of view—he was an adventurer. He would disappear without a word of warning, but always returned home in time for dinner. As our home backs onto Mount Taylor in the Australian Capital Territory, the foothills were a wonderful playground for him. He knew nothing of the dangers that might await him there: deadly snakes, unfriendly dogs and people. He only knew the fun of pouncing on an unsuspecting grasshopper or following an interesting scent trail.
‘Where have you been? You’ve been gone for hours!’ I would scold, and Trouchka would take a swipe at him when he eventually returned, as if to say: ‘That’s for all the worry you’ve caused us!’
One evening he was late for dinner. At first I merely thought it was uncharacteristic of him, but as minutes turned into hours I became really worried. I took a torch and wandered round the foothills, calling and then stopping to listen—surely the familiar throaty yowl would answer? But there was silence. My heartbeat quickened when I heard a thump, but it was only a kangaroo, startled by a stranger in its territory.
Where was Igor? Had he been attacked by a stray dog? Was he injured and hiding? It was getting late, so I reluctantly decided to return home before the family came to look for me.
As I discussed Igor’s disappearance with my family, they speculated about what could have happened to him—perhaps someone had stolen him, or he had been injured and couldn’t get home or, worse, he had been killed. But I was adamant that he was okay. ‘He’s not dead,’ I told them. ‘He’s out there somewhere in trouble. I know it.’
It was a very long night. Another search in the morning yielded nothing. I stopped everyone I met and asked them if they had seen a Siamese cat with blue eyes, chocolate-coloured ears and a cream coat. But no one had seen him.
I went home and put notes in all the letterboxes around the suburb, rang the RSPCA, radio stations, and the vets in case he had been brought in, injured . . . but there was no sign of him. By now my family had decided that Igor was gone, but I was so convinced that he was out there and alive that I would not give up until I’d found him.
After another fruitless day and night of searching, I knew he might be without food and water and becoming weak. I asked him directly: ‘Please, Igor, help me: where are you? Help me find you.’
That morning I met a woman out on the mountain track. No, she said, she hadn’t seen Igor, but did I know there was a small hole (probably just large enough for a curious cat to crawl into) at the side of the service road into the mountain? If he’d got in he wouldn’t be able to get out, because this was the opening to a large drain with a steep gradient. The drain could have water in it, but where it joined a nearby suburban street there was a platform and above this, at street level, a large inspection opening, covered with a very big and heavy concrete slab. My heart raced. Could he be on the platform? Might he have been washed further down the drain?
I ran to the inspection site but the cover was far too heavy for me to lift. What to do? Most of the local men would be at work.
I called out, ‘Igor?’ The only reply was my thumping heart. I suddenly thought of my neighbour’s teenage son—he might be home. He was!
‘Please, Nick, can you bring a crowbar to prise the cover off the big drain?’ I asked him. ‘I think my cat’s down there.’
As we hurried to the spot, agonising fears nagged me. Igor could have died of cold. He could have slipped and gone down the drain . . . I stopped myself. No, no, no, he’s alive, I knew it, somewhere deep inside.
With great effort, Nick slowly lifted the heavy drain cover. I leaned down. ‘Igor? Igor?’ I waited for what seemed like forever, then, suddenly, a weak meow came from the darkness.
Nick held my feet while I leaned down into the opening. I could just see Igor’s bedraggled figure. He leapt onto my shoulders, wet and cold but very much alive!
Once he was safely back up on the street I just held him and cried. A weak little purr was my reward. I put him inside my jumper and held him tight. After thanking Nick, I rushed home to be greeted by disbelief. Even Trouchka withheld her customary swipe and just stared at her brother. That evening, fed and dried and warm, Igor snuggled into my lap and fell asleep, purring.
The evening could have been so different—another sad and worried night without him—but I never gave up, I was so convinced I would find him. I believe there is a very special bond between some animals and their owners that makes miracles possible.
Igor was my miracle.
Edith Thompson
Of all domestic animals, the cat is the
most expressive. His face is capable of
showing a wide range of expressions.
His tail is a mirror of his mind. His
gracefulness is surpassed only by his
agility. And, along with all these, he has
a sense of humour.
Walter Chandoha
F
or years after my cat Boots was taken off our beach-house roof by a powerful owl, I really couldn’t contemplate the thought of having another cat. It had been too sudden and dreadful an end for me to come to terms with easily, and so I put cat ownership out of my mind.
Many years later, after we had made a move north, we rented a house that came complete with a black cat, Puschka. We weren’t quite sure how Puschka would take to Ella, our badly behaved dog, but since Ella was now at last showing signs of slowing down, we thought that Puschka would probably handle her reasonably well.
She was a very independent cat, Puschka. Several people had rented the house on other occasions when her owners were away, and so she was careful not to get too fond of us, but she was very pleased when I made it clear that her comfort was important to me—I placed a small box with a red Indian woollen shawl in it near the window that she used as her entrance and exit, and she took to it immediately, vacating it when people were around (although sometimes she would stay if it was just one or two of us). Being around Puschka allowed me to realise that I enjoy having a cat in my life, and that enough time had passed for me to feel safe enough to try again.
This time coincided with a period of emotional turbulence resulting in my moving into a small cottage on a friend’s property where we were keeping our three horses. My children were keen for me to get a puppy, but I felt that would be a real betrayal of Ella, who had stayed behind. Still, the cottage definitely needed an animal, so after a little persuasion (not much) from the kids, we set off one February morning to our local cat-rescue centre to see if a cat would choose us.