Two days ago, we said tearful goodbye to Mo. It wasn't exactly out of the blue--I knew he had been poorly for some time, but didn't know the extent of the illness. We took him to the vet on Monday. What the vet discovered on that visit was so much more serious than anything I had imagined. We had NOT expected to come home without him. And yet, there it was.
It is my tradition to memorialize each of our feline companions here on "Terms" as they walk on to their next adventures. Some memorials are harder than others. The shock and suddenness of our loss of Mo makes this one impossible. If I start crying again, I may never stop.
Fortunately, I don't have to tax my grief-stricken brain to come up with Mo's story to share here. It's already been written. As it happened, ten years ago. Through the magic of copy and paste, I will share it all here again, in memory of my sweet, pumpkin-headed "lunch buddy" of the sharp claws and perpetually matted fur. We love you, Mo-Mo. How we will miss you! Rest well, my sweet old boy! Then play among the stars till your next adventure. We will surely meet again.
From
June 26, 2008
Last
fall, a new visitor started hanging around my yard. A big, light orange tom with an out-sized,
round head that looked like a full moon.
And he didn’t just pass through on his rounds of the local bird
feeders. More often than not, I would
see him outside one of my two sliding glass doors. Staring in.
Hopefully. As if he were one of
my own who had been out for a stroll, and was ready to come back in for dinner
and a nap.
I’m a
sucker for any cat, so of course I had to try to make his acquaintance. When I opened the door to go out and pet him,
I had to play “kitty goalie”—that little foot-pushing shuffle perfected by cat
people wishing to keep a feline on the desired (by the human) side of a
door. He was all prepared to march into
the house and make himself at home. But
I didn’t think he was a stray…he was clean and fit and wasn’t the least bit shy
around people. He had a purr loud enough
to rattle the windows. Certainly he must
have a home somewhere—probably with a new neighbor. So I limited our encounters to outside, and
since he didn’t look hungry, I didn’t feed him.
But I had to call him something, so I dubbed him “Orangie.” Hey, you don’t get too creative when naming
other people’s cats…
As fall
deteriorated to winter and the weather got ugly, Orangie continued to appear
outside my back doors. Gazing longingly
through the glass. In the dark. In the wind and rain. Though I grew increasingly incensed at
whoever his owners might be, I still did not let him come in the house, or feed
him. With all the stuff going on in my
life at the time, I did not have the resources to try to introduce another cat
to the household. Especially not a
full-grown, unneutered tom. I hoped
against hope that he had a decent home somewhere and enough to eat. And I felt like crap.
As
spring approached and we emerged from the worst of the weather (both emotional
and meteorological) I realized that Orangie hadn’t appeared at the door for
many weeks. I hoped that he had decided
to stick closer to home,wherever that was.
And then, one day, I caught a glimpse of a light orange body skulking
away and scrabbling over the fence when I was out in the back yard. It was Orangie. But he looked awful.
He was
thin, scruffy and bedraggled. His once
soft, puffy coat hung in damp, dirty mats.
He had scratches and scabs on his face.
And he
was deathly afraid of me. No matter how sweetly I talked to him, that
day or any day since, he has cowered and skittered away from me every
time.
My heart
is broken for him. The once sweet,
loving, ready-to-be-anyone’s-friend kitty was obviously dumped or abandoned by
someone who apparently had treated
him well, then decided they didn’t want him anymore. And since, after all, he’s just a cat, they
figured he would be perfectly fine without a real home, fending for
himself. By some miracle, he hasn’t
ended up coyote lunch. Not yet. But it’s obvious that someone here in this
place where he was expected to find a new home was so mean to him, abused him
so badly, that he is now as deathly afraid of human beings as the most wild of
feral cats. I cannot imagine what
horrible thing some person might have done to him to so completely change his
personality in such a short time.
Now, I
would like to adopt him, if I could. I
hope I can convince him not to be afraid of me.
I’ve started leaving food out for him.
He still seems to spend a lot of time in my yard…he sleeps curled up on
the gravel by my back fence. If I talk
to him softly enough, I can get him to turn around, sit down and look at me,
but he won’t come anywhere near me.
Unfortunately, with my insane work schedule, I don’t have a lot of time
to invest in the process of helping this kitty trust some person again. I’m going to try, but it will, if anything,
take way longer than it should—if it happens at all. And time is one thing I’m afraid homeless
kitties in my neighborhood do not have.
In the hope that we will eventually be
able to take him under our roof, I’ve given him a new name: William.
As in “William of Orange.” (Who apparently is one of my ancestors, a
fact uncovered in a genealogy trace done by my grandmother years ago.) We will call him “Will.” I hope…
From June 7, 2009
Searching the archives for my original story about Orangie, I was surprised to see that it was almost a year ago that I wrote about him. Since then, I'd seen him only rarely, and briefly. And when he saw me, he'd run away. There was a stretch of several months when I saw him not at all. I wondered if he had become the "coyote lunch" I had so feared, or if our horrific winter had been too much for him.
Then...
About three weeks ago, he reappeared. Once again, he began spending a great deal of time in my yard. Sleeping on the fence, creeping out from under the bushes. Looking in the windows. Still, when I talked to him or tried to get near him, he'd run away.
But I knew I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I didn't at least put out some food for him. Though my past efforts in that direction had met with no success.
I put a bowl of kibbles out on the shed deck (my shed is about ten yards from the house, and it has its own little "deck" in front of it.) To my delight, I caught him eating from the bowl. And it seemed as if he had actually been waiting for it. In the next couple of days, he came to the bowl several times.
One evening, I decided to kick his dinner up a notch...I added a scoop of canned food to the kibbles and mixed it around. Then I sat on the deck outside my back door to see what would happen.
He ate. He bathed. He laid down next to the bowl and took a little cat nap. I talked quietly to him. Told him how pretty he was. Asked if he had enjoyed his meal.
Then he did something extraordinary.
He looked me in the eye. Started meowing.
And walked right up to me. Meowing all the way.
With a minimum of coaxing, he sat down next to me. Leaned on me. And rubbed his head on my back.
As if to say, "Thank you, lady. That was really good."
I petted him and made much of him for about fifteen minutes. Then he wandered back to the bowl, finished off his dinner, and went off on his "rounds."
Leaving me astounded. And grateful.
With a tear in my eye for the sweet cat who has had a hard go of it for the past year. But hasn't completely forgotten how to trust. And love.
His name may not ever be "William." But if I have anything to say about it, he will not always be homeless.
From August 20, 2009
Orangie is still living mostly in my back yard. He spends
probably 70% of his time there—sleeping, eating, hanging with his “peeps” when
we sit out on the deck in the evening. It’s the other 30% of his time that
causes the problems. Every few days, he shows up with a new bite or sore, or
he’s limping or just obviously doesn’t feel good. He’s been “cat about the neighborhood”
for almost two years. That’s a surprisingly long tenure for any animal dumped
here and left to fend for himself. Most of them waste away or disappear after a
few months. This guy has hung tough; but it’s obvious he’s used up more than a
couple of his nine lives in the interim.
Despite getting two big meals a day—and several snacks, when I’m home—he hasn’t fattened up at all. I noticed the other day that his fur is getting softer, and he keeps himself a little cleaner, which means he is feeling better than he did when he had to scratch for every meal. But I still would kind of like to see him looking more like the “marshmallow cats” that live in the house. And it’s obvious he’s had some kind of injury to his back legs or spine. Maybe he was attacked by a dog, or a human, or had a brush with a car… But he’s stiff and sore and sits awkwardly.
I’ve had September 1st penciled in my mind as the date to round him up and take him to the vet to be neutered and get a good check up. I wanted to wait until he trusted me enough. Still, I’m worried about the process. What if he comes home, I let him out, and he’s so upset with me that he never comes back? I suppose that’s probably a stupid thing to worry about. But I sure don’t want to do anything that forces him back out into the neighborhood to fend for himself.
He’s had a hard life the past couple of years. When I think about what he’s been through, I nearly start bawling. So, I want to do right by him; but I have to balance that, too, against what’s right for the rest of my herd. I don’t know if he’ll make a good transition to “indoor cat,” and I can’t have him going in and out of the house, possibly carrying disease to the indoor population. So he has to be “in” or “out.” We’ve been playing around with the idea of turning the shed into a kitty hut. Making it a warm, cozy place for kitties to get out of the rain and cold during the winter. And a place that we can quietly shut them in at night to keep them out of the way of the harm that lurks around the neighborhood in the dark—like raccoons, coyotes, other cats, dogs, cars, whatever. That might be a good compromise for everyone.
“Everyone” would include yet another denizen of the neighborhood who has taken to hanging around the yard and grabbing chow several times a week. This one is a scrappy little black tom…I can’t think that he is a year old, yet. We dubbed him “Ace,” short for Ace of Spades. Mostly we call him “Acer.”
He’s such a sweetie, likes people, loves to be petted. But if testicle size really was determined by the amount of male hormone coursing through his body, this little guy would be dragging around balls the size of a Brahma bull’s. He just can’t not challenge every male cat in the subdivision. As a result, he gets the crap kicked out of him on a regular basis. Every time he shows up to beg a meal, he’s sporting a new battle wound. Acer is a relatively recent addition to the neighborhood cast of cat characters…I don’t know if he belongs to someone or not. I think not. And even if he does, his owners suck as “cat parents.” I would not feel bad at all about toting him to the vet along with Orangie. Orangie is a mellow old cat; likely he would be happy to share his space amiably with Ace…but Ace has to posture and howl every time they cross paths. Perhaps they could get along once they’ve been, shall we say, re-programmed? And then they could spend yucky fall and winter evenings snuggled into our shed-cum-cathouse. That’s what I would like to see, anyway.
Yes, I go through a lot of work and worry—and expense—to take care of these wanderlings. I feel responsible, being a member of the race that has bound them to itself and then treated them so shabbily. I recognize the human race’s collective sin, so it IS my responsibility to do what I can to atone for it. And it’s not as if I get no benefit from the relationship.
Ask anyone who knows me to describe me in one word, and the words, “Gentle,” “kind,” and “comforting” would not be the first you would hear. Far from it.
But there are creatures in my world —small, helpless creatures suffering for their relationship with humans—for whom I am a source of gentleness, kindness, and comfort. They can’t say the words, but I know I help.
And that’s all the reward I need.
Despite getting two big meals a day—and several snacks, when I’m home—he hasn’t fattened up at all. I noticed the other day that his fur is getting softer, and he keeps himself a little cleaner, which means he is feeling better than he did when he had to scratch for every meal. But I still would kind of like to see him looking more like the “marshmallow cats” that live in the house. And it’s obvious he’s had some kind of injury to his back legs or spine. Maybe he was attacked by a dog, or a human, or had a brush with a car… But he’s stiff and sore and sits awkwardly.
I’ve had September 1st penciled in my mind as the date to round him up and take him to the vet to be neutered and get a good check up. I wanted to wait until he trusted me enough. Still, I’m worried about the process. What if he comes home, I let him out, and he’s so upset with me that he never comes back? I suppose that’s probably a stupid thing to worry about. But I sure don’t want to do anything that forces him back out into the neighborhood to fend for himself.
He’s had a hard life the past couple of years. When I think about what he’s been through, I nearly start bawling. So, I want to do right by him; but I have to balance that, too, against what’s right for the rest of my herd. I don’t know if he’ll make a good transition to “indoor cat,” and I can’t have him going in and out of the house, possibly carrying disease to the indoor population. So he has to be “in” or “out.” We’ve been playing around with the idea of turning the shed into a kitty hut. Making it a warm, cozy place for kitties to get out of the rain and cold during the winter. And a place that we can quietly shut them in at night to keep them out of the way of the harm that lurks around the neighborhood in the dark—like raccoons, coyotes, other cats, dogs, cars, whatever. That might be a good compromise for everyone.
“Everyone” would include yet another denizen of the neighborhood who has taken to hanging around the yard and grabbing chow several times a week. This one is a scrappy little black tom…I can’t think that he is a year old, yet. We dubbed him “Ace,” short for Ace of Spades. Mostly we call him “Acer.”
He’s such a sweetie, likes people, loves to be petted. But if testicle size really was determined by the amount of male hormone coursing through his body, this little guy would be dragging around balls the size of a Brahma bull’s. He just can’t not challenge every male cat in the subdivision. As a result, he gets the crap kicked out of him on a regular basis. Every time he shows up to beg a meal, he’s sporting a new battle wound. Acer is a relatively recent addition to the neighborhood cast of cat characters…I don’t know if he belongs to someone or not. I think not. And even if he does, his owners suck as “cat parents.” I would not feel bad at all about toting him to the vet along with Orangie. Orangie is a mellow old cat; likely he would be happy to share his space amiably with Ace…but Ace has to posture and howl every time they cross paths. Perhaps they could get along once they’ve been, shall we say, re-programmed? And then they could spend yucky fall and winter evenings snuggled into our shed-cum-cathouse. That’s what I would like to see, anyway.
Yes, I go through a lot of work and worry—and expense—to take care of these wanderlings. I feel responsible, being a member of the race that has bound them to itself and then treated them so shabbily. I recognize the human race’s collective sin, so it IS my responsibility to do what I can to atone for it. And it’s not as if I get no benefit from the relationship.
Ask anyone who knows me to describe me in one word, and the words, “Gentle,” “kind,” and “comforting” would not be the first you would hear. Far from it.
But there are creatures in my world —small, helpless creatures suffering for their relationship with humans—for whom I am a source of gentleness, kindness, and comfort. They can’t say the words, but I know I help.
And that’s all the reward I need.
From Jul 21, 2011
Those of you who have been with me awhile may remember "The Boys of Summer 2009." That was the year my mother's spirit sent me cats to protect, to worry over, and, I suspect, to take my mind off my own troubles.
Two of those boys are still with us. The picture below is of Orangie, who of course we do not call by that name anymore. His name has morphed from Orangie to O.J. to O-Ja-Moje to Mojay to Mojito... Nowadays, I just call him "Mo."
We have no idea how old Mo is... The vet told us it's difficult to tell with cats. He could be five or six...he could be ten or twelve. My feeling is that he's not a terribly old cat...probably the same age as "the boys" (Alvin and Theodore, whom we took in back in 2004 when they were but tiny weanlings...) But Mr. Mo lived by his wits for two years, fending for himself in the neighborhood, with no real home until he came to live with us. That can age a body some...so he has his issues.
This afternoon, I caught him dozing on the dining room table, using my old Minolta as a chin rest. Note the strapping tape on the camera--a couple of bounces off the concrete floor at the cafe broke the hatch to the battery compartment. It seems like all my favorite old cameras, at some point, end up held together with tape. My Mamiya--my very first SLR, which I bought with my tax refund back in 1975--looks very much the same.
Tired Old Cat, Tired Old Camera:
Mo-Mo in his favorite place, with his favorite human...
