The Path He Took

Before Saturday, I hadn’t been instrumental in euthanising a cat who wasn’t mine. In all other cases, I could interpret from their characters, as well as from their behaviour, how the cats were feeling, and whether it was time for them to leave. In only one instance - Parker’s - did the cat tell me that he didn’t want to go, even though I knew beyond doubt it was time.

I know that Mirko was finished with his life. In fact, I wish that I could have brought him to the hospital sooner than I did. That he may have died before the fatal dose was administered says it all about his condition.

Nonetheless, I wish I had known him better. Every cat has his own personality. I gathered the impression that Mirko was someone who would have liked to have his own human to live with, but no other cats. I think he would have enjoyed a warm bed by a fire, the anticipation of dinner-time, the firmness of his person to sleep against at night. I’ll never know, of course. Circumstances dictated a very different life for him.

Like many humans, many who are homeless, many who suffer mental illness, many who end up in prison, for Mirko, the difference between what is and what might have been was as thin as rice paper. An unwanted pregnant cat, a small pool of urine where it shouldn’t have been, too many broken ornaments, or generations of unloved animals: anything could have led Mirko down the cold and lonely path he had to walk. Yet that paper-thin difference dissolves in kindness and compassion, patience and empathy. A little more of that, somewhere, and Mirko may have been a very happy cat.

I want to thank Ingrid of Meezer’s Mews and Terrieristical Woofs for the beautiful badge she made for Mirko. Though he was not one of my beasts, Mirko deserves to be remembered, just as he deserved to be loved.

Mirko

Mirko died at 10.15 last night.

Mirko was a stranger to most readers, though I mentioned him in this blog in May of 2023, and again about two years later. He was one of the ferals who constituted a small colony fed by myself and a colleague at my work-place. Mirko was one of the oldest members of the group, and, considering that he was black and white, like many of the others, might have been related to them. But he never got along with his fellow felines, and was, frankly, rather grumpy. When we would bring them food, however, he would talk to us, rub against us, and let us pet him.

Lately, he had lost a great deal of weight. From a picture I took of him last year, he looks like he may have started shedding pounds even then. But recently, his weight-loss became severe. He began losing hair in clumps. He would still eat, but eventually that ceased; he would cough when he tried to eat, and give up. Mirko was very sick; he was dying.

I and my colleague decided it was time to capture Mirko and give him an easier death than the one he seemed to be suffering even then. His appearances for food became sporadic, his schedule was irregular and could no longer be predicted, so it took us a while. We determined to catch him whenever we could, and, if necessary, take him to the 24-hour emergency veterinary hospital.

Last night, my colleague was working and was able to catch Mirko. It was a simple matter of pushing him into an open carrier. I then took Mirko to the hospital, where he was euthanised.

The doctor there said that Mirko had been dying, and that the cause was probably cancer. He had lost so much muscle mass that there had been difficulty finding a spot on his body that would accept a needle for the sedative. They brought him to me, and I held Mirko for the first and last time, and stroked his head. There was no response; they may have doped him up more heavily than normal, to be safe, because he was a feral. To be honest, I think the sedative killed him, he was so weak. That wouldn’t matter; his end was peaceful and painless.

I don’t think Mirko ever had a home; if he had, it would have been so long ago that he would have forgotten it. He was likely born feral, and adapted to having two specific humans around, because he knew they were friendly and provided food. His had been a rough life. He was at least ten years old; most ferals live only six years. A veteran of life outside, it is ironic that what killed him was likely an affliction that many insider-cats suffer.

A rough life or not, short or long, Mirko lived, had his concerns, his enemies, maybe some friends at some time, and perhaps, now and then, moments of happiness. Mirko died last night, but he will be remembered.

Godspeed, Mirko.

Apron-strings, and When to Cut Them

The Tempos are now five months old, yet they still want to nurse on their mother. They love their mum and start purring heavily when they snuggle with her. She is security and comfort to them. Rhapsody, for her part, loves her boys, and no matter how old they get, they still seem to be kittens to her. But it’s coming time for them to grow up, move out and start their own lives. Apron-strings should be only so long.

The Cone, Week Two

The veterinary examined Presto yesterday afternoon, and pronounced his progress very good. His eye is healing very nicely. She does want the little fellow to wear his cone for another week, though I will be removing it for periods when he is under my supervision.

Presto is still behaving excellently with the cone. He doesn’t like it, and resists a little when I put it on, but there is no trouble doing so. He plays wearing it, but cannot participate when his brothers play, which I know makes him feel left out. But he is still full of energy and action, as a kitten should be, and next week, when the cone comes off, he’ll be a full-time Tempo again.

Time, Our Ally

Little Coda can be found pretty much anywhere in the Cosy Cabin now. He doesn’t go often into the bedroom, but he’s been there, and he likes to see what’s happening in the sitting room and kitchen, especially if some of the other cats are present. He plays with the Tempos and has a good relationship with Moxy and Brazil. I was never too worried about that aspect of his integration.

He is very slowly coming to trust me, or, perhaps more accurately, slowly becoming less wary of me. He will still run from me, but it’s now a trot, rather than a gallop, and if I am not passing near him, he will watch me but remain. Sometimes, I find him observing me. This morning, he stared at me as I washed and brushed my teeth, activities he may never have witnessed before in a human. He will bounce away from me when I bring him his soft-food, but at some point will turn and stand his ground. I can come close to him then, and give him his food. As with Brazil, feeding and playing seem to be the best meeting points for new human and new cat.

I worried at first that I might have another Sable in my household, but kittens are both naturally curious and gregarious, and I think the matter of time will solve any remaining doubts he may have about living with people.

Privileges and Advantages

As he is recovering from his surgery, Presto is treated differently than are the other Tempos. It’s not just about wearing the cone most of the time; I do take that off but only when I can watch him directly. I don’t want him playing with his brothers unless I can keep an eye on him, and what they get up to at night, in the library, when they should be sleeping, could cause damage to the surgical site, even with the cone.

Therefore, the oldest Tempo doesn’t sleep with his siblings anymore. He sleeps on the bed with me and some of the other beasts, both at night, and when I nap. I wondered at first how he would take to this. Though he wanted - and still wants - to sleep on a part of the bed that is reserved for Imogen, there is little trouble from the kitten. I place him on the far side of me, and he eventually - rather quickly, in fact - settles down to rest. I am surprised that he seems to sleep right through the night, without moving much. He, like most of the cats, will rise before I do, and start his day early. Other than that, he barely disturbs me or the others.

This new routine not only allows him to stay safe from possible inadvertent harm during unsupervised play, but gets him ready for the time when he is adopted. That he will - and wants to - sleep with his person is very good; most adopters like that arrangement. It is not only good that he does this, but it is good to know that he does. And it allows him further to synchronize his habits with a human’s.

Presto’s situation has its privileges - and its advantages.

Ah, Saturday Night

Saturday night did not unfold as usual. The routine is to feed the cats their last meal of the day (‘snack-time’), clean up, have a bath and watch a movie. It’s hardly exciting, but I look forward to it all week. Last night departed from the pattern, unfortunately.

I had fed the beasts and took some items to the furnace room/laundry, in the basement. That’s when I noticed that water was soaking half the floor. I thought initially that the washing machine had burst a pipe. When I saw that water was gushing out of a major pipe behind the water-heater, I changed my opinion.

I immediately called my landlady, and she immediately called a plumber. It was about an hour before the plumber arrived, but, on a Saturday night of a long weekend, that was pretty good. I had noticed in that time that the sump pump appeared to be doing its job, as the water on the floor was not increasing. I tried to find the general shut-off for the house’s water-supply but could not find it.

After the plumber came and worked on the problem, it turned out that it was centred on the pump: it was trying to rid the house of some water that had accumulated during the rainy day, and had encountered roots in the pipes outside the house. Consequently, the water was returning to the basement, only to be ejected again by the pump. That was why I had seen the gushing of the water increase when the pump started up again, over and over. The plumber cleared the roots from the pipes, and told me that the shut-off for the water was somewhere beneath the street, a not uncommon location for old houses.

The problem is now solved, at least until roots intrude into the municipal plumbing again. The sump pump was, after all, simply trying to do its job: if conscious, it probably would have been puzzled as to why water kept returning after it was thrown out. The damage was minimal, dampness that needed sopping up, and dirt that needed cleaning. The water didn’t cover more than half the furnace room, and didn’t come close to the library, across the staircase landing. The stairs needed vacuuming again (I had done it earlier that day) because of outside debris brought in. The business did ruin my Saturday night but it could have been much worse. My landlady was on the problem right away, and came over to make sure the plumber did what was necessary.

And I had almost been ready to congratulate myself on having no new cat or a sick resident to tend to. My love/hate relationship with long weekends nonetheless continues…