I have locked myself in the bedroom with two dogs and a cat.  The cat will be going in for surgery tomorrow morning and needs to fast.  Since we recently switched up our animal feeding routine to include automatic feeders, I have to separate him for the night - or at least until 6:04am when the other greedy felines have wolfed down the pre-portioned meals.

Yes, I suppose I could figure out how to de-program the feeders.  But that would require that I remember come morning to feed everyone else, and re-program the feeders tomorrow.  Plus, Tom has created the most insane and hilarious contraptions for these feeders to keep the smallest cats from sticking their paws up the chute and making these high-tech devices self-serve.  I think he might have included self-destruct c4 that could blow if I were to approach the feeders at the wrong angle.

The dogs are in here because they will whine and keep me up all night if I lock them out.  Opposed to how they will keep me up all night by changing spots 4,801 times in the bed.

If I survive the night without getting peed on, I will be looking over my shoulder all day tomorrow.  Fate cannot let me get by unscathed.

I think we all know what it means when I actually get around to posting a picture, don’t we?

After many vet visits, four different meds twice a day, sub-Q fluids every other day, twice daily soakings of a leg that had swollen from blockage, Roark passed away during the night on Friday 11/7.

We’d finally taken to locking him in our bedroom so he could have access to food 24/7 without the other cats eating it.  Tom had brought him into bed and he was curled up on my side when I came in.  Roark moved down the foot of the bed but did not jump off as usual when he felt there wasn’t enough comforter to go around.

Tom woke first and I noticed Roark was at my feet, but it wasn’t until Tom came back to administer the morning soaking that we realized he was gone.

I have no other words.  I got Roark and Frisco at 6 weeks of age my sophomore year in college, fourteen years ago.  I always said that when they went, I would be need to be medicated.  I am numb and at a loss.  I am just thankful that Roark left us on his own terms, in his sleep.

As you might know from reading Miss Doxie, dachshunds are contagious.  In fact, if Miss Doxie lived a little further south in Georgia and did not have so many teeth, I might think she was a distant in-law.

It started with Cinnamon, a little wiener dog some friend foisted upon Tom while he was still living in the same town as his parents.  I cannot remember the specifics of this foisting and Tom is in Oklahoma counting shit in a freezer (this pays well - evidently many people cannot count.  So, stay in school!  At least through 3rd grade!) so he is not available for clarification.  I am pretty sure it involved the friend going to drown/abandon/let loose the dog because this is how Tom gets all of his animals - if you listened to him, you’d think he never really wanted pets but he has just always been in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Like how you have traffic accidents?  He has pets.

Cinnamon lived in a pen outside his house and his father, also Tom, took a liking to her (have I ever mentioned that Tom is actually Tom Something Something the FOURTH?  Which FOURTH = you better sure as hell have kids - we have kept this jig up too long for you to fuck it up. He could not have married a woman more perfect for him and less perfect for his family.  But here we are).

Cinnamon also took a liking to Tom 3, to the point she’d just start escaping the pen and running down to their house.  When she didn’t, he would stop by and pick her up on his way to the fields for work.  After a few weeks of this, it became evident that Cinnamon had a new owner.

Then Tom got engaged, then his fiancé shot at him (guess what was included in our wedding vows?), then he moved to Alaska for a year.

When he came back, his parents decided he needed something waiting for him at home to tie him down a bit.  Since they could not afford a non-lethal-weapon-toting fiancé, they got him a dachshund, Busch.

From there, I get a bit hazy on the chronology.  His cousin got Luke, who ended up with his other cousin.  His aunt and uncle also got a dachshund.  And second to last, Luke’s owner decided he needed a playmate and Reilly came into our lives.

That’s 5 dachshunds in the family.

As you know, Busch passed away almost a year ago.  He attacked a timber rattlesnake and was gone in less than 20 minutes.  Funny enough, before he died I had been campaigning for Lady to come stay with us.  I wanted a quieter, more sedate, less needy dog.  Basically, I wanted a cat that woofed.  But after Busch was gone, I immediately felt the loss of character in our house and asked several times if we could get another dachshund.

(From a rescue facility of course.  If you are interested in owning a purebred, please look into your local rescue facilities.)

Tom always said no.  Another dachshund would remind him too much of Busch.

Busch was no spring chicken.  This meant of course that Cinnamon was even less springier and chickenier.  And a few weeks ago she had to be put to sleep.  While I was sorry to see her go, I know she had been in pain and I’m happy it’s been relieved.  I also immediately started scheming on how to get his parents to take the 3 feral kittens that had been living in my office - trapped off the road to the sanctuary, we’d had them spayed/vaccinated/etc. but could not adopt them out until they got a bit more accustomed to people.

I evidently did not scheme quick enough.  My mother-in-law sent me this picture yesterday.

Meet Buddy.  (I am also dumbfounded as to why I needed so much of my father-in-law’s crotch in a picture, but whatever…)

I forwarded it to Tom, who then got all sloppy and sentimental and drunk on the phone and professed his desire to have another little one of his own.

As long as he’s talking wiener dogs and not babies, I guess I’m good.

So…our dog has heartworms.

Heartworms are a parasite - a worm no less - that are usually transmitted by mosquitoes.  There are many, many, easy-to-use monthly prevention treatments that you can give your dog so it does not get heartworms.

Left untreated, heartworms will kill an animal.

Let me back up a bit…

I have not had a regular vet for a few years now.  I had a dislike for the vet that treated Sheba, and Tom had a horrible experience with him when Frisco got sick while I was in Costa Rica.  And we moved out of the area anyway.  So we saw a vet in the new area that we liked, but with six animals and one income we only went for the most necessary of reasons - he was the one who put Sheba to sleep when the cancer took over her lungs, and diagnosed Frisco with urine crystals.  We had Busch then, and he was on heart worm treatment that Tom had from his previous vet.  We also used flea prevention treatments bought over the counter.

We moved back to the condo, and we were pretty against going back Sheba’s vet.  I have almost daily access to a vet for informal questions, and two of our animals (Zulu and Spike) are still cared for by the sanctuary.  Most of our basic care was met. 

Busch passed away, and Lady came to live with us.  Fairly soon after she did, she went into heat.

Ever since then, it’s been on our to-do list to get her spayed.  We even got as far as seeing another vet, but this one I hated even more - the clinic smelled of urine and disinfectant, the staff was incompetent (”What’s Lady here for?”  “An aspiration of her lump.”  “Oh?  What kind of lump?” “Um…that’s what an aspiration will tell us.”), and the vet was borderline abusive with me.  Ironically, he was abusive about the fact that Lady was not on heart worm prevention.  After he berated and chastised me, I was ready to let him do the test - but he never brought up again when he came back into the room.  I decided I didn’t want to push it because I wasn’t giving him one more dollar than I absolutely had to.

(And despite the fact that this has all played out as it has, I am thankful that we did not get this diagnosis with him and have to endure his treatment.)

The lump was negative.  We were in the middle of Zulu’s second cancer scare, so we pretty much concentrated on her for a while. 

So…now it was September and we’ve had Lady almost a year and this has gone on way too long.  I made an appointment for Lady to have pre-surgical exam with a 4th vet, but less than a week later we moved the exam up because she’d lost her appetite.

This new vet is very impressive so far.  I am happy with her demeanor, her treatment plans, and her costs.  Of course, we had explained that Lady’s heart worm treatment had slipped (his parents had been vigilant while they’d had cared for her) and we were looking for a new family vet and to get her back on regular care.

Lady’s physical exam went OK, so the vet prescribed some yummier food and we did a full blood work up just to be sure - blood work was required for her spay anyway.

We did notice one other small ailment - a small cough - that came up a few times during the day prior to her exam.  As soon as we mentioned it to the vet, our eyes locked. 

Now let me back up again.  I am in the animal husbandry field.  Specifically, I am attuned to and aware of diseases/signs/issues with cats.  I also would like to think I have learned a thing or two about behavior and modification.  But I have not myself owned a dog since I lived with my parents.  I have never owned a dog in the mosquito-ridden south, owned a dog that was not spayed, etc., etc.  This does not absolve me from the situation - a responsible pet owner will educate themselves as necessary when they bring an animal into their lives.  So I do not mention my ignorance in defense; I simply mention it to point that I was indeed ignorant.

But my eyes locked with the vet.  Cough.  Loss of appetite.  Lapse in heart worm prevention.

Shit.

And so it was.  The vet’s office was very reluctant to tell us the news over the phone - a sign that they care and they were scared to scare us.  Especially over the cost.

I am very lucky that I DO have almost daily access to a vet.  So when we brought Lady in for her consult yesterday, I understood exactly what was going on.  I even jumped in with a few questions on some extra medicines to help make the heart worms easier to kill.  (The vet responded favorably to my questions and we left with a second prescription.)

We are in for two months of treatment.  A complete change in our daily lives.  And over a thousand dollars in vet bills.

Perhaps the saddest thing in all of this story was that when we decided we would leave the facility while she got x-rays - to buy her more yummy food no less - we were asked for a deposit.

People say they are coming back, and then don’t.

Tom and I have not behaved as the most responsible people in this story.  But before we knew anything, we agreed we would see Lady through this regardless of the cost.  We are very lucky that we can make such statements.  I understand not everyone can. 

For those who can’t, please know there is help out there.  Breed-specific rescue organizations are a great resource in your local community.  If you have to forfeit your animal, please contact one.

And for those who are even luckier, please consider donating time or money to such organizations.

And for those who know us, please consider donating a kind thought to Lady.  She is in for a rough two months.

But I will try.

Busch died yesterday evening, close to 6pm.

We had walked to the neighborhood park.  It has an enclosed playground on one side, some wide lawn, a basketball court, and a boardwalk surrounds the far side, stretching into some swamp area.

Usually there is some touch football in the lawn, or a pick-up game of basketball.  But yesterday all was clear except two families in the playground.

We decided to let Busch off his leash.  He lived a very confined life in the condo.  He never complained about it, loved to be in bed with us or curled up on the sofa.  Nevertheless, he still got very excited at the sign of shoes and keys and leashes and the possibility of more.

We walked the distance of the lawn, with him running into the bushes to look for rabbits.  At the other end, we used the PETS ONLY water fountain.  We laughed because Tom decided to throw away the poo bag mere seconds before Busch decided he had to go again.

We started walking back on the boardwalk - we love to look at the swamp area and how it changes with the rain.  But Busch was very interested in going back the way we came.  We were deciding on letting him have his way (we thought he wanted to roll in swamp mud), when I turned around and saw a rattle snake crawling onto the boardwalk.

I yelled for Busch, then yelled for Tom.

It was too late.

Busch attacked a 5-foot timber rattlesnake and then ran off yelping into the lawn.

Tom ran past me and stomped on the snake’s head.  He yelled at me to get Busch.

I ran to Busch and looked for bite marks.  I saw none, but was sure the yelping wasn’t for show.  I scooped him up and started to run the 1/3 mile back home.

Tom caught up with me and wanted to take a look.  We saw a superficial gash on his bottom jaw.  Tom took the dog and walked to keep him calm while I kept running.

I ran upstairs, grabbed keys, and made an attempt to locate a closer ER vet than the one I knew of.  That failed, so I ran back outside.

Tom was coming up the walk.  I told him to wait.  When we got in the car he said he thought Busch wouldn’t make it.  He had already seized once and Tom had been running since that point.

At the stoplight, I grabbed an empty water bottle and told Tom to perform mouth-to-mouth.

I got on the Interstate and said I was putting my hazards on.  He said it was too late.  He felt a heartbeat with the first two breaths, but it was gone after the last.

It wasn’t until then that Tom noticed the bite marks on the back of his neck.  A human probably would not survive a good dose of venom administered thusly.  It was impossible for a sixteen pound dog.

There was nothing we could have done after the attack, but I’m glad we did what we could.  I know we did not give up on him.

I know I should feel regret that we had taken him off his leash.  But he was having such a wonderful time.  In a rural environment, we might have thought twice.  This was a freak accident.

We are heartbroken and in shock.  For me, I have had to watch many animals go from long illness and old age.  The visceralness of the event haunts me.  At thirty-two, I am still unable to understand that everything can’t be fixed by different, faster, better methods.

The last pictures I have of Busch are from July when we stayed at Tom’s family cabin in Port St. Joe, FL.  I actually didn’t take any pictures while there, and started clicking away on the drive home to try and capture a few memories.

I’m glad I did.

Busch, you helped bring your father and I together.  I hadn’t dated anyone with pets in a long time.  I fell in love with you so hard and fast.  I know you went how you wanted to go, attacking critters.  But I wish you were still here.

First off, I purposely withheld certain information about Zulu.  Not sure how much it I’d like to share.  But the truth is, she’s not exactly a normal domestic cat.

She is a bengal cat.  Someone decided to cross-breed a domestic cat with an asian leopard cat (small exotic cat from, well, Asia.)  They wanted to beautiful markings from the wild with a temperment of a domestic.

The reason I haven’t mentioned it is because of what I’m about to say:  it’s bad.  It’s not normal.  It’s humans playing God and I think it’s revolting.

Please don’t tell me about bengals or other hybrids you knew that were perfectly well-adjusted.  I don’t want to hear it.

In order for bengals to be sold as a domestic breed, they must be at least four generations removed from the exotic cat.  That’s four generations, 80 years, of cats that are just thrown away.

It is not normal for a bengal to behave tamely either.  Many are scared, anti-social, and mean.  On top of that, they have mutitudes of genetic issues, usually trouble with their diet.  Cross a meat-eater with what has basically become a herbivore (take a look at the main ingredient of cat chow - wheat, corn, etc.) and you are bound to have problems.

Zulu is lucky I have access to complete carnivore diet.  She eats a little of both and fairs pretty well.

Zulu came to the sanctuary very young.  Other bengals that came with her were adopted out at that time to other volunteers.  She stayed, but came to live with me when she was diagnosed with cancer.  It is difficult sometimes, knowing I opened my home to an animal that is certain to pass away sooner than later.  But she is getting an awesome quality life until that happens.

Maybe a month ago, we started to notice that her right pupil was bigger than her left.  It grew until it almost took over her whole eye.  Then it started to get cloudy.

So, all this background and honesty is so that I can express how difficult these past few weeks have been.  She tolerates us touching her, but not picking her up.  We’ve had to crate her twice, have her examined, have her sedated, and try and put oitments in her eye.

This from a cat I’ve seen bite down a pole so hard that if it were my finger, you’d be calling me stubby right now.

Luckily, tests proved it was a detached lens that we can leave alone for now.  But almost as soon as we put the carrier away and tried to get back to a normal pattern, she seemed to get worse.  She wasn’t eating, wasn’t playing.  Of course she could barely stand to be in the same room as me - I’m the one doing all the mean things to her.

Today was the first day I’ve breathed easy looking in her general direction.  She’s holding that eye completely open.  She’s moving around the apartment a lot.  She’s eating.  And more importantly, she’s energetic enough for a sterile romp on the table with Roark. 

(He’s never shown any sexual interest in another animals - in fact, we always thought he was gay.  But he’ll hump her at the drop of the hat.  Of course, everyone’s fixed so the entire act looks a little silly and Zulu definitely looks confused and pissed off by the end.)

So, we’re still on Zulu watch.  But right now, we’ve downgraded to threat yellow.  Which probably means she’s about to spray on something.  

I had driven to the condo by myself to change a lightbulb.  ST wasn’t feeling well and stayed home.

I had just finished up at Target (needed a bulb in order to change one), and saw I had two missed called, both from him.

“Hello?”

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“What’s up?” I quipped.  To be honest, I was a little worried he had thought of something else he needed and I would have to brave the shoppers once again.

“It’s Cocoa.”  (Our guinea pig)

“He’s dead.”  I don’t believe I’ve ever said those words as a question.  You hear it in someone’s voice and you know.

“Not yet, but he’s close.”

We discussed one or two things, then I suggest just wrapping him in a towel and snuggling in bed with him.

“He’ll like that.”

I got home to say goodbye.  Celeste, the little black cat who had taken to climbing in his pen with him, came and gave a farewell sniff as well.

The lump he has always had on his left hind flank was now a mushy ball.  Something had triggered the cancer.  He was between six and seven years old.  A good age for a guinea pig.

We discussed getting a vet friend over to give him a shot, but nature took her course quickly and seemingly without pain.

This is the on the heels of losing a lionness at the sanctuary to cancer on Thursday.  I’ve been trying to give myself time to write eloquently about it, but now I don’t think I will.

Hug your loved ones, bipeds and otherwise.

Boy did it hurt!

OK, so what do you write after your ex-husband comments on your blog?

Actually, I’m silent because I believe in jinxes.  Good thing I’m on my way to have three science degrees that certainly will make me calculated , rational, and above that crap.  Sure, two didn’t do it, but the third ones the charm, right?

Until then, I believe in jinxes.  And I’ve had a few things happen this week that have created a lot of stress but if they pan out, could be very good.  I just can’t talk about them yet otherwise the boogie man will tell the tooth fairy who will put a hit out on my happiness with the snap, crackle, pop guys of rice krispie fame.  (I bet you didn’t know they had a side gig, huh?)

I can tell you we got a new cat this week, although perhaps that will jinx things in the event that no one has been in a huge fight yet.

She’s a bit…different.  She lived inside one point long, long ago but became an outside cat and pretty wild.  She spent the first two days here in the 2nd bathroom, to get used to inside (and using a litter box again, which she did readily.  Yay!) and just take in the smells of all the other animals.

Yesterday, when I came home to check on her I just left the door open.  You should have seen her confused face.  She obviously thought I’d made a mistake.  The other animals paraded in and out, until she finally made a break for the laundry room.  She’s been trying out different perches/hidey holes in there but at least she’s moving around and no blood has been spilled (neither of us have even got to touch her yet).

I think I mentioned that she has cancer.  That’s the reason for a shift in habitat; to give her a more comfortable home and an environment where changes in her lifestyle can be more closely monitored.  Everyone has expressed how strong we are to accept an animal into our lives whom we know will pass away soon.  But the thing is, we accept everyone into our lives knowing they will leave us.  To me, it almost makes it easier to know a time frame rather than sit on that inevitable someday.

Right now she’s on top of the dryer, and took a few bites of dry food when the other monsters got their breakfast.  Another hurdle because 1) she’s not had a dry food diet before and 2) she let me push the bowl right under her nose.  I snapped some pictures and planned to share, but discovered fuck me if I know where the computer cable for the camera is.  I checked the logical places like kitchen cabinets and tucked in with my nail polish.

Ah well.  Such is life.

Thank you to all who left comments and reached out about our little girl’s passing.  It’s been hard, but I have constant reminders around me how much she was loved.  She had a very good home with me, with us.

ST writes.  It’s sort of gone unsaid that I’d do my thing, he’d do his.  But after reading this, I asked if I could share.   

Sheba

She was 18 when we met. Or at least that’s what I was told. It’s so hard to tell, and nobody really knew her birthday. If she did, she wasn’t talking. She might have been 18, maybe younger or maybe older. Some days you’d guess either way, depending on how she acted.

She survived both a wild animal attack that gave her serious injuries and cancer, or at least one round of cancer. She really loved going out on the patio, but hated going by the boys, who are brothers, both younger and larger than her and act like larger younger boys, to get there.

Her name refers to an Old Testament character or place, depending on how you look at it. Either way, it doesn’t matter because she took it and made it her own. Sheba was a queen in her own right. And this was her realm. (No offense intended to Roark, but he’s more of a princess than a queen.)

Scritching (yes, scritching, not scratching) her was most approved on the back, near the base of the tail, forward abut 1.5 inches. A devoted scritcher could get her to lick air, which indicated approval of one’s existence for the moment. The chin was also approved for scritching, though it was more of a standard issue sort of attention and reaction.

She was too polite at feeding time, and special care had to be taken or she’d go hungry. Others would shove her to the side and she’d just wander off instead of pushing her way back in. So she had a different bowl from everyone else and we kept it a bit apart. Celeste was usually the squatter I’d have to kick out in order for Sheba to be able to eat but the boys weren’t above trying it either. Fortunately, they are all too lazy to try to guard more than one dish so once transplanted away from her bowl to another with food, they’d stay away.

She spent a lot of time on the couch, both on the arm and on the back. She wasn’t shy about getting up on the bed either. She liked to sleep near, but not on or touching my feet. If jostled she would emit a near silent but wide-mouthed squawk of objection. Quite endearing. If jostled twice, she would deliver the cat stare equivalent of a raised middle finger, gather her dignity and move elsewhere, away from restless bipeds who didn’t know better than to disturb her beauty rest.

She seldom put a claw in the dog. Around here, that’s saying something. He’s not aggressive (unless you’re a rodent, meter man, cow, or pit bull in heat) but he is very much an in-your-face sort of chap. Specifically, he will lick you in-your-face. Right after licking his ass. And right before licking his ass, too. I find that to be insulting. It’s as if he’s trying to get the taste out of his mouth and then decides that the rectum actually tasted better than your face. He’ll walk right up to a cat and lick them in the face, too. Everyone has SOME redeeming qualities. The feline crown around here approves of being licked in the face even less than I do. Probably because they’re on a good height to smell his ass. Yet Sheba hardly ever put a claw in him, even at his most annoying. Sainthood is not good enough for that kind of charity.

We bathed her. It was my idea and a mistake. I know that it contributed to the timing of her death. She’d lived for years on a 3rd floor location, as had the boys. No fleas around. But when we all moved here, on the ground floor, fleas became an issue. I dragged my feet about getting Frontline and tried to cheap my way out. I treated the entrance areas and bathed the dog several times since he’s the one who goes outside. No dice. So finally I suggested we bathe everyone. We started with the boys. With Frisco and Roark both taken care of, I suggested Sheba as the next victim. She’d never, to our knowledge had a bath in her life. She acted like a cat getting their first bath ever. We did out best to keep her calmed but she just panicked too much. She fell over on her back, and I actually grinned because it was comical to see her on her back, belly shining at the sky. No dignity for the queen behind this closed door! But after she tried to flip over and failed not once or twice but four times, I began to panic. She lay still, exhausted. We righted her and called the bath to an end. She still had shampoo on her upper body, the only place we’d managed to apply any. We’d wipe it off; it was the mild stuff anyway.

She acted as if she couldn’t catch her breath for all of that evening and most of that night. We set her up in our bedroom closet and she made no attempt to leave. She seemed exhausted. It took a couple of days before she seemed halfway right again. She just seemed so TIRED and she wasn’t eating much. We speculated heart attack, shock, ulcers, all sorts of things. All speculation. In the end, with us watching her almost constantly, we could tell that something lingering was wrong and it was getting worse, not better. Tuesday, she was very bad. We’d discussed it and a trip to the vet was in order because some things just are beyond the scope and depth of a couple of laymen.

I’d had a migraine for 7 days straight. I’d been through several Imitrex and experienced zero relief. Go to sleep hurting, wake up hurting. Shower hurting, shave hurting. Go to work hurting, come home hurting. Sometimes less, other times more, but always hurting. I was tired, snappy, and somewhat dazed. I talked my way into the Dr.’s office for that afternoon and waited for an hour and a half to get some precious face time with the physician in hopes of some alternative form of relief. Preferably generic, too since my insurance picks up the total tab on generics til the end of the year. Twenty seconds before the doctor entered, I got the phone call. Jessica was calling me from the veterinarian’s office. Sheba had taken a nosedive in health and Jessica took her to the closest vet she could get into on such short notice. She was at the Temple Terrace Animal and Bird Hospital. Sheba was not doing well, would I like to visit her one last time if that’s what it came down to? I responded in the affirmative, got off the phone, and got through my migraine business as quickly as possible.

When I arrived, Jessica was in the waiting area. We exchanged brief words, but mostly sat in silence for the short few minutes before we were asked back to the exam room. Long story short, Sheba had an estimated 30% lung capacity due to a fluid-filled chest cavity. Her cancer was back and running rampant. Even in an oxygen tent, she was visibly laboring for breath. No pain, just constant exhaustion of working so hard to breathe. I could see that the vet did not want to say outright, “There is no hope, you should put his poor dear out of her suffering.” He mentioned that the fluid could be drained but that it would provide very temporary relief only, in all likelihood. He hemmed, he hawed, he did everything but say what we all knew. I don’t blame him for not wanting to say it. Sometimes you don’t have to say it and this was one of those times. All the better when you don’t have to tell someone, “You should take the life of this faithful companion because if you don’t the companion will suffer a lingering death. The price of a clean break is $XXX.XX.” No, the man was spared that indelicate moment because there was no false hope to offer.

Left alone with Sheba by the staff, we expressed brief goodbyes to the Queen of the household. She acknowledged us in passing, with affection, but an indication that this was all so tiring; could we please just leave her alone, perhaps back in the box that had the easy air? I cried. Jessica cried. Sheba pretended not to notice.

A few minutes later, she was gently anesthetized and went to sleep a final time with a calmness and dignity that helped to keep us all from sobbing. We did not keep her ashes. What are ashes in comparison to the real thing? A mere bit of grit and a pretty container. No thanks, give me the queen back or don’t tease me with halfway measures.

Our household is diminished. We care now for the living. Everyone has had Frontline applied. I hear no scratching. I see no fleas. That square blue food dish has toured the apartment at least a dozen times, held in befuddled hands. For whom will we fill the dish? It sits even now, empty by my elbow, unused. The queen is dead.

Whoever said that time heals all wounds obviously was shallow enough for that to work on them. For us, for now, all we can do is tighten the ranks to close the gap that has been left in us.

While I mentioned Sheba was back to normal last Monday, she seemed to slowly deteriorate over the week.  Specifically, I’d keep catching moments where I could see her shoulders heave with each breath.

Yesterday, those moment accumlated to an entire day.

Today we went to a vet.  X-rays showed fluid around the lungs (indicitive of heart failure), and tumors.

ST was at his human doctor just a mile away and got there in time to see the X-rays himself and say goodbye.

Sheba actually came to me from the sanctuary in 2000.  We get that every once and a while, people not understanding the types of cats we deal with and leaving a domestic.

She was out there roaming the property for a while.  I don’t remember much about her except she was always quiet.  And one night we had all carpooled to some bar or movie or something and were saying goodnight in the parking lot when Sheba walked up and took the stinkiest shit ever right in the middle of the group.

Heh.  That was my girl.