Gone!

The stray cat has found a home.  Just like the funny post I wrote about it.  Except while I have a physical address of the family that took the cat, my funny post seems to have entered innernets ether.

Argh.

If only that were euphemism for something!  Like aunt flo!  Because she’s here too!

Yet, I have a stray cat in my bathroom in a very literal sense.  A literal white/gray medium-haired neutered male who is microchipped but the information was never updated and his owner from 2 years ago who lives over an hour away left me a voicemail that I was welcome to keep the cat.

THANKS!

On Tuesday, which I somehow had scheduled pretty tight anyway, I was coming home from my first round of errands and a cat crossed the road from the mangrove side to the side where a condo complex is under about 70% foreclosure.  I hemmed, hawed, then stopped.  99.9% of the time, a loose cat is going to be too scared of you (or me) to get close enough to do anything.

This one came right over and settled into my arms.

While there, and I debated whether someone thought it was OK to have an “outside” cat (it is illegal in our county and my neighborhood specifically is a major bird nesting area), I felt mat after tangled mat on his underside and decided he was coming with me.

Guess who doesn’t like car rides?

I came home, whipped up an emergency cat-kit in the bathroom (Tom should really get over his hoarding tendencies long enough to rid us of excess pet paraphernalia if he doesn’t want to come home to strays), popped him in there, and ran out to Just Brakes!  Where I decided they were Just Douches!  And they decided they Just Didn’t Care!

Since I had some random cat in my bathroom, I decided to leave it as is and inform Tom he was the official Tell Mechanics About the Weird Road Noise person.

I scooped up the cat again, stuffed him in a carrier, and off to the vet.  Where we found he was chipped, and even though it was an area code for a few counties away, it was still a working number for the name given in the chip’s record.  The vet left a message for Joe, giving him my phone number.

I knew it wasn’t a done deal, but I couldn’t help feeling this was all going to be a small 24-hour adventure I could write about and share.  Because I had grabbed the cat out of instinct and less out of a need for a 48-72–or-heaven-effing-help-me-724-hour adventure.

But Joe called and informed me he had moved away and gave the cat to another family two years ago.  I asked for him to call back with any details – initials even!  I am an awesome googler! – but nothing.

And so.  After checking on petfinder.com, craigslist, and a local county lost/found page, I posted ads on all 3 for this found cat.  I also called animal services so he is listed in their book.  And then I made some poorly crafted signs and tried to hang them up around the neighborhood except all the condo associations keep shitty management hours.

And there was a sheriff at the park right where I wanted to tape a sign on this nice pretty locking glass case for signs.  Doesn’t that sound like something there is an ordinance against?  Maybe it’s littering?  Or informing the public without a license?  Something?  Hasn’t anyone else heard you can get fined for putting up silly homemade signs on public property?

The sherriff, who put his cell phone call on hold long enough to give me the world’s most “Are You Mentally Compentent?” look, had never heard anything of the sort.  And even though I thought he might be trying to do some sort of “Aha, gotcha!”, I put up my damn sign.

But so far, no dice.  I have now taken the cat for testing (feline HIV and feline leukemia – both negative) and his basic shots.  I haven’t let him out of the bathroom yet because while I certainly could try and referee that particular UFC match by myself, why put myself through it alone when Tom will be back tonight and can help while I calm everyone’s nerves with a large glass of wine?

If said stray can handle our crew and vice versa, we will foster him until the domestic rescue organization we work with has room for him at an adoption center.  If they all can’t just get along, we’ll keep him in the bathroom until we can find another foster.

We are not keeping him.  Ain’t gonna happen.  And he is cute and long-haired and needy just like Tom’s other favorite cat in the house so please everyone have my back in this so Tom is outnumbered when he meets this feline tonight?

(Despite what he may say, it is his fault we have Pixie, our last acquisition.)

The stray is now 90% de-matted which I did with nail scissors and every groomer in the tri-state area (which is…FL, GA, and what?  Lousiana?) is shrieking that you DO NOT CUT MATS OFF OF ANIMALS!(!!)  And I KNOW.  I KNOW.  I am a horrible stubborn woman.  But seriously, don’t cut mats off of your animals.  Find a good groomer.

I cut the mats off because obviously I am an idiot.  Also, I was concerned a groomer would decide a full shave was in order and a shaved cat is not exactly the look you go for when vying for adoption.  Mr. Bigglesworth is not a sought-after look.  Since I’d like my bathroom back sometime this year (although this is a great excuse for not having shaved legs.  Sorry yoga class mates!), I want to keep him looking as bushy-tailed as possible.

There’s also a wee chance I might know a thing or two about grooming animals myself.  But mostly I am an idiot who would like Mr. Stray to find a home toot sweet.

If he could take aunt flo with him, that’d be awesome.

**This list is inappropriate in content, structure, grammar and possibly gravity.  I suggest not reading.

1) Zulu, our Bengal cat, died.  And no death should be trivialized in a list, except that

1a) she lived 4 years longer than expected, with a good quality of life.  You could not ask for more.

1b) I already wrote a post about her for the volunteers at the sanctuary (where she came from).  And while it is not something I mind sharing here, I rarely cross post.

2) Our upstairs hallway was Zulu’s domain.  It has a nice plant ledge looking out into the livingroom that has always been a cat favorite.  After she passed I cleaned the hallway, removed her feeding station, washed the ledge bedding, and moved the litter pan to a more neutral location (it had been smack dab in the middle of the hall with bed/feed station on either end).  The other cats had no problem going upstairs when Zulu was alive for the purpose of

2a) eating Zulu’s leftover food.

2b) using Zulu’s litter box.

2c) tormenting Zulu/getting their ass kicked by Zulu (mood and health dependent).

Zulu has been gone 5 days now and I have only found evidence of the upstairs litter being used once.  This is both frustrating and exciting. 

2d) Anyone with multiple cat boxes in their home can related to how freeing the idea is of one less litter box.

2e) But if I had a choice I’d get rid of the kitchen litter box instead of the upstairs one.

2f) Except that it is a bitch to climb the stairs every day to clean it so maybe I should be happy with the possible status quo.

2g) It’s just sad to think that perfect cat ledge might go to waste.  I bet if I put a plant there that sucker would be dead in 24 hours and the spot claimed.

3) As a follow up to the garden, I prepared some hanging plant bags this morning for my seedlings.  After I filled them with soil, I watered them and found a decent place for them to lay horizontal for a bit before actually planting and hanging per the directions.  As I finished and a little water dribbled onto the floor I muttered, “Well, you certainly didn’t do that as well as you usually do…”  Then I stopped for a moment and reflected

3a)  It was the first time I had EVER done that.  How could I know how well I usually do it?

3b)  I’ve never seen these planter be used period.  How do I know that’s not the best way those planters have ever been filled/watered/layed horizontal?

3c) I really am hard on myself.

3d) But I totally could have done better.  Like I usually do.

4) I don’t really have a fourth thing I was going to talk about but since I feel 3d) was a weak ending I’ll go ahead and tell you guys Tom and I plan another overnight camping trip this weekend.

4a) To a place we’ve never hiked before.

4b) Have I ever mentioned our knack for getting lost?

4c) But Tom found a GPS app for the iPhone so we will totally know where we are at all times.

4d) All times we have signal that is.

4e) And until the battery dies.

4f) It will probably be helpful to know where we are in relation to things such as the campsite, the trailhead, and the rest of the hike, but whatever.

In reality, I have found that when I don’t speak up and let him read the map it’s better for us all around.  I can be very bitchy until I have my way convincing and the fact that I’m one smart ass cookie means he takes my ideas into consideration even though

4g) I have not paid attention to the map until that point.

5) We were supposed to camp this past weekend but the end of my week sucked with

5a) Zulu dying

5b) on the same day tornados came through

5c) which sandwiched my 12 bazillion chores into one day instead of two.

And on Tuesday the wall mounted bookcase decided enough of that and came crashing down.  At 1:30 in the morning.  I was on the lookout for our downstairs neighbors the next day or two to explain and apologize, but when I finally saw the guy 4 days later he swished right past me (and he is not a swishy guy) so I’m thinking they heard it and didn’t appreciate.

5d) But the point is, that left 3 holes and several scrapes along the only painted wall in the livingroom.  And while I was willing to let it go and repair after our camping trip, when everything else came crashing down (metaphorically.  Evidently my furniture provides literal foreshadowing!) we opted to stay home, patch, and repaint.

5e) We did a pretty awesome job.

5f) And didn’t kill each other.

5g) Which is why I married him in the first place.  When you find someone with whom you can

5h) spend 48 hours straight

5i) do major home/car repair

5j) bring home random surprise animals who you swear will keel over in 6 months but then survive past several relatives and yet he/she agrees to having fried chicken as your after-hike meal all the time because it’s the animal’s favorite treat

5k) marry that person.

6) Enough said.

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.