Tag Archives: rescue

On hard decisions and heartbreak…

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Back in late June, Ivy was the cat who picked me while I visited the local cat rescue’s open house event. While I made the rounds, she followed me from one end of the room to the other and promptly jumped on my lap the moment I sat down. I couldn’t help but be charmed by her endless purring and loving personality. I submitted an adoption application thinking that surely, my sweet, relaxed resident cats would quickly adapt to a charming newcomer.

Following standard “slow introduction” procedures, the first week went well. They progressed rapidly from sniffing at a closed door, to eating on either side of the door, to observing each other through a baby gate, and eventually watching one another with the door open. Past that, things got awkward. 

As soon as Ivy had leeway to explore the house, Anya and Cordy retreated under the bed. Ok, back up to the prior stage of introduction and try again in a few days. This was when we entered the wash, rinse, and repeat phase of attempted introductions – with Ivy desperate to meet her new housemates and them hissing and spitting any time she got close. Rather than improving with exposure, Anya particularly became increasingly resistant and, in some cases, violent no matter how hard Ivy worked to project “friendly” body language. 

For the better part of two weeks, I ran the household in two shifts – With Anya and Cordy tucked in my bedroom from 5 AM to 5 PM and Ivy returned to her “safe room” from 5 PM – 5 AM. It was my misguided hope that as their scents and smells combined in the house, paraphs they’d desensitize to one another. 

Cat Reddit is filled with internet experts that will say six weeks was not nearly enough time to settle things – that it can take months or years for integrate adult cats. If anything, I feel like there’s a lot of talk in the rescue community decrying that adult cats are so often left in shelters and rescues month after month while kittens and youngsters fly out the doors. I always assumed that was a simple function of the “cuteness factor,” but I now have a sneaking suspicion that adult cats are so often overlooked, in part, because introducing adult cats and convincing them to live together can be a nightmare – or at least a significant unplanned hardship that the average person isn’t equipped to deal with. 

Having had many dogs and cats over the years, I consider myself reasonably animal savvy, but I was absolutely unprepared to continue on for month after month with Cordelia and Anya angry and chased out of their home while Ivy was increasingly confused by why she was being cast back into isolation every night. By the end, I suspect it had become a not particularly happy way of life for any of us. Capped off with three scuffles across Friday evening and Saturday morning when trying to re-initiate brief introductions again. 

To their credit, the rescue was incredibly understanding when I reached out to say I needed to bring Ivy back to them. I’d been keeping them up to date with the struggles, so maybe it wasn’t much of a surprise. I suspect the whole experience may have been more traumatizing to me than to Ivy. I opened her carrier at the rescue and she walked out without a moment’s hesitation, head butted the nearest cat, and made herself at home immediately. She was more comfortable and welcome in that room with 10 or 12 other cats in 30 seconds than Anya and Cordy had made her feel in six weeks.

I’ll never think of this period as one of my best moments. I’ll always wonder if there was something more that I could have tried or if hanging on for another week could have made any difference. I’ll probably never get away from thinking that sheer willpower is enough to drag things over the line, but in this case, seeing how Ivy reacted back in the rescue on Saturday and then how relaxed Anya and Cordy were on Sunday is probably the real sign that this particular hard decision was the right one. 

I wish doing the right thing didn’t so often involve being absolutely heartbroken. I really do miss that sweet calico girl.

Three is enough…

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By now, I suppose everyone who’s interest already knows that I added a 3rd cat to the list of critters living here on the homestead. Ivy is a sweet, approximately one year old calico female who arrived here by way of the Chesapeake Feline Association, who are effectively neighbors to me here on the bank of the Elk River. They’re a small team doing good work and I was happy to be able to be a small part of it. 

As I’m writing this, Ivy has been home with us for about three and a half days now. She’s briefly met Jorah and Anya at the door to her “safe room,” but hasn’t shown much (if any) interest in checking out the rest of the house yet and seems content to hang out in the guest bathroom for the time being. I’m doing my best to remember that time really isn’t a factor here and it takes as long as it takes to get everyone comfortable with this new arrangement.

Aside from a bit more outlay for food and the inevitable increase in vet bills, tending to three cats instead of two doesn’t feel like it’s adding too much workload at this point. I expect it will become even easier once we get everyone integrated and don’t have to maintain separate feeding, watering, and litter operations. I’m not going to speculate on how long that may take.

I’ve often joked that I’ve reached carrying capacity in the past. Now with five furry and scaled mouths to feed, I really mean it. Five is the absolute upper limit… unless I come into a lot of money and can hire staff, of course. Then all bets are off.

In any case, I’m pleased as punch to have a new member of the family settling in… but I’ll be well and truly thrilled when we get past the awkward introductory stage and can all start living together. 

Jorah gets into the act…

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Jorah had a vet appointment last Wednesday to get after what I assumed was an ear infection. The good and bad news is that my diagnosis was correct and there was nothing more serious underlying his endless scratching and head shakes. I haven’t entirely ruled out it all being self-inflicted because he may have been tired of staying home while the cats got to take all the field trips.

Winston was perennially bothered by ear infections – just one of the many fun bits of life with a bulldog. Maggie was, fortunately, not prone to them. It had been a while since the last time I had to go through a treatment regimen. I was expecting to come home with drops that would require me to wrestle Jorah to the ground twice a day to administer. I was decidedly happy to learn that the state of the art in treatment has progressed since I was treating Winston. 

Instead of a two week course of drops, the vet applied a single, long-lasting medication and called for a recheck in two weeks if needed. Assuming it works, I’m prepared to call this a brilliant evolution in veterinary medicine.

We also came home with a short course of prednisone. Honestly, I’d forgotten about the joys of prednisone. Most of the side effects have been minimal – except for the one where Jorah drinks water like he’s determined to drain the well. What goes in, of course, must come out. The amount of time we’re spending just hanging out in the yard is a lot more like having a puppy back in the house than I’m comfortable with.

Fortunately, we’re already well into the course of treatment where he’s being weaned off the prednisone. I really hope this is a one off and not the herald of something that’s going to be a regular feature. Maybe by the time the weekend rolls around the household will be back into its regular rhythm… because this temporary new one kind of sucks.

Maybe I should just hire a staff vet…

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It’s Groundhog Day. Again. I schlepped poor Cordelia over to Delaware to get Spayed this morning. It was one of those things that was supposed to come “free with purchase” from the shelter, but after the various go arounds with getting Anya’s eye fixed up, I was more comfortable taking both of them to my own vet. That, of course, means paying all the freight for their medical care myself. Fine. It’s only money.

I feel like we’ve spent an inordinate amount of time dealing with vets these last three months with multiple visits for both Cordy and Anya. I like to imagine we’re going to get a break now that Cordy is finally “fixed.” Given my luck with animal health, I’m trying to mentally prepare for more of the same. If we can fall into a routine of annual visits, that’s great. If it goes the other way, well, we’ll muddle through that too.

The vet says Cordy did well and sent her home with a cone and some pain meds. She isn’t a big fan of the cone. She still doesn’t like to be handled even at the best of times, so hopefully the cone stays on. Catching her and getting it refitted or applying one of the other options would be one of those things I just can’t quite manage to do as a one man band.

I should apologize in advance to anyone I need to deal with over the next 7-10 days. I may be physically elsewhere, but I’ll be entirely focused on what this cat is doing and running every conceivable, statistically improbable what if scenario in my head. Yeah. It’ll be a good time for sure. 

A continuing tale of two cats…

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Anya has spent more of her life with me wearing a cone than not. I feel badly about that, but it has been an unfortunate, necessary evil to get her through her initial eye infection, the corrective surgery, and now her spay procedure. I wish I were half as resilient as this little seven pound cat seems to be.

All the literature is quick to point out that spaying your cat is a simple, outpatient surgery. Most of the authoritative online resources say that in 48 hours, your pet should be back to something of their normal selves. The spay itself may be an entirely common surgery, but it’s still invasive as hell, and Anya wasn’t one of those who came around in the usual fashion. Fortunately, she was eating well, drinking regularly, and moving around enough to get to and from the litter box as needed. It’s just now, a full week after her most recent surgery that she’s starting to come around to what I’d consider normal behaviors for her.

This morning she was on my bed demanding ear scratches as soon as my alarm went off. She then followed me around while I prepared and delivered breakfast to all the members of the menagerie. She perched in her overwatch position on the cat tree while I got caffeinated. It doesn’t seem particularly newsworthy unless you know she spent the last week snoozing for 22 hours out of every 24 and often not budging for 8-12 hours at a time. Based on what was reported as “normal,” my level of concern for how she was getting along was beginning to elevate dramatically.

Here’s hoping that this is the start of trending back towards normal… Which should get her there just in time for Cordelia to go under the knife for her own procedure next Monday. Getting these critters settled in has made for an awfully long spring. Had I known what I was in for, I might have made some radically different decisions when picking these two out of the mix. File it away as one of the very few times I’m glad I didn’t know then what I know now.

Maybe by Independence Day, we’ll have everyone off the sick and injured list and start seeing what normal really looks like. I’ve probably just jinxed myself by even thinking about it.

Measuring dog years…

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Thanks to Facebook, I know that it has been four years since I brought Jorah home from what was then called the Delaware SPCA. We weren’t off to a particularly auspicious start when he threw up about 75 pounds of partially digested dog food approximately five minutes from the house. Little did I know then, of course, that I was setting out for months on end of living almost exclusively in the kitchen because this six-month-old had absolutely no indoor manners or housebreaking to speak of.

Still, he was a sweet young dog – well intentioned if a bit absent minded. That hasn’t changed much. He’s still very sweet and decidedly absent minded. I’m not sure that he was entirely well served by having spent most of his life observing plague procedures (even before staying home and avoiding people was the cool thing to do). He’ll tolerate them once they’re inside the house and deemed not a threat, but he’s not especially well socialized with people or other dogs.

Our boy does, however, have a soft spot for cats. Hershel was his best friend and he’s still trying to devise a way to show Anya and Cordelia that he’s not 70 pounds of slobbering mess hell bent on running them down. They’re slowly figuring it out. Occasionally, Anya will even give him a few head butts when she thinks no one is looking. I’m optimistic those relationships will flourish in time.

In most other ways, Jorah is a complete reflection on my philosophy of dog raising… He barks at every unexpected noise and anything moving down the street. I tell him to stop. He barks some more. Truthfully, the only strictly enforced rules are 1) The bathroom, for canine members of the household, is always outside and 2) The living room furniture is out of bounds. Beyond that, he’s welcome to the run of the place. He loves napping on my bed through the day, but has never made an effort to sleep there at night. I can only assume my sheet-twisting and flailing around disturb his peaceful sleep.

I thought for a long time that I would always be a two dog household. Maybe I am, but I’m in no rush to find that second one just now. After a spring spent focused on our misadventures in feline veterinary medicine, I’m happy enough enjoying things exactly as they are at the moment.

Not for the faint of heart…

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Anya is scheduled for eye surgery next Tuesday. The plan is to remove some of the conjunctive material currently obstructing her left eye as a result of the repeated eye infections she went through early in life. The underlying eye is mostly undamaged and this operation is intended to remove the existing trouble areas in order to prevent them from eventually adhering to the eye itself. It’s not inexpensive, but it’s work that needs done that should improve both her long term health and her ongoing quality of life.

She’s expected to be discharged Tuesday afternoon with a new round of oral medication and eye drops. Some of these could need to be given as often as every six hours for the first several weeks as she recovers. How a normal person who has a job or any other commitments can arrange to do such a thing is entirely beyond me. I get that the discharge instructions present the optimal course of action, but expecting an owner to be able to pin down a cat and deliver these meds on 16 separate occasions every 24 hours strikes me as perfectly absurd. Each drop, after all, should be followed by a 5-10 minute waiting period, so it’s not as if you could grab her up just 4 times a day and apply everything in a single go. I’m not embarrassed to say that I may have hit the panic button when I caught wind of what the coming weeks could look like. There’s simply no way I could sustain that level of post-operative care for any length of time.

Over the last four or five days, Anya has gotten increasingly combative and has started running away any time I walk into a room. She’s actively avoiding me, cowering, and essentially seeing me as an enemy. With most shelter cats, the advice and expectation is that they’re going to have some amount of time – weeks or months – to decompress and acclimate themselves into their new home. Anya never got that time. Three days after her arrival, I had to start holding her down and pouring meds into and onto her. It’s little wonder she’s losing whatever little bit of trust we may have developed.

Mercifully, I’ve got a friend who helps run a large veterinary practice outside Philadelphia. She’s going to arrange medical boarding for this poor gray fur ball for the duration of multi-time a day treatment. There, the techs will be doing the heavy lifting of keeping up with the schedule seven days a week and the on-staff vets will be around should something need to be addressed immediately. So, as soon as she’s released from surgery, we’ll be taking a short road trip through southeastern Pennsylvania to her temporary home.

Since Anya’s particular flavor of eye infection is often triggered by increased stress, boarding isn’t entirely ideal. It does, however, feel like a better option than having this poor animal at home with me stressing her out and inevitably missing doses of the medication she needs to recover from the surgery in a timely manner. It’s a real devil’s bargain.

I asked the doc yesterday if waiting until Anya was more settled here at home and more comfortable being handled was a reasonable option. He was of the opinion that although the eye isn’t currently an emergency, addressing it was something better done sooner rather than later as it created less overall risk to her sight in that eye.

I absolutely hate the thought of her being gone for two weeks or more, but I hate the thought of irreparably damaging what needs to be a trusting relationship with her even more. I’ve never shied away from getting my animals the best possible medical treatment I could find, but damnit, this one is hard because I don’t have the skills, nor the ability to learn them fast enough, to even be a part of the recovery process. Even if I did, Anya isn’t in the right headspace with me yet to give me the benefit of the doubt.

I know she’s going to be in good hands. The friend who’s helping me by arranging all this for Anya was also responsible for bottle raising Hershel before he came to live with Winston, Maggie, and I. I couldn’t possibly trust anyone more to keep a proverbial eye on my girl and make sure she’s getting everything she needs to get well. Still. The next weeks are going to be tough in a whole different way than the last month was hard. There’s a mile of difference between knowing what’s best and actually wanting to do it. It’s one of those times when the best interests of the animal have to be pressed well above my own selfish desires.

When all this is over, I’ll be putting on a masterclass about the hazards of taking on “project animals” from the shelter. She’s mine now. I’ll see it through. But Jesus, it’s not for the faint of heart.

Making introductions…

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Tonight, we bid hello and welcome to the two newest members of the family. Both were adopted Saturday from Cecil County Animal Services. 

Anya, (AKA Anyanka; AKA Anya Christina Emmanuella Jenkins; AKA Aud), is a gray shorthair with very subdued tabby highlights. Her age is estimated at 6 months. She’s named for a powerful vengeance demon largely because she clawed through and escaped her temporary cardboard carrier on the drive home Saturday and promptly laid her vengeance on me while I tried to extract her from the truck. She then made a break for it and sent me on a 30+ minute wild goose chase through the garage, only to be apprehended when she snuck into the laundry room for the food I put down as a lure.

Cordelia (Cordy), is a brown tabby and about 3 months old according to the shelter staff. Her name derives from her being attractive, popular, and thus far, entirely untouchable. Her modus operandi for the most part is to burst out of hiding for a mouthful of food or a drink and then retreating immediately back to her spot. I get it. It’s a process.

We’re working through all the usual new home issues, but also fighting a pretty nasty eye infection for Anya. In the last 36 hours it went from a minor concern that we were going to address through the shelter’s vet partners, to being outright alarming to the point that I decided couldn’t wait. As of early this morning, we’re working with the local veterinary ophthalmologist to try getting things under control. I’ve got four prescriptions that’ll need to be given three times daily for the next two weeks. I fully expect to need a blood transfusion by the time we’re done with this effort.

I’m obviously quite insane to take on this project, but with my long history of pets with medical problems, at least I had some forewarning about what I was letting myself into – with absolutely no chance that she’ll just get turned back to the shelter for being too much of a project for someone and thereby further diminishing her chance of finding a permeant home.

For now, our newcomers are sequestered in the guest bathroom until they decompress and now recover. I’m willing to let that phase of things take as long as it takes. Jorah has been interested and makes regular trips back the hall to investigate all the new smells. So far, though, he has been unfailingly polite with not much undue barking or whining.

This wasn’t exactly the plan, but here we are. With no regrets and a whole lot of nerves.

Scheduled for a look see…

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I’ve got an appointment tomorrow afternoon to meet some local shelter cats. Hershel had an iconic personality and I’m not under the illusion that he’s in any way replicable or replaceable. I’m going to miss him every day. Likewise, over the last two weeks, I’ve also missed the general presence of a cat in the house – chittering at the birds, the thump of its landing from some high place, and the pitter patter of little floof-covered feet on wood floors in the small hours of the morning. 

It could be I’m rushing through this, but I’ve found that with most activities, if you wait for a good time, the time never comes. Besides, having a house full of cat stuff with no cat in it, while the shelter is filled with cats with no stuff, feels just a little bit ridiculous. If it’s going to happen eventually, maybe getting it done early is best.

The real test, of course, is the resident dog. Jorah, from the time he arrived, was a Hershel super-fan. They paled around together when Maggie was too old and sick to be much interested in playing. Now, whether his love of cats was a one off or whether it’s a transferrable feature, remains to be seen. I need Jorah to be tolerant and a cat-to-be-named later that’s fearless. Maybe that happens tomorrow and maybe it doesn’t.

Even if I’m moving fast, I’m not especially in a rush. I’ve been very lucky over the years that most of the critters who’ve shared my home have picked me instead of the other way around. All that’s left now is to see if we can coax lightning to strike one more time.

Expecting the unexpected…

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About once every six weeks or so I start thinking that hey, maybe it’s time I add another dog to the menagerie. Two always felt like the right number of dogs in my mind, though I’m not sure if that was a function or Winston and Maggie being so well paired, or if there’s any actual data to back up my wild assertions. 

It doesn’t take long between having that thought and finding myself scouring Petfinder, local Facebook groups, and checking in on some reputable breeder’s pages. Before you know it, I’m hours down a rabbit hole looking at available dogs 300 miles away.

After a bit of that, though, I remember the times when there were puppies in the house. Young Winston gnawed through the rails of my kitchen chairs like a psychotic beaver. I’d arrive home from a day’s work to find young Maggie covered from tip to tail in poo that she seemed to take great pleasure in rolling in. Jorah, though not really a pup when he came along, relegated us all to six months of living in the easy-to-bleach confines of the kitchen because of his determined inability to grasp the basics of going outside to pee.

The fact is, life is significantly easier (and less expensive) with one dog instead of two. Even if it weren’t easier, I’m not in any way sure Jorah will be particularly welcoming to a new canine friend. His track record with meeting and interacting with unfamiliar animals isn’t great. When confronted with a new dog, he swings between attempting to hide under the nearest piece of furniture or growling like he’s been training to go to the fighting pits.

Every time the idea of bringing home another one takes hold, I seem to come up with a bunch of perfectly valid reasons why that’s a perfectly dumb idea. I haven’t ruled anything out, of course. Over the years I seem to have come by most of my animals some kind of accidentally, so at this point I’m just letting nature take its course and expecting the next fuzzball to show up more or less unexpectedly.