In the Jungle, the Mighty Jungle....

Saturday morning, having let the cats in for breakfast then letting them back outside, I was confused by the sound of Tyra “mrowring”. After checking around, I realized she was outside, calling at the back door. While she is normally a decidedly yakky kitty, it’s unusual for her to cry to come IN. The mystery was solved when I opened the door and found a dead finch at her fluffy black feet. *sigh* A gift like only a cat can give.

We’ve had dozens of cats over the years and have learned that this is really the greatest gift a cat can bestow on a human….or at least it is to a cat. The cat we had when I was growing up was a giver. Putsy was a prolific breeder and great hunter, a skill she would pass on to her spawn by maiming a gopher and allowing her kittens to ‘play’ with the quarry. She would finally go in for the kill and share the bounty with her babies. Great training. Unpleasant to watch but really the way to teach your children to hunt if you’re so inclined. If she was between litters, she would deposit portions of any variety of vermin on the back step. A cat we had in Nevada, Hawk, actually brought a jackrabbit home once and tore it open to share with his nieces and nephews. Surprisingly, Hawk was neutered but was helping to train the babies of a stray that came to our spawning grounds.

We acquired one of our best hunters in Camden, South Carolina in 1975 - that's him at the top. Torker was feral orphan left behind by his mom under a boat at the shop where Mark worked. I bottle-fed him and he grew to be an awesome cat, quite content to travel on the dash of our van (picture it - it was the 70's) but with still enough wild blood that the scent of eggs would drive him to a frenzy. If I was fixing eggs for breakfast, he would quite literally jump on the table and steal scrambled eggs from a plate and run to a corner to feast before you had a chance to react. I learned to cook him an egg of his own and serve it hot to slow down his devouring it so Mark could finish HIS breakfast in peace.

Torker came back from South Carolina with us, traveling on the dash most of the way. He hunted in Florida. He hunted in Texas. Once we got home to Santa Cruz, he went camping with us. In fact, we’re pretty sure he’s the reason the “All Dogs Must Be on Leash” signs in Yosemite were changed to “All PETS Must Be On Leash”. I remember a ranger stopping his truck as Torker chased a big bushy-tailed gray squirrel up a tree. Luckily, the squirrel was more agile and we did not have to hide the remains from Smokey Bear but most prey around our house were not so fortunate. He caught birds (big ones), gophers, mice….and he would bring those gifts to me. Unfortunately, we lived in an apartment at the end of the hall….and he would bring them alive. If I didn’t come home soon enough, he would kill it for me. If I took too long, he would eviscerate the little creature leaving me only the most delectable pieces….stomach, claws and face. Yeah…nice gift. Thank you, Torker. He would not do this without first bashing and tossing the carcass around in the hallway, leaving little red splats all over the hallway wall. The girl in the apartment nearest the door did not appreciate the bloody walls but she MUST have preferred them to the live mice that would run in the hallway. Again, “Thank you, Torker” for endearing us to our neighbors. Torker’s love for the road took him for rides in stranger’s cars….if a car door was left open, he would jump in. Three times he disappeared, twice he was returned. to the pound where we would retrieve him. I’m sure the last ride he went on was with someone who recognized he was a perfectly awesome cat and with a Southern drawl to boot.

Our most recent felines have been hunters but not eaters. More of the Garfield perspective…..”eww, Eat mice?” They will hunt, generally unsuccessfully but if they manage to capture something, they will simply run them to death and leave the carcass behind for us to clean up. I’m fine with nature taking its course, survival of the fittest and all, but I hate that they kill for sport. So, for the spring, while the baby birds are fledging, I will need to bell the cats. Or at least Tyra. And to the mommy bird, I apologize. I grieve your loss.

KNOCKIN' ON HEAVEN'S DOOR

I have arthritis in my back that causes me to occasionally feel (and walk) much older than my years. I also carry around a few extra pounds. When Big Sid, our handsome tabby, began having trouble negotiating the steps a few weeks ago, empathy was not difficult - he's more than a bit heavy plus that step was at eye level.

In past weeks, the Big Man started sleeping in the middle of the back lawn at night. Not sure where he normally sleeps but I’m guessing it was somewhere that involved a jump or a climb. In the midst of our recent flea infestation, he also started napping in the covered cat box, stinky but quiet. Between the fragrance of cat poo and the fact that that chubby Sid has not been able to get to his back half for a number of years, we hauled him to the sink for a good wash before hitting him and his feline step-siblings with the Advantage.

The bath was sorely needed and I figured he would feel better with the flea crumbs removed but, instead, he developed wobbly-cat disease – as if he’d had a stroke, his ample stern was not quite following his bow. In hindsight, I’m thinking that bath was the beginning of the end and for that, I feel horrible beyond words. Last Wednesday, I carried his ampleness to the vet where he purred contentedly but would not walk across the room to display his lack of grace for the doctor. Because he is eleven years old, he got a “senior screen”, full blood test that might uncover diabetes or other condition that might afflict the obese elderly. They gave him a shot for pain to see if that would help. By Thursday, his test results showed “normal” but his legs were more wobbly. He still wasn’t showing any indication of discomfort except for his total inability to climb stairs and physical inability to mow everyone down on the way to the food bowl.

Friday morning he was a seal, dragging his big ol’ butt to the food bowl, rear legs not functioning at all. But he ate – he cleaned his plate and the leftovers from the other two plates. Then he crawled back to his towel and plopped the rest of his body down. Back to the vet that afternoon for x-rays and a cortisone shot…pills for home. Sid spent the weekend dragging himself around, front legs powering around his enormous lower body. He slept in the sun’s rays, actually dragging himself out to the back porch once -- I could see he was considering a trip down the steps to the driveway when I carried him back in for fear of him going for a “drag” down the street.
It broke my heart to see him. He was lacking control of his bladder. His feet were cold to the touch….he tail stopped twitching. His front half was still a cuddly teddy bear and he even played a bit with Hope’s hamster as Rambo rolled past him in the ball. By this morning, we knew things didn’t look good for Sid.

Mark’s shop is closed on Mondays so he was elected to take Bubba back to the docs. They consulted. They concurred that his butt-nerve was pinched badly by the arthritis and would not get better. Even surgery was not an option that would help. So Mark held Sid in his arms while they sent him off to take on his next life, where maybe he’d do a little yoga, eat smaller helpings and stay a little more limber for more of his years. Hopefully, we’ll get him back in one of his other lives. I miss that big ol’ ottoman already.