Jun 14, 2015 |
Look at those eyes!
Mewwo. Mom’s been busy so she hasn’t let me blog for a while. What’s up with that? She leaves in the morning and sometimes is gone until long after dark. She dances around singing things like “I’m Too Sexy For My Cat”. Excuse me? Should I take that personally?
And get this ~ she got the idea to let me blog . . . from a dog. A dog! Now, I’m all about making friends, and I’m sure Charlie Bear is nice and all that. I mean, he doesn’t look too big. In fact, he’s a little like the human sister’s owner at the grandparents’ house. But he’s still a dog. And I’m beginning to sense that Mom might be liking him. What’s a cat to do?
At least she still lets me cuddle up with her at night. When she was gone to her Writers Conference last month, the fur sisters decided we should all get along better. We thought maybe Mom had enough of our sqaubbling and toilet paper tantrums. She was gone for quite a while.
But she came back and we’re all good again. Don’t tell her, but I missed her. That’s why I lick her face each night. And bop her nose when she snores.
And to show that she missed us, she bought us new food. Not just new as in fresh, but new as in type.
She used to feed us the cat food with the four-letter word on the label. So it’s not the same four-letter word that humans use, but for me and my fur sisters it may as well have been. The four-letter-word food caused us upset stomachs and hairballs even though it was supposed to be for older, indoor cats.
Instead, she now gives us the Good Life.
Good Life vs. Four-Letter Word Food
She said something about real food, which is good because we’re Real Cats. Realy, we are. [Wait for it . . . There yah go. Realy.]
I’m going to tell Cousin Zoey about it. Maybe her people will spoil her. If not, well, that’s something to talk about at the next family reunion.
It tastes great. It fills us up faster, so we don’t each as much. Which means less upchuck and hairballs. Lots less. Which makes our mommy love us even more.
It’s a win-win situation.
I guess I’ll keep her.
Lizzie Love
And Frankly, My Dear . . . that’s all she wrote!
You may also enjoy reading:
Life With Lizzie: My Mom Can Be Crazy
Meet Zoey
May 7, 2015 |
Lizzie Cat
Welcome to Life with Lizzie: a new weekly feature here at Frankly, My Dear . . .
You know me. I’m Lizzie Cat. I’m the oldest of five at Catford Manor. Now that the Human Sister has grown up and moved out, Mom is left alone with us. She calls us her FurFamily and I guess that’s right. I mean, we are family. And we are furry.
Does that make her a Crazy Cat Woman?
I’m her favorite. I know this because she tells me. Oh, she loves Berry Sunshine, Little, Sparkles and Iris just as much. But different. Mom and I? We have a bond. I’m her favorite, and she’s mine.
I steal her stuffed animals when she’s not looking. I don’t hide them or anything. I just claim them for my own. C’mon. . . she leaves all day and they’re just sitting there. Out in the open. Someone has to snuggle with them. Am I right?
She calls me her writing partner. I like that. I like when she’s got a great idea, how excited and animated she gets. I like that she leans over and kisses me (but don’t tell her that). Mostly I love sleeping next to her. She complains that she can’t get any work done that way, but I think that’s a lie. She always manages to do just fine.
Writing Partners
Mom’s different since the Human Sister left. Sometimes she’s sad, so my sisters and I sit closer to her. She doesn’t cry much but I think she wants to.
Sometimes she’s happy. She dances more. Not in any particular pretty rhythm. But she does okay when she thinks no one is watching. She turns on the big black screen and it thumps. Loud. I don’t like that, and try to tell her so but she doesn’t listen so I just go to the other room until it’s over. She sings, too. Loud. I do like that, for the most part. We used to sing together but that was years ago.
She doesn’t eat at home as often. I guess I don’t mind because I don’t eat her food anyway, but Berry Sunshine is a little sad because she likes licking the plates. Mom’s friend Tania brought pepperoni pizza the other night, and we all took turns eating the crumbs. It was pretty good. I think Mom should have people like Tania over more often.
On the weekends, sometimes, she lets me go play in the yard. I like to roll around in the sand because it’s nice and cool, but when I come in she yells at me for getting the coffee table dirty. But she was the one who opened the door! See? A bit crazy there, I think.
She talks to herself once in a while. Or to people who aren’t there. When she’s writing, she yells at her computer. She calls it Babycakes which is strange because it’s not a baby and none of us can eat it. She pets it, too, which I can’t imagine being comfortable. It has no fur.
My favorite part of the day is bedtime. I can always when it’s time because she folds up her silver Babycakes, grabs her bottle of water and slips her flip-flops on before walking back to the bedroom. As soon as she sits up straighter from the recliner, I know all those other things are about to happen so I always try to race her to the bed. If I get to the pillow before she does, I make her scrunch her neck and shoulders around me. Once I’m settled, I’m settled. It’s her fault for staying up later than me, right?
Uh-oh. Looks like Mom’s getting ready to go in now. I better get there before she does, or else I’ll have to find a spot at the foot of the bed.
I’ll be back next week with more stories about Mom and my sisters.
Until then, have a mewwy great week!
Love,
Lizzie
And Frankly, My Dear . . . that’s all she wrote!
You may also enjoy reading:
Catford Manor in Pictures
How a Bird Bath Destroyed My House
Lessons Learned: The Domesticated Cat Edition
Jan 2, 2014 |
This post is hard to write. It’s also one of the bigger reasons I didn’t write in December.
Catford Manor is minus one member of our FurFamily.
“We Call Her Demon Cat.” (Dot magically caught Fluffy in a yawn for this pose years ago.)
Our beloved ten-year-old Fluffy fell ill and succumbed to old age on December 19th. For two weeks prior, we nursed her, took her to the Vet, pushed medications into her, and loved her more than I even thought possible.
In retrospect, the signs were there for months. A subtle change in her behavior and affections, we at first thought were the result of loneliness due to Dot’s intense schedule away from home. College, a new job, and a new boyfriend all took her attentions.
Fluffy began leaving large tufts of fur in her wake. She no longer slept on the soft furniture but rather opted to stretch atop the flat, cold surfaces of our bookcase. When the height became too much for her to conquer, she learned to hide in the lower kitchen cabinets.
Realizing more than loneliness was affecting her, we took her to the Vet who, after many tests, could diagnose her with nothing more than anemia. At Dr. Laura’s office, Fluffy was nearly her old self: inquisitive, loving, explorative. She even caused the staff to laugh as she walked out of her carrier and climbed over their countertops looking for mischief.
Fluffy’s Bright Eyes.
Short of an MRI that we couldn’t afford, at the time we had no way of knowing Fluffy had most likely developed a feline aneurism or metastasis that was subtly growing and causing complications. After her passing, Dr. Laura explained to me the last three days were very symptomatic, and there would have been nothing we could do even if we had known.
But we didn’t know. We thought it was anemia.
So it was a great surprise to us when the medications didn’t help. When, for several days, she pulled away from us to go rather into the dark corners of the house.
Fluffy’s Final Photo. Although she’s a bit worn out, she was very loving and purring with the attention and trying to play with her toy.
Her final night she began to wobble. She was losing motor control and her meows were a bit weak. I opened the cabinet before bedtime and caught her in an odd noisy combination that was more than a meow and not quite a hiss. She allowed me to pick her up and carry her to my bed. She could no longer walk away, although she tried to pull herself across the soft covers.
I woke Dot up and had her come into the room. “Sleep in here with us,” I suggested. “She’s leaving us soon.” We stayed in the room together, and even the other cats could sense it. Each took a turn acknowledging Fluffy’s presence, offering their nuzzle or touch. Fluffy tried to give Little the cold shoulder and hiss, but the effort was greater than the thought and so she merely turned her head away.
I lay awake most of the night. With every breath, I loved her. I told her so. I held her. I cried for her. I tried to feed her but she’d stopped eating or drinking hours ago, and her medications foamed back up out of her mouth. She couldn’t take water even with a dropper.
Her weight had dramatically decreased over those last two weeks, and her spine was nearly evident. Still, in what we both knew were her last hours, she allowed me to cuddle her, allowed Dot to pet her.
She purred loudly at each touch and every word. It was a great comfort to know we were a comfort to her. The more we spoke to her, the louder she purred. The more we stroked her gently, the stronger her tail flicked.
It was in the darkness of morning when she gave a strange noise that woke both Dot and I from our troubled sleep. Her breathing was shallow and labored, and she could no longer crawl. She purred lightly. Her bladder had let go and the bed was soaked. She could do nothing but try to breathe. She couldn’t close her eyes, but she was no longer seeing us.
I called my mom and asked her to come over.
And then I made the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make.
We took her to Dr. Laura. And I signed the paper. And we watched as Dr. Laura helped her transition to the Rainbow Bridge.
It was horrible. Painful. And easily the best decision I could have made. In just seconds, Fluffy’s purring ceased. As did her pain. Her labored breathing. Her suffering.
And we cried.
And I still cry.
Because I didn’t realize I loved my daughter’s cat so much. And didn’t realize how four cats on one bed could leave a void so huge when the fifth one is permanently missing.
I still find little Fluffy tufts around the house. I smell her on the teddy bear I gave her that last week. I remember her.
I remember her as a kitten walking around the coffee table only to be surprised by Lizzie Cat. Fluffy jumped up so high and puffed out so thick, she looked just like a cartoon Halloween cat!
She loved to lick Dot’s face, especially when Dot was upset and crying, Fluffy comforted her by licking away her tears.
As a younger cat, Fluffy would often interrupt Dot’s sleep. Dot would be so tired in the mornings and blame it on the cat. “If you ignore her,” I’d say, “She’ll leave you alone.” And then, one night years ago, Dot opted to sleep on the living room floor. While I was still awake I saw what she so often tried to explain to me. She would cover her head completely with her blanket or pillow, yet still Fluffy would find a way underneath. She would nibble her nose, lick her face, tangle with her hair. Ceaselessly.
Once, Dot crawled onto her bed to snuggle with her, and I heard a giggle that turned into a squeal. “Help!” she begged in laughter. So I didn’t take her seriously. It was ten minutes before I came to her rescue. Fluffy had gripped Dot’s ponytail and entwined her claws throughout her hair. “Just sit up,” I suggested. “Leave the cat alone.” Dot demonstrated why she couldn’t: as she lifted her head, the cat came with the hair. Oh, how I apologized profusely for the last fifteen minutes of disbelief!
Fluffy loved Dot. She was a mushpot. She allowed Dot to dress her up as a doll.
“The Things I Put Up With…”
A Girl and Her Cat
She cried for Dot when she was gone too long. She loved me, too, but in the second-best way that only a one-owner-cat can have.
Until the last month. When she spread her affections evenly between us. She even enjoyed my company in the presence of Lizzie Cat, who was, at most times, her enemy.
Fluffy didn’t like being in a carrier. Dot took her to Fifth Grade Show and Tell once, and her carrier was made of cardboard. I was a Classroom volunteer that day, so at recess time we put Fluffy in the box and went out. Upon our return, we found the carrier, half destroyed. And we couldn’t find Fluffy. The class had an extra five-minute recess as Dot and I scoured the room. Fluffy was finally located behind the filing cabinet. The school made a new rule about what kinds of pets were allowed for Show and Tell after that. We nicknamed it “Fluffy’s Law”.
She is no longer struggling, no longer lonely or in pain.
But I am overwhelmed with loneliness. With sadness. With emptiness. And guilt.
Because it was my signature that set her free.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
You may also enjoy reading:
I Couldn’t Sleep Last Night
Catford Manor in Pictures
Catford Manor Photo of the Week
Meet Zoey
“I Just Want to Eat My Stinkin’ Food!”
Cat Antic of the Week: Berry Sunshine
