Irene and I both noticed something wrong as soon as we came back from our week-long cruise.  Jasmine looked “puffy” around her chest, and seemed somewhat disinterested and dull.  After a few days, she seemed [...]]]>

We knew it was a possibility, perhaps even probable.  But that didn’t make losing Jasmine at the end of May any easier.

Irene and I both noticed something wrong as soon as we came back from our week-long cruise.  Jasmine looked “puffy” around her chest, and seemed somewhat disinterested and dull.  After a few days, she seemed to be having problems breathing.  An X-Ray showed fluid and a possible mass in her chest cavity.  Fluid was drawn, and ultrasound performed.  The mass was quite large, 4 cm by 2 cm, and looked like a tumor.  The fluid drawn from the chest, which eased Jasmine’s breathing for only a day or so, was also tested: it confirmed the worse.

Lymphosarcoma.  A highly aggressive cancer.  Without FeLV, the prognosis is pretty bad: chemotherapy is only effective in about 30% of the cases, and most of the time only buys a year or two.  With FeLV, the prognosis is worse than abysmal.  Within 24 hours of diagnosis, Jasmine was struggling to breathe.  We took her to emergency late that night, and helped her quietly leave us.

I was angry again for a few days just after losing Jasmine, just as I was with Harley.  These kittens were both incredibly loving and loveable, and an uncaring world full of thoughtless, self-centered humans took them both away from us.  Jasmine, who we knew longer than Harley, possessed a personality so clear and strongly defined that she took control of the house.  The gap left in her absence became palpable as my anger subsided.

Jasmine’s favorite game was the string game.  She had a ratty old  piece of string, originally the waistband string from a pair of Irene’s pants, which was very dear to her.  She’d find it somewhere in the house, and bring it to Irene and I: mrrowling and purring the whole way.  Then you’d play with her for a few minutes, and toss the string somewhere, preferably into the next room or the other side of the couch.  Jasmine would chase after it, and a few minutes later bring it back to you to start again.

On the last day she was with us, she struggled to find the energy, and managed to drag that ratty old string to me as I sat in the kitchen- she meowed, a painful squeak as she tried to catch her breath.  She was too weak to play with it, and couldn’t chase it even a few inches.

I cried quite a bit for the first two days after Jasmine was gone.  Since then I’ve found some comfort in the thought that we were lucky to have had her and Harley in our lives, even if just for a short time.  I still feel this huge empty spot in my life and our home, where Jasmine used to play.

Bilbo and Susu joined Irene and I and our two cats Jaegar and Leopard in 1992. I [...]]]>

Last weekend we made the decision to have our cat Bilbo euthanized. I’m still dealing with it, and probably will be for several weeks if not months. He was, after all, my friend for the last eighteen years.

Bilbo and Susu joined Irene and I and our two cats Jaegar and Leopard in 1992. I had promised Irene that, once we had our own house, we’d adopt a Siamese cat. After some discussion, we agreed that the right thing to do would be to adopt a pair of siblings. We wanted “traditional” Siamese, sometimes called “apple-head” Siamese to distinguish them from the more “pointy” (elongated) cats that most Siamese have become. Bilbo and Susu were two of three kittens still awaiting homes from a purebred litter. When we brought them home they were about 14 weeks old.

Bilbo’s name was chosen primarily as an outgrowth from several nicknames he had as a kitten: “big brother”, “bad boy”… and a desire to have a two syllable name to match Susu who’s title was already selected before she came home with us. And of course the name has a nice ring to it for a fan of J.R.R. Tolkein’s works (pun intended). Bilbo Baggins, known mostly as “Bilbo”, seemed comfortable enough with his name.

Bilbo and Susu both had an air of royalty about them. They played, but in a reserved fashion. Catnip was beneath them, as were most crazy running around games which the other cats that joined our household occasionally played. And oddly enough, the other cats generally deferred to the Siamese. But neither Bilbo nor Susu were standoffish, not in the slightest. Both of them loved being cuddled and held once they settled in with us, and would consistently be the first cats on our laps when we sat down on the couch. Purrs were a normal part of this process. And I can’t recall ever hearing a serious hiss from either of them, although both of them had a tremendous vocabulary. That is one of the joys (or curses) of Siamese cats- they love to talk.

I had only been a married man for a couple of years when Bilbo came into my life. I was 28, still “young” by many standards, and we had just bought our first home- an acreage east of Edmonton. For the first eight years of his life, Bilbo lived on a quasi-rural environment: his back yard was acres in size, a space he shared with horses, rabbits, mice, shrews, hawks, dogs, deer, and coyotes. He became the patriarch of an increasingly large family of cats, as many as seven others sharing his home and his humans with him. But Bilbo was always the gentleman, and tolerantly greeted new members of the family.

Bilbo became our feline ambassador, and for the younger cats he was “Uncle Bill”. Sick or scared cats seemed to draw out some sort of mothering instinct in Bilbo: almost without fail, he would curl around and cuddle scared newcomers before others would get close. I think his example was a strong reason why we were so successful in integrating new cats into our household.

Bilbo and Whisper

Bilbo and Rommel

Bilbo and Willow

Bilbo and Iris

Every time I picked Bilbo up, he would immediately settle himself in the crook of my left arm with his head on my shoulder. If I forgot his preference and put him on the right side, he’d scramble to correct my error. Sometimes he’d meow several times to chastise me for the incorrect placement. His crossed eyes made him unsure of new spaces, but once he got things figured out he was as brave as any cat. When I slept, he’d generally try to insinuate himself under the covers in the crook of my arm as well, although for some reason he was less choosy about which side when I was horizontal.

Amazingly, despite how odd his vision must of have been, he was a proficient hunter on our acreage when he was younger. I think, however, that Bilbo was what could be called a “sport hunter”: it was an enjoyable activity for him, but not something he felt overwhelmingly compelled to do. From time to time he’d bring us a bird or mouse, more or less (it seemed) just to say “you see, I’m still quite the hunter. Now where is my canned food?”.

Bilbo was a part of arguably the best time in my life. Irene and I were figuring out married life, my career was doing well, and there were lots of positive changes happening every year. He moved with us from Alberta to B.C. and, after the trauma of the trip (he hated it) settled in happily in his new home, despite having to give up his hunting grounds. The milder winters agreed with him, and he he was completely at ease as a purely “indoor” cat.

The only really unpleasant part of Bilbo’s life that I am aware of came in the fall of 2005 when he disappeared outside and was missing for over a day. When he came home he was in sorry shape: he had obviously had a run-in with something big enough to bite his back, and it took weeks for Bilbo to return to his normal happy self. I still wonder how much of his life was consumed in surviving that one incident. Bilbo showed absolutely no interest in getting outside from that day forward.

The last couple of years were tough for Bilbo. His kidneys started to fail, and he lost over half his body mass despite special diet and care. In his prime, Bilbo was over 6 kilograms: during the last month of his life he had dropped below three. We started regular at-home doses of sub-cutaneous fluid, and that seemed to perk him up. He was still fairly mobile, although increasingly wobbly, until the last week.

Watching him wobble and collapse as he tried to walk from his chair to the water bowl during the last week of his life broke my heart. It was clear that his strength was gone- he could barely hold himself up as he drank, his front legs collapsing and folding up at awkward angles. I knew it was time, but that didn’t change the sorrow I felt at having to make the decision to end his life.

Bilbo’s vet, Dr. Michelle Levesque, helped us through the decision and the process that followed. I’m afraid I didn’t hold up very well, but Irene and I were there with Bilbo when he died. Eighteen years is, by some measures, a long time- but right now, it seems far too short a span.

Click the photo below to see pictures I took during Bilbo’s last two days with us.

I have added a cat banner which will appear periodically at the top of this page, along with my various tree and flower images. Here is a teeny tiny version for your enjoyment:

A couple of notes about these “rotating” images

I don’t particularly recommend the practice described by the following video, but it is [...]]]>

I don’t particularly recommend the practice described by the following video, but it is rather funny….

Victim particulars

I was cleaning through some old CDs and came across a batch of photos of Irene’s horse Spirit that a friend of Irene’s had taken. I had forgotten how much I enjoyed them the first time around, and for some reason they had never made it into my gallery. I corrected that oversight, and here is [...]]]>

I was cleaning through some old CDs and came across a batch of photos of Irene’s horse Spirit that a friend of Irene’s had taken. I had forgotten how much I enjoyed them the first time around, and for some reason they had never made it into my gallery. I corrected that oversight, and here is one of the pictures I liked the most:

Rommel has been with us most of his life: over 13 years.  We adopted him from the SPCA in Edmonton when he was about twelve weeks [...]]]>

Our cat, Rommel, died on Wednesday.  Irene raced him to the vet when she found him in a diabetic coma early in the afternoon.  The vet was unable to revive him.

Rommel has been with us most of his life: over 13 years.  We adopted him from the SPCA in Edmonton when he was about twelve weeks old.

A couple of weeks before we adopted him, I had lost my kitten Whisper.  We went to the SPCA to adopt a cat, and I was looking for something fluffy.  I picked out Willow, but another fellow picked her up before I did and was carrying her around as if he planned to adopt her.  I started looking around some more, and while I was wandering about Irene opened a cage with a little kitten in it.  She called me over a moment later: the kitten had crawled up on her shoulder and buried himself in Irene’s hair (which was long at the time).  That was Rommel.

We ended up going home that day with two cats.  Rommel and Willow bonded initially as paired adoptions often will, and Rommel started out as a playful, happy kitten.  Within a few weeks, however, he managed to break one of his rear legs, fracturing his kneecap.  That necessitated a couple of months in a cast and, to keep him from getting hurt further, meant that he spent most of each day in a cat “cage”.  It also meant that he spent a lot of time at the vet, first for X-rays, then the cast, then later X-rays, and removal of the wire that held his knee together.  And of course, as soon as he was fully healed he went outside and got an abscess in his foot.

Rommel went through a series of “accidents”: the abscess in the foot, another abscess in his back, a strange growth in his mouth…by the time he was a few years old, he hated the vet.  He also became generally mistrustful of people: he tolerated visitors, but he’d growl if they invaded his space or foolishly tried to pick him up.

Strangely, though, Rommel loved Irene and I.  His normal place was curled up with one of us, lying on our legs or feet if on the couch or in the crook of my arm in bed.  Once a day or so he’d decide he really needed a hug: he’d walk up and sit down in front of one of us, and stare at us until he was sure he had our attention.  Then he’d stand up partially on his hind legs, make sure we were watching him and looked ready, then he’d “launch” himself into our arms from the floor.  You had to catch him and lift him up: one paw would go on either side of your neck, and he’d start to purr.  His face would press under your chin or against the side of your neck, and the purr would get louder…perhaps he’d drool a little.

To the vets in his life, however, he was a holy terror.  He’d howl, and snarl, and spit.  He wasn’t “insane”, totally freaked out…his heart rate remained steady, and there was little sign of obvious stress beyond the violence.  His entire behavior was carefully calculated and controlled.  But a vet who wasn’t used to cats could be tremendously intimidated.

I recall one vet-related incident a few years ago.  Rommel had been at the vet all day for his second or third mouth lumpectomy.  I arrived to pick him up, and the vet as well as the vet technicians were on hand to warn me.  Rommel was a wild animal, they had had to sedate him heavily, and they were working out cautious plans involving heavy leather gloves and steel cages to transfer him into my pet carrier.  One of the techs handed me these gloves: great big leather gauntlets going half way up the forearm.  I put them aside as I approached the howling cat in his cage.  The tech backed away, saying “no, you should use these gloves”.  I said hello to a horrendously howling and snarling Rommel, his blurry eyes and wobbly body showing he was still suffering from the sedation.  Rommel’s howls went like this: “HRRROOWOWOWLLLLlllllhhhrrwwwl?”  He wobbled over to me and leapt into my arms, put one paw on either side of my neck, and started purring.  I calmly put Rommel into his carrier without any resistance, and paid the bill while the stunned vet technician and vet stood by muttering to each other.

Our vet for the last couple of years, Dr. Michelle at the Central Langley Pet Hospital, actually says she likes Rommel: I believe she said something to the effect that he is ”lovable in his own way”, and that she likes his cattitude.  We switched vets to Dr. Michelle largely because of a couple of incidents like the one I described above with our prior vet: a vet who is scared of a cat can’t effectively treat them.  Doctor Michelle and the folks at Central Langley all seemed to understand where Rommel was coming from: this meant his visits were less stressful, and I’m absolutely certain his treatment was better.  Certainly I felt better seeing him treated with respect instead of fear.

During the past couple of years we’ve been dealing with recurrences of Rommel’s stomatitis: basically a non-cancerous lump that grows in his mouth.  The lump gets in the way when he eats: he bites it, it hurts, the lump gets larger, it gets infected…generally not fun.  He’s had dental surgery, steroid treatments, and a special diet to try to minimize recurrence.  The results have been mixed.

Recently Rommel was diagnosed with diabetes.  This might have been brought on in part by the steroid treatments…or possibly not.  I learned how to inject him with insulin twice a day, and we were making some progress treating him.  On Wednesday, though, something went wrong.  It could be that his insulin balance shifted rapidly, and the dose I was giving him became suddenly too large for his needs.  The vet tells me that I didn’t mis-apply the insulin injection (I.E. incorrectly inject into a vein) because the coma took place five or six hours after his last injection.  There may have been an underlying secondary issue.  Either way, he entered a diabetic coma and didn’t recover.

I will miss a lot of things about Rommel.

• His hugs
• the way he came running from the complete opposite side of the house at the merest sound of a tin being opened
• his exuberant head butts and body slams when he thought there might be some food in the offing
• he loved warm spots, probably because his long-ago broken knee was arthritic: turn on the fire place, and Rommel would appear magically to absorb its heat
• Rommel knew how to open doors: we have long door handles in our house, and Rommel would sit on a shelf and lean on them until the door opened
• His OCD: he would sit beside one of our plastic plants and bat at its leaf for an hour, non-stop…or jump up on a toilet seat and bat at the toilet paper until the entire roll was unraveled on the floor (that’s why our TP is in “backwards” in our house).  the entire time he would have a glazed “I’m stoned” expression…
• the way he acted as toll guard on the stair way.  He’d sit sprawled across the top stair, and intimidate anyone who wanted to go up or down.  One day I found our 75 pound Rottweiler cross, Sadie, whining at the top of the stairs…she couldn’t get past Rommel
• the way our house cleaners called him “angry cat” or “bad cat” or “don’t touch that one!!”

I hope Rommel had as much happiness as he brought to us, and that he knew he was loved.