Staying abreast of health problems

Poor Henry was exhausted after a day at the clinic. He received a thorough teeth cleaning and a daring shave.


When I weather a spate of sick cats as I did recently, I begin to exhibit hypochondria where their health is concerned.

As I was cuddling Henry the other day, I felt a bump on his chest that seemed like some sort of cyst. He was bundled off to Northshore Veterinary Hospital in short order.

Dr. Kim Barron is a kind and patient woman, and always takes me seriously even when my suspicions have no basis in fact.

There was the time I thought Charlie was choking on a piece of salmon. It turned out he was just coughing on a hairball. The salmon I suspected and tried to pull out was actually his tongue. Thankfully it was slippery, so I didn’t get a firm grip.

Kim gave Henry a detailed once-over looking for cysts, even shaving him down in places for a closer examination.

When he was handed back to me with his nipples bare and boldly on display, I realized that must have been the cyst I thought I’d found.

Good thing it isn’t bikini season just yet.

Bits and bites of happiness

American Thanksgiving is rolling into place for 2009. It will be my first year celebrating the holiday as a newly-minted American, and a Canadian too (Not born in the USA, Oct. 21, 2009).

I am grateful for so many blessings. Animal rescue sits at the top of the list. Those entrenched in the field know how rewarding and meaningful this work is. Having purpose nurtures the soul, and makes every day matter. And for me, documenting the heroic feats of rescuers keeps my belief in humanity going strong. I’ll be toasting my Tofurkey drumsticks to that.

In the spirit of giving thanks, here are updates from recent stories with happy endings.



I got him!

Yesterday I trapped Montana, the orange cat living outside Cafe Akroteri. Finally appetite overrode caution. He went on the WeSnip van to be fixed and treated. It was a treat for me too, because I had the chance to watch this crackerjack crew in action. I’ll be posting a story on the WeSnip experience shortly.

Initially I had suspected Montana’s ear injuries were caused by fighting with other animals, but that wasn’t it. It turns out this gentle boy had a terrible case of ear mites. The itching had caused him to kick his poor little ears open himself.

Special thanks to Lisa Weston of Richmond Animal Protection Society, a terrific shelter north of the line. She saw the blog story and worried that wily Montana wouldn’t be caught. She offered to give up her weekend to come down and help me catch the cat. You’re the best, Weston!

Previous blog stories on the Akroteri cats:
Almost catch of the day
Compassion is on the menu




Right on track


I was horrified when I first encountered Nell at Whatcom Humane Society. Some human had tied her to the tracks, and she had been hit by a train. A railroad employee rescued her and the shelter took her in. Soon she was bundled off to a foster home, where she has recuperated marvelously. She’s bouncing around like a new dog, and needs a new home.

Those of you on my Facebook will know there were some nail-biting moments when Nell disappeared from her foster home on Halloween. A storm had struck the region, and the fence enclosing her blew down. Nell was off like a shot. Rescuers put out the word to keep an eye out for her through social networks and more traditional channels too. Sure enough, she jumped into someone’s car at Lake Padden, rescued a second time. You can read more about Nell's progress on the Whatcom Humane Society website.

Previous blog stories about Nell:
On track for recovery
Already trained




Freeway of love

The woman I saw panhandling just off the freeway to raise enough money to keep her dogs will have a less stressful Thanksgiving. Rescue groups stepped up to help her. Her pit-Rottie mix Calla has already been fixed by WeSnip, which greatly reduced her licensing fees. And Alternative Humane Society donated the money to pay for the licensing charges. Then a generous animal rescuer named Belinda Ogley sent money to me on PayPal all the way from Singapore to defray Kristina’s dog food bill for a while. You're a kind soul, Belinda, to care from so far away.

Previous blog story on Kristina:
Working to make it work

The little shelter that could

This goat named Marty was a lobby greeter for the RAPS shelter until her mischief-making and counter-jumping caused so much ruckus that she had to be closed into a kennel in the dog area.


I stopped by one of my favorite shelters late last week.

The Richmond Animal Protection Society isn't nearly one of the largest shelters I have formed a relationship with. Nor is it the oldest, or the best financed.

But it does have something going for it.

A giant heart.

Executive director Carol Reichert provides the capable and compassionate leadership that makes it all possible for this little shelter that could.



Richmond Animal Protection Society executive director Carol Reichert cuddles a puppy picked up as a wandering stray two days ago.


Helen Savkovic and Bluey the cat work the intake desk together.

Almost catch of the day

I told you about the cats living outside Akroteri Cafe. Two female gray cats were spayed years ago, but a recent addition to the colony still needs to be fixed. I tried to trap him this week, but he outsmarted me. He waited for the friendlier cats to step inside the trap first, foiling my efforts.


Read more about this trapping mission by going to Compassion is on the menu.



Prep cook Jim Clift loves all animals, and can't stand to see them suffer.


The wily orange cat waited for the gray cats to feed first, testing the danger.

Where there's smoke, there's fire

A photographer from the Long Beach Press Telegram captured the moment on camera as a firefighter gently brought Ellen back to life with an oxygen mask.



For years, I harbored a fear that I knew was irrational: that my home would burst into flames in my absence.

The phobia wasn’t fostered because I own items with great monetary value. It’s my animals I worry about—that they will end up as tiny charred bodies in a closet, suffocating to death, wondering where I was when they needed saving.

At least, I used to think it was a completely irrational fear. Until I met my friend Danny Parizek in Los Angeles.

Shortly before we became acquainted, Danny was on a day trip to San Diego on Christmas Eve 1999 when he got the phone call that plays in my worst nightmares. His brother was on the line with bad news. The apartment occupied by him and his partner was on fire.

“We raced back,” Danny said.

The apartment building had been constructed in the 1920s to house naval officers. The suspected cause of the fire was faulty wiring going to a hallway closet light.

Danny remembers that when they got inside their place that night, the Christmas tree stood in the living room, its melted ornaments still attached. All possessions were destroyed. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

Their two cats had been trapped inside during the fire. Jack, a three-month-old kitten, had sought refuge under the bed. He was dead.

“We were devastated, we were heartbroken,” Danny said. “We wouldn’t wish a fire on our worst enemy.”

But this horrible tragedy was wrapped in a miracle.

Three-year-old Ellen was more savvy than baby Jack, and stationed herself at the only open window. There in the front room, she managed to breathe in clean air and survived until firefighters arrived to douse the flames.

As for me, I'm like a mother with children. Not truly relaxed unless I see my babies are safe in front of my eyes. But for now, I'm trying to let my fear of fire go up in flames.

Compassion is on the menu

I'm not the only restaurant patron who's inquired about cat sisters Kentucky and West Virginia. They preen themselves while on display, right in front of the bar's windows that look onto the alley.


Just like the mining states they are named after, Kentucky and West Virginia know what it’s like to hit the mother lode.

Rather than finding an ore vein, these cats have struck gold of another sort: a steady food source. Four years ago, the cat sisters were born underneath a Greek restaurant in downtown Bellingham.

“I thought they’re kind of like coal miners, living underground most of the time,” said Café Akroteri’s prep cook Jim Clift, the cats’ primary caregiver. “You have to respect coal miners. It’s one of the toughest jobs.”

People patronize restaurants because they’re famished. Hungry cats are no different. It’s common to find stray cats eking out an existence behind restaurant and hotel kitchens, scrounging for discarded food scraps that go out the back door as garbage.

But what’s not nearly so common is finding restaurant staffers willing to take responsibility for these feral cats. Many are too wild to be petted and cuddled. Yet they aren't wild enough to survive without human kindness.

Jim, who has worked at Café Akroteri for 16 years, couldn’t turn away from these creatures in need. He took the lead and started feeding the cats first, but his example has been followed by other Akroteri staff, a resident living upstairs, even the restaurant’s patrons, who bring food for the cats.

“They're pretty spoiled,” said 38-year-old Jim. “They’ve got a lot of fans.”

Jim knows the cats don’t lead an ideal existence. But he also realizes feral cats don’t have many options. Because they are closer to wild animals than domesticated pets, shelters usually have no option but to euthanize them.


“I’m kind of prepared for something to happen to them. I know they live a hard life. People go racing down this alley sometimes.”

Letting the cats stay isn’t just a humane decision. It’s a smart one, too. They ensure mice and rats stay away. And removing these ones from the premises just leaves space for more to come in. There’s an abundance of stray cats trying to survive life on the streets, so where there’s food, there will be cats.

The cats got their names because Jim respects miners risking their lives. But he cares for the cats because he respects life.

And that makes it a kindness all around. I’m sure Kentucky and West Virginia would agree.

* * *

Stay with me on the kitty trail, because this story isn’t over…
Jim’s been a responsible guardian. A rescue group helped him trap and spay Kentucky and West Virginia. Now that a third cat’s joined the group, he wants to fix that one too. The other rescue group isn’t operating anymore, so I’ve agreed to help. Early tomorrow, I’ll bring my traps to Akroteri and attempt to snag the orange tabby. Then I’ll drive him to Ferndale to be fixed on the WeSnip van. I’ve been wanting to cover the important work being done on WeSnip by Patricia Maas and her crew for ages now, so this will be the perfect opportunity to do that. Story to follow.


Jim Clift has both two-legged and four-legged clientele showing up for his meals.


Fresh water is always on the menu at the Akroteri Kitty Cafe.



Alley cats need a hand from humans to survive life on the streets.

Some shelter animals need a leg up

This cat took an interest in me while I was visiting Whatcom Humane Society. I have more than a dozen photos of her in different poses sticking her paws out of the cage.



One of the reasons people get upset visiting shelters is the sad sight of animals pushing their paws out from behind the bars seeking affection.

But these aren’t the animals most deserving of pity.

Their demeanor—begging to be chosen—helps sell their strengths to potential adopters.

While shelter workers and volunteers do their best to keep all the animals in their care balanced, happy and comforted, there will always be those claimed by kennel stress. Pushed into the back of their cages, looking terrified, perhaps even hissing or growling as people walk by.

Only a handful of human beings would choose these animals instead of a friendly, outgoing one. Not many will step up and see past perceived imperfection to select a companion who will need some extra love, affection and attention to trust again.

These rare few have learned a secret that keeps rescuers going. An animal’s issues don’t have to be just an inconvenient hassle. By giving them a chance, we stretch ourselves. Our patience, our ability to love unconditionally, to accept things as they are.

The resulting bond between animal and guardian is strengthened because of the journey the two have taken together to get there. And the joy and satisfaction that comes from saving is reward enough.

Because by saving them, we also save ourselves.

And then there were eight

At first, Opus rallied after receiving fluids, but her health soon began its steady decline again.


I don’t take vacations from writing. For me, stringing words together is like consuming food and water. It must be done within certain intervals or my well-being starts to weaken.

So when I go quiet for even a week, my close pals in rescue know exactly what that means.

Something has gone wrong.

Most likely I’ve been immersed in material that’s too torturous for my brain to process and I’ve shut down. But sometimes it’s more personal than that.

This week, my silence was as personal as it gets.

My mind was consumed with making one decision, that choice all animal guardians dread: to take the life of my beloved companion animal.

Opus was my oldest cat at 17. She had been with me since kittenhood, one of dozens of animals I fostered in the early 1990s for Winnipeg Humane Society (WHS) in my no-pets-allowed townhouse apartment.

I get attached to every animal I foster. But I was young and only felt ready for the commitment of adopting two cats. A pair, so they would have each other for company.

Opus stood out to me because of her feisty attitude. She also gave me my first bout of ringworm.

My dear friend Tamara Vukusic—a fellow Carleton journalism school graduate—had been working at WHS at the time handling public affairs and media relations. She called me to come and get Opus because the ringworm meant her time was up. She said she had a kitten sitting in her desk drawer who was “special.”

Was she ever special, as I would come to discover later.

Opus’ counterpart was a slightly younger and much sweeter black-and-white fluffy tuxedo kitten I named Magnum.

Together they formed magnum opus, a Latin phrase that refers to an artist’s greatest life work, her most monumental masterpiece.

Many other cats came my way over the years, but Magnum and Opus formed the heart of me. Through all the heartbreak, in rescue and otherwise, they were a constant source of strength and support.

Two years ago, I lost Magnum at age 15 to pancreatic cancer. He was the primary cat tasked with cheering me up when I was sad. I cried for nine days straight when he was no longer there to lick the tears away.

Because Magnum died at an age considered old for a cat, I couldn’t live in my denial bubble anymore. Opus’ body clock was ticking too.

I had a reprieve for two years plus a week after Magnum’s death. Then Opus looked sick all of a sudden. She became thin and listless almost overnight.

I already knew what that meant as I bundled her into the carrier to bring her to my veterinarian. She had been healthy for 17 years, but she was old now, and it was likely her time.

Still, everything reasonable that could be done had to be done. Just in case I was wrong.

Taking Opus to the clinic —or anywhere for that matter—hadn’t ever been easy. She fought doing anything she didn’t want to do, and like most cats, being removed from her home environment was one of those things she really didn’t want to do.

Northshore Veterinary Hospital already had warnings in the computer system about Opus when I arrived, so they knew not to handle her like the average housecat.

Veterinary assistant Tonya Teetz came in wearing thick gloves up to the elbows. After a cursory look, it was determined Opus would be less stressed out if she was lightly sedated for testing.

Tests were run on her blood and urine. Results began rolling in showing normal. Unusually normal in fact, for such an old cat. Opus was set up on IV fluids because she was dehydrated, and she spent the night at Northshore for observation.

On Facebook, I recorded her progress. People on my Friends list cheered Opus on as she started showing lively signs over the next 24 hours. She was eating healthy portions again, standing up, swiping at us, and trying to rip out her IV needle.

The next evening, she was discharged to me looking much better. But the apparent miracle recovery wasn’t to be.

A day later, X-rays revealed a cancer tumor in her colon that was large for a cat’s small system, at 9 centimeters by 4.5 centimeters.

Hope had evaporated.

The night I heard the fateful news, I posted the question I was posing to myself on Facebook as I was pondering it: When to do it?

Support came pouring in. Animal lovers messaged me their stories. How long their pets’ illnesses had lasted before they made the decision, all the life-saving measures they had tried. The guilt they had felt when they waited too long.

But it was veterinarian Kim Barron’s advice in a story I wrote about Magnum two years earlier that came back to me again and again (Grieving guardians seek peace and understanding). Kim's words echoed in my mind as I paced through the night beside Opus’ bed.

“If there’s nothing that can be done and the animal is not completely comfortable, and if the owners are ready, it’s time,” she had told me in our interview.

As the night wore on, Opus’ condition didn’t get any better. In fact, she got worse. She started changing body positions every 15 minutes or so trying to get comfortable. Cats tend to get settled into the same position for hours. And she moved very slowly. She seemed to grow more listless.

When morning dawned, I had my decision. I called Kim and made an appointment for 2 p.m. to give me the morning to say goodbye. But as I watched Opus, her eyes seemed to plead with me.

Within half an hour, I had moved the time up. To right now. As soon as I could get her there.

Of course I wasn’t ready. Who is ever ready to say goodbye to a cherished friend?

But then I realized I was ready in a way. Ready for her to stop suffering. Ready to ease her pain as she had eased mine for 17 years.

And that—the gift of a humane goodbye—is eternal.

* * *

Note added Dec. 15:
Just two months passed, and I experienced another grave loss. Read about Felix in Down to a Magnificent Seven.



Katie Sinclair and Rose Eastman work expertly to sedate Opus. Notice the gloves.


Dr. Kim Barron supervises a battery of tests for Opus.


Opus is extremely fractious, so she is sedated for tests that some cats could handle wide awake.


Despite Opus' cantankerous nature, veterinary assistant Tonya Teetz formed a bond with her while she was at the clinic. When Opus had to be euthanized, I was going to request Tonya, but I didn't have to. She asked to be with Opus before I asked for her, and appeared in the room as if by magic.


Opus' fighting spirit came back briefly.


I made the same request to Kim when Opus died as I had for Magnum two years before: that she would autopsy her so I could look inside and find closure, to see that there truly was no hope. Veterinary assistant Deirdre Kettlestrings prepared the room.


In addition to the autopsy I requested, Kim elected to do an ultrasound for educational purposes, because she had never seen a cancer tumor inside the ascending colon before.


Opus chose to spend her last night at home looking out over the forest she loved so much from the comfort of her warming bed.


Sam sat by Opus saying his quiet goodbyes. They spent 7 years together.






Opus Maloney
1992 - Oct. 8, 2009

Rest in peace
my angel

A vow to be there

A Jewel of a girl shares a laugh with Mokie, a gem of a cat.

In sickness and in health.

That’s a promise human beings make to each other. That we will be there no matter what. Through thick and thin. In good times, and in bad.

But it’s a promise that’s broken often.

Except by the animals. They don’t know any other way to be.

This morning, I stopped in to visit my dear friend Julie Davis, whom I affectionately call Jewel. We met eight years ago, connecting instantly because of two twinned traits: an offbeat sense of humor, and our love of animals. We both support our local animal shelter—the Whatcom Humane Society—and sit on the board of the capital campaign committee together.

Julie was diagnosed with ovarian cancer on June 30. Just two weeks later, she faced major surgery at Swedish Medical Center in Seattle. Ninety-eight percent of the cancer was cut out of her. She’s undergoing chemotherapy until the end of the year to eradicate the rest.

Family and friends have rallied around Julie since she was diagnosed. But no one has been there for her as steadfastly and loyally as her two cats.

Eight-year-old Mokie and 12-year-old Ricky don’t leave Julie’s side for long.

Chemotherapy compromises the immune system, so it’s been suggested that Julie should consider placing her cats elsewhere until she’s all better.

But she won’t hear of it. She’s donning gloves and a face mask to clean their litterboxes. She’s always got a bottle of antibacterial gel standing by, just in case the cats squeeze in a comforting lick on her hands or face.

The cats keep Julie’s spirit supported when she’s feeling sad. They make her laugh and provide comfort. And when the magnitude of what she’s facing becomes almost too much to bear, they don’t mind if she cries into their fur.

Mokie and Ricky aren’t the only animals comforting ill people. Across the nation, nursing homes and hospital wards are now welcoming animals into their fold because they buoy patients’ spirits, assisting recovery while improving day-to-day quality of life.

Julie knows the next few months will bring good days, and bad days.

But that’s easier to bear with Ricky and Mokie at her side. Because they’ll be there with her, for better or for worse.

Do you feel inspired to help Julie, or stay updated on her progress? You can follow her journey and offer support on her Caring Bridge website.



Julie and her mom Maxine shared a laugh on the La-Z-Boys she bought recently to aid her convalescence. Maxine cut her hair bristle-brush short to match her daughter's hairdo as a gesture of support. Mom wanted you to know that they were reclining because neither was feeling well. Maxine had a sore leg, while Julie felt sick from chemo. Still, there was great beauty in shared pain. Notice Mokie posing on the window ledge.

On the road again

Ed Kost and his cats Princess and Jasmine are living in transit now.


I was strolling through the glass doors as I exited my bank this week when a 1978 Ford Fairlane parked in the lot caught my attention.

I circled behind the faded orange car to take a better look. I think it piqued my interest because there was a time in my past when I’ve called a vehicle home. It taught me how to spot the signs of a rolling residence. Extra clothing, toiletries, all the tiny comforts squirreled away into the little pockets of a vehicle interior.

Or maybe it was the paws that gave me pause.

Two fluffy cats were perched on the car seats with their backs to me. I’ve seen lots of dogs in cars waiting for their guardians, but never a cat. And here were two of them intently watching the bank door, waiting for their master to return. I noticed they were wearing collars, implying someone loved and protected them.

I didn’t want to ambush an owner at close range who might be potentially defensive about a tough situation. To minimize the chance of face-to-face conflict, I crossed the lot and waited beside my vehicle for him to come back.

It took a little while, but 15 minutes later, he appeared. I walked up slowly and explained my purpose. I talked about how pretty his cats were, but didn’t wait long before I got around to gently asking my main question: was he living in the car?

It turns out he was glad I asked.

Ed Kost spent the next hour with me, talking about how a man who had pulled his life together more than once had everything taken from him yet again. And this time, it happened just as he was entering his golden years. Ed, who recently turned 65, lost his house of 28 years. That was just seven weeks ago.

But, “it doesn’t feel that recent when you’re doing this,” he told me.

He’s a recovered alcoholic, and had been working as a chemical addictions counselor at St. Joseph Hospital in Bellingham, Washington. Then a car struck him down while he was out for a jog, breaking his pelvis. Ed lost his job in an economy where work is scarce. And he couldn’t find a new one once he’d healed.

Before he knew it, Ed got behind on mortgage payments. The bank closed in.

He’d enjoyed a big property, a shop, and 17 cars to call his own. And now he was forced to live in one of them.

“The sheriff said load your car up and go.”

But Ed isn’t letting his latest run of bad luck take one of the last things he owns, that thing he’s worked the hardest to earn.

His sobriety.

The meetings are keeping him going, and he goes to several of them a day. It passes the time and provides social interaction. And there’s strength in that support.

“My ass is getting tired from sitting in meetings so much,” Ed said.

Ed’s story is sadly echoed at shelters across the country. They are reporting an influx of owners surrendering animals because they have lost their homes, another casualty of record foreclosure numbers.

But Ed’s not intending to give up the animals he’s committed himself to. Not if he can help it. He speaks fondly of one-year-old Jasmine and Princess, who are well cared for and obviously precious to him.

They started out their lives without a home, brought into his house when they were tiny by a mother cat in the neighborhood. The cat wasn’t allowed inside her family’s house. So when her babies were born, she carried all three kittens into Ed’s house one at a time, settling them into a back room. Ed was instantly taken with this street-smart mother and her helpless kittens.

‘The owners treated her like an outside cat. I treated her like an inside cat.”

The cat chose well. Because even though Ed doesn’t have a place to stay right now, home isn’t necessarily where the house is. It’s where the heart is.

And Ed has proven he has plenty of that.


Ed tethers Princess and Jasmine together when they go to the park so they can safely enjoy some fresh air without slipping away.


On the hot days this summer, Ed had a fan going for the cats, and misted them with cool water to keep them comfortable with him in the car.

He can run but he can't hide

Last week, I told you about Sugar Paw's penchant for snuggling into the blankets on my bed. Well, he was at it again today. As soon as I pulled the sheets off, he was already raring to get himself buried into his nest.

New meaning to the words "cat box"

Little Carreen and Sam recline in the makeshift furniture they dreamed up.

Fuzzbag

Clearly the cats don't like me to travel, and will do anything in their itty-bitty power to come along for the ride.

Love is...a summer kiss

What a strange way to sit

Sometimes I've seen cats lying this way, and it always stops me dead in my tracks. I feel compelled to watch -- they usually don't do it long -- until they change position. In my experience, very few cats seem to be flexible enough to attempt this.

A bored meeting

When it's hot, the cats don't want to do much except lay around. The record heat wave in the Pacific Northwest leaves them pretty lazy. I can't blame them.

Safety in numbers

Coyotes prowl the perimeter of the property. I keep my cats safe with an enclosure that screens in the porch facing the forest. All day, they go in and out to lounge around, cuddle up together, or just watch the creatures moving in the forest -- birds, mice, grasshoppers. It's all TV to them.

Cat (bird) on a wire

Little C is still searching for the purr-fect sleeping spot. This cord doesn't look like a comfortable pillow to me, but she tucked herself in neatly.


Little C is wired with energy most of the time, so her new bedding is fitting.

Cat on a computer

In my last post, I told you about Little C's penchant for finding sky-high perches, causing me to bite my nails to the quick.

I get nervous every time she picks a new spot. On the crisp Pacific Northwest evenings and early mornings, she's started settling in for a nap on my warm laptop keyboard. I tried to foil her efforts by placing the laptop on my desktop tower when unattended. Obviously she's outsmarted me.

Fortunately, her latest sleeping spot isn't death-defying. At least not for her -- just for my laptop.

Cat on a ledge

I never dreamed any of the cats would sit on this skinny ledge when I built the house. If I had, I would have re-designed to thwart their craving for high perches.


When you live with cats, you don’t get to decide where they’ll be taking their naps.

They choose. And the places they pick aren't always where you want them to be.

You’ll think it’s all been squared away, that you found the perfect comfortable and appropriate place for your cats to sleep, and then they decide to seek change.

Take Little C, for example. As the newest cat to join the clan, she’s been moving her napping place every couple of days, trying to figure out where she feels most comfortable.

A few days ago, she finally settled on a favorite place, and I'm not happy about it.

This isn't over.


Clearly Little C doesn't share my concerns, and is quite content with her birds-eye view.