Tag Archives: cats

She was indeed a beautiful girl, our Bonny Lass

On Halloween, we said our tearful goodbyes to our sweet Bonny Lass.

We knew when we adopted her that she had cancer, and a recurring one. She had a life expectancy of two more years. She’d had one surgery so far, and went through four with us. The last one, she didn’t recover as quickly from, and we decided that was it, plus the cancer was growing underneath the muscle, a much more invasive surgery.

We adopted her and her bonded pal, Hamish, in February 2019, after Ken finished chemo but before surgery to clean out the rest of his tumors. We’d seen the cats on the shelter’s website, but didn’t know about Bonny’s cancer until we met her. It seemed like a sign. She needed a loving home to live out the rest of her days, and that was something we could give her.

She was never a lap cat, our sweet bonny girl, but she loved being next to you and getting scritchies. Sometimes she made biscuits with all four paws, she was so happy. If you stopped, after a few moments you’d feel a gentle touch on your arm, and look over to see her sea-glass-green eyes wide and questioning. Excuse me, I’d like more scritchies, please. And we could never deny her.

She lasted seven months longer than the expected two years, and we were grateful for every day. Even when the horrible tumor was so large it made me sick, she didn’t seem to care. She ran back and forth at meal times in anticipation of food, jumped up on chairs and my desk, and in her few months thought the back of my reclining writing chair was the best place to perch.

Then on Halloween night, she didn’t eat her supper, and when I went to check on her, she was breathing heavily.

I always promise my cats that when they’re too tired or too much in pain to go on, to tell me. That I didn’t want to say goodbye, but I would because that was what they needed, and they’d always, always live in my heart.

She had that look in her sea-glass-green eyes.

And so we let her go, and she’s now free of cancer and frolicking and making happy biscuits with all four paws. No matter how much it hurts—saying goodbye to her, missing her her peeps and purrs—that makes me smile through my tears.

Bonny Lass
Feb 2011 – Oct 31, 2021

Three Adults, Six Cats, One Hotel Room. What Could Go Wrong?

aka Real Ice Storms Are Not Like the Movie

At 11 p.m. Friday night, February 12, we lost power.

In bed, I listened to ice sliding and branches breaking and crashing to the ground. Saturday morning, we discovered our maple tree had split and part of it had fallen over my car—over and around, but not on, so thankfully there was no damage. Ken hacked that part of the tree up so we could get out and made sure nothing else had fallen dangerously.

By midafternoon, we were pretty cold, I was worried about the cats, and PGE’s estimate for power on at that point was Tuesday night (I think). So we packed up three people and six cats into my car and slowly, carefully crawled over the ice- and snow-covered freeway to Vancouver and a hotel. (The rules say two cats, but we decided that meant two cats per person. Sshhh!)

The cats did great, really. I think they liked having us in sight all the time. Clara, Hamish, and Bonny Lass were the bravest; Floyd the most nervous—but he dislikes feet and panics at loud noises, so the fact that he came out on the second day and played zoomies with Hallows at midnight each night was wonderful. (The Lodger did not appreciate it the first night when they were sleeping and Hallows parkoured off their pillow.) Although we panicked one day because we couldn’t find him, until Ken realized there was a sag in the box spring that peeped when he poked it.

There was a second ice storm Monday night and Ken and I went home Tuesday to pick up a few things and make sure nothing else was damaged. Another part of the maple had fallen on the enormous temporary (ha!) ugly yellow storage tent (think pop-up carport, only with walls), denting some of the metal supports inside and punching a small hole in the roof. Now there’s a nice blue tarp over it, just charming.

I was fine staying in the hotel: I had heat, power, Internet, my husband, and my cats, as well as a small fridge and microwave. I could be comfortable and eat warm (although not necessarily healthy) food. But the Lodger was antsy (they’re basically a Hobbit and needed their hole to recharge) and Ken wanted to Solve the Problem, so Wednesday he rented a generator, he and the Lodger set it up, and he came back to the hotel to take me and the cats home.

Not long after I got home that afternoon, the smoke detector in my office began explaining in a calm female voice that she had detected carbon monoxide and mildly suggested I remove myself.

(If you’ve watched Red Dwarf, the announcement was at about the same urgency as Holly announcing an emergency.) Long story short, having the generator in the garage, even with the door open (and a breezeway between the garage and the house), sent carbon monoxide into the house. We opened all the windows (just after the house had finally warmed up!), moved the cats downstairs with us, and the Lodger and Ken moved the generator to the driveway and covered it with our SCA (modern) day shade and then chained the Lodger’s car to it so nobody could steal it.

Then Ken went off to try and buy a generator while the Lodger and I sat bundled up and covered in the garden room until the warnings stopped. Ken failed to find a generator to buy but brought us dinner, so that was a fair trade. The next day, he drove two+ hours north into WA to buy one, brought it back, and swapped the two over. The new one was big enough to also power the hot water heater, hurrah! It’s called the Predator 9000, which I must say in a WWE voice, “PREDatorrr nine thousand…thousand…thousand…”

That afternoon he helped the neighbor’s tree guy with chopping down more of our maple (some of which had ended up on the neighbor’s roof). That evening he and I drove back to WA to return the rented generator (yeah, about a five-hour trip, but I’m always happy to hang out with my beloved, and he’d done the drive enough on his own so this way I could help).

Power came back on Friday night, February 19, a few hours’ shy of a week of it being out. Internet finally came back Sunday night. My heart went out to people with small kids, sick or caring for the sick, and/or didn’t have money for a hotel. Thankfully, our community had members who made extra food, welcomed people to come charge their devices or take showers, took others in, etc., and that makes my heart glad. People also took pizzas and burgers to the line workers (I believe there were about 3000 in the entire Portland area, some of whom came from other states), which was awesome.

So that was our adventure for a bit over a week. There’s more, about downed limbs and several fence sections down, but that’s for another day. I wrote most nights, and was able to start a copyediting job even without Internet (I could double-check things on my phone or iPad). And now we own a generator for the next emergency, may it not be for many years!


Want to chat about this post? Join me on Facebook or Twitter.

I’m able to continue writing and publishing thanks to my wonderful supporters on Patreon.

Our hearts expand…welcome to Hamish and Bonny Lass!

About a week and a half ago we increased our household by two! The main reason I haven’t posted until now is that I couldn’t get good pictures. Well, screw that. Mediocre pics will suffice. The important thing is, kittays!

(Since the new kittays, I’ve obtained another battery charger for my good camera, because the charger and extra battery are still lost in the unpacked offices boxes KEN I’m looking at you. Better pics will follow.)

Here was our thinking: Goose is old (don’t tell him that, nor the vet who says he acts like a cat four years younger) and just starting to show signs of kidney issues. Clara came to us with (dear departed) Max, the only cat she really accepted. She and Goose ended up fine; not friends, but co-existing without much issue. All good, except what happens when Goose crosses the Rainbow Bridge? We worried that Clara (who’s deaf, which adds another hurdle to integration) wouldn’t like the surprise of new cats. So maybe a younger, bonded pair now, so when we say goodbye to Goose, she’d be at least comfortable with the new additions?

Ken found Hamish and Bonny Lass online at local shelter House of Dreams, and although they’re about the same age as Clara, off we went to meet them, and…oh, oh my heart.

Excuse me, exactly why are you taking my picture?

Bonny Lass (formerly Bootsie, ugh, so we renamed her in a Scottish vein to go with Hamish) is grey with a white mustache, stripey legs, and emerald eyes. She likes toys, but not laps—however, she wants to be near you. At the shelter, she gave me her belly for rubs (and continues to do so, but she has a soft limit), gently patted my leg for more pats, and followed me into another room for more attention, at which point I melted into a puddle of love. Since coming home, I’ve learned that she also insists on being in the bathroom with me; if I close the door, she taps it until I open it, then hangs out and asks for pats. She’s not a lap cat, but needs to be near you (she leaps from one arm of my writing chair to the other, then asks for pats). She makes an adorable quiet trill if she makes any noise at all, especially with her favorite toy. Oh, and she makes biscuits at the drop of a hat, including with her back paws.

Oh yaass yes I lurve da belly rubs.

Hamish. Oh, sweet Hamish. (His name was Hammish when we met him, and indeed he is enormous and overweight and rather ham-shaped.) When we went to HoD, he lay in his bed and wasn’t much interested in us or the toys, although he wasn’t cranky either. I was concerned that we didn’t have chemistry, but we wanted a bonded pair and hoped he would come around. Well. After being introduced to my office and writing room, when I sat down, he jumped up and into my lap and purred like a mad cat. We soon learned that anywhere he is, if you reach out to him, he’ll start purring and flop over for belly rubs, stretching out his legs in ecstasy. He’s orange and has cauliflower ears from a past issue, and is enormous (he’s just shy of 17 lbs but he’s hefty and has a giant head, so…), and the best way I can describe him is stoned. Totally mellow and loving and trusting. Other than purring, the only noise he has made so far is to eke out a ridiculously tiny peep or two.

Integration was surprisingly uneventful. Clara hissed at the newcomers, as did Goose, but within four days we had opened up all the barriers/doors, and last Thursday morning I awoke to find all four cats on the bed (which is why I slept so late, honestly—the cat gravity had doubled and that’s my excuse). Clara still gives desultory hisses, as does Goose, but Hamish doesn’t really care (again, he’s so mellow I think he’s somehow permanently stoned) and Bonny Lass removes herself until the energy has mellowed. There are occasional spats, but they’re less and less as time goes on.

Hamish is due to some dental surgery in March and that will include the extraction of his fangs. Bonny Lass had a mammary carcinoma removed and based on the size of the tumor, the vet estimated a median lifespan of two years. Despite this diagnosis, we were committed to the pair, and we hope she’ll buck the odds and be with us longer. We wanted to give her a happy, warm, loving home until she must go, and we can only hope that Hamish weathers the transition well.

At any rate, our love for Goose and Clara isn’t lessened; after all, more cats mean more love for all. Squee!

Farewell, sweet Max

When we adopted Max last year, we knew he had renal disease. He was estimated to be about six years old, and we’d had previous cats with renal disease who lived to ripe old ages, so we weren’t terribly concerned. Then our vet noticed a heart murmur. Again, we’d had a cat with renal disease and a heart murmur.

But a little over a month ago, when I took him to a feline cardiologist, we got bad news: it was full-on heart disease, and his left ventricle was quite enlarged. (In some ways, maybe not a surprise—we knew had had a big heart.) The problem with heart disease and renal disease is that the treatments contradict each other. Unless it was a dire emergency, we couldn’t even have him anaesthetized (which meant no teeth cleaning, despite his stinky breath).

Around the same time, he got more finicky about food, eating less and less until, despite being excited about the prospect of food, he’d just sit in front of the bowls. Last week, I took him to the vet, who said perhaps it was the renal supplement (which is a powder mixed with his food), plus the renal diet, which is particularly bland. He chowed down on a different food at the vet, so we picked some of that up.

We were out of town for five days (helping my mom move into her temporary condo), and came home Monday to realize Max was in bad shape. Because our cat sitter had said he was still turning his nose up at food (although she’d tempted him successfully with some tuna, bless her, because she was worried, too), I’d already made another appointment for him.

Yesterday, they did blood tests, and the news was shattering. His renal levels, which were only slightly elevated in December, were now through the roof. Giving him fluids would put him into heart failure. There was only one option.

I brought him home, cuddled him as best I could with him feeling the way he did. He napped a little with his head resting on my hand. He purred a tiny bit. I told him how handsome he was, how sweet he was. I praised him for always coming to see what was wrong when Clara miaowed, for being his deaf friend’s protector (even when she clearly could hold her own). I thanked him for his purrs, for making biscuits on my belly.

Ken came home, and we took our darling boy back to the vet, and we said goodbye.

Farewell, sweet Maximus Cattius, Maxamillion Purrs, you of the giant heed and the tiny peeps and the magnificent ruff and proud fluffy pennant of a tail. I know the gods have ushered you on your way, and you’re playing and purring and have probably found another companion to protect. You’re in our hearts forever and ever.

Cat update (this is the clowder so far)

Back in February, we said farewell to our beloved eldercat, Grimoire, who was with us for more than seventeen years, ever since the stray who’d shown up at our door in Wales, Eostre, surprised us with three kittens. We had intended to wait until after Ken went on a trip in March to adopt again, but within two days I was looking at cats online. I hated being home alone. Hated it. It was just too weird and sad.

So off we went to Animal Aid, a shelter that specializes in special needs animals. We went to look at one cat in particular, but we had no chemistry with him. Soft-hearted Ken was willing to take him anyway, but I said, “Let’s just meet some other cats,” and asked the volunteer who she’d recommend. She said, “Come meet Clara.” I stuck my fingers out for her to sniff, but she was having none of that. She bonked right into my fingers for scritchies. And she stole my heart right then and there.

We were told Clara didn’t like many other cats, but she did get along with Max, who had been rescued from the same hoarding situation as Clara. So we met Max, and that was that. We scheduled to have them delivered after I got back from a workshop in early March.

Now, five months later, it’s hard to imagine life without them.

Their size difference isn’t clear here. Seriously, he’s nearly twice as big.

Clara (aka Clara Bug, Little Bug, Pudge) is a short-haired dilute calico and Max (aka Maxamillion Purrs, Maximus Cattius, Snuggle Bug) is a long-haired white and brown/grey calico. I suspect Max has at least some Maine Coon in him, given the shape of his furry head. They are like the Mutt and Jeff of the cat world. Clara is pudgy (the vet says she’s at a healthy weight, but she just looks round) and has short legs and a small head, and because she’s mostly deaf, screams as if she’s being tortured to let you know she’s lonely and doesn’t know where you are. She also makes an adorable, indefinable, almost-cranky noise when you wake her up, and purrs really loudly. Max, on the other hand, has long legs, a long body, a long tail, and an enormous head. His head is at least half again as big as Clara’s, possibly almost twice as big. He has a gentle little miaow that he uses sparingly, a quiet purr, and he moves silently; we are often startled to discover he’s levitated on a sofa or the bed or my desk. Whereas you can hear Clara’s every little thumping footstep, especially when she’s running up or down the stairs.

The shelter thinks Max is about 6, and Clara about 8. It’s especially hard to tell with Clara because most of her teeth had to be removed. She has only her little front teeth, and even when she’s unhappy with you, she barely bites you, and immediately comes back to snuggle with you because she can’t hold a grudge for more than a nanosecond.

Worse, her previous owners were neglectful and her claws grew so long they embedded in the pads of her feet, and two claws then started growing in wrong. Sadly, we had to have them surgically removed because they were causing her pain. Even though I know it was medically necessary, it broke my heart, because declawing is mutilation. Then she had to have a second surgery because the ends of the bone were pressing against her skin and causing her pain; her two middle toes have now been amputated and she walks on the center pad and her outer toes with a little limp. She also looks like she’s flashing the rock-n-roll devil horns, which is appropriate for a cat in this house!

Max, although young, is already in early stages of kidney disease. Right now all he needs is special food, but we’re prepared to do subcu fluids and whatever else as things progress. Cats can live quite a long time with kidney disease, so we expect many years with him. He has a flea allergy and lost a lot of his fur before we adopted him, and it’s pretty much all normal now. As I suspected from the outset, he has an extremely fluffy tail.

But the story, my friends, doesn’t end there. Oh no, it doesn’t. Because before we adopted these sweeties, we were debating between getting an older cat (because my heart breaks for elderly cats who get left at shelters) or two bonded pairs, because the house is big, y’know?

Good thing we only got two cats, because more were coming…

In June, a friend of ours was moving in with her new partner, into a household with a dog, and couldn’t take her beloved 15-year-old cat with her. We here at Casa Dermatis-Meese (aka The House That Needs a Name, Dammit) have a No Cat Left Behind Policy, so of course we took Goose.

Is this an angel or a devil on my shoulder?

Goose is named after the Spruce Goose but we are just as likely to croon, “Goose, you big stud…” He’s also known as the Silly Goose, of course.

Goose is lanky and orange with a triangular face, bigger than Clara but only a pound heavier, and not as big as Max. Goose is not a lap cat. Goose is more of a lie-across-your-boobs cat. Or a drape-around-your-neck cat. His goal in life seems to be attempting to force his nose and, eventually, his entire head into your nostril, or occasionally your ear, all while purring madly.

A couple of days after we adopted Goose, I texted his former owner, “Um, did you forget to tell us your cat is a vampire?” Because Goose also likes to jam his face against your neck and knead your neck like he’s a phlebotomist trying to get your vein to pop up. Turns out he was a bottle baby, so his humans are the same thing as Mom. She did, she said, train him to not actively suckle, cutting down on the number of hickies she had on her neck and face for a while.

Goose may be 15, but you wouldn’t know it. He’ll jump from the floor into your arms with a little encouragement. He’s the most talkative of the three with a wide range of miaows and sounds, including one low sound, when he’s separated from you, that sounds like “Hello?”

We were slowly integrating them until the heatwave hit, at which point we bought a window AC, installed it in my office (which is upstairs, along with the master bedroom), and said, “Okay, cats, you now all live together in the safe temperature zone. Deal.” There’s still some hissing, a bit of yowling, and the occasional tussle, but they’ll all sleep on the bed with us, and it’s the happiest feeling in the world. In fact, today while watching TV, I had Clara on my lap, Goose leaning against my left thigh, and Max against my right calf. All within inches of each other. (Of course, there were unhappy noises later when they were all hungry and cranky and in the stairwell, which is a choke point, but still. Triple snuggles!)

We’re already planning on cat #4, a super-sweet, friendly outdoor cat that some friends have been caring for. Lydia has some behavioral issues but we’re confident we can work with her. We just don’t want her to have to fend for herself in an apartment complex parking lot anymore, you know? So that’ll probably happen in September or early October (since I’ll be away for a week at the end of September).

We have wonderful, snuggly, loving, purring cats, and the house is a home once again.

This is the clowder so far… Top: Clara; left: Goose; right: Max


If you’d like to get this sort of information—and more!—directly in your In Box each month, you can sign up for my newsletter. Each issue has publication news about stories, collections, novels, and other fun stuff. BONUS: you get a free short story every month! What are you waiting for? Subscribe today!

Want to chat about this post? Join me on Facebook or Twitter.

Grimoire, June 1999 – February 11, 2017

We said goodbye to our beloved Grimoire yesterday. He was 17 1/2, a venerable age for a cat, and it was his time. He’s young and healthy and purring again now.

He joins his mother, Eostre, and his siblings, Eclipse and Snowdon. Eostre was a stray with a broken leg who showed up when we lived in Wales; nobody, not even the vets during multiple surgeries, realized she was pregnant. We came home from a trip to find a note from our cat sitter that said in part, “Watch where you step.” I still have that note.

Grimoire was the last of his line. He had extra toes and a little notch in his right ear, the result of a kittenhood tussle with his brother. He loved food, laps (and there was a hierarchy to them—he would stomp over people to get to his favorite, and if you didn’t make space for him, he’d sit next to you and tap you on the arm until you did), scritchies, and, for a time, fetching paper.

He’ll always be my baby boy, purring in my heart.

Oregon or Bust

April 1, 2015 (no fooling)

We left Oxnard at 2 pm Tuesday (March 31). Ken drove the whole way because the SUV + loaded trailer could get a little wibbly, and I have no practice in dealing with that.

We were two hours from our destination and making great time, having made our final gas/pit stop, when the left rear tire on the trailer gave up the ghost. It was 4:30 am and almost nobody was on the road, so Ken was able to get it to the shoulder safely, limp to the nearest exit, and then limp to a warehouse facility that had floodlights around it. One phone call to U-Haul and about an hour later, a repair guy came out, replaced the wheel in about ten minutes, and we were back on our way.

I will say that packing the case of toilet paper so that it was the first thing accessible in the trailer was a good idea. And I am grateful for the flashlight on my iPhone and the large rocks just off to one side of the road.

Anyway.

We got to the apartment around 8 am, I think. Ken was at work by 9, and it’s a 15-minute walk. So 17 hours on the road (including the tire issue and some very brief pit/gas stops). What follows is the ongoing blog I kept up throughout the day, because it amused me…

9 am. Ken has gone to work. I shower, set the alarm for 2 pm, slide into bed with the Kindle and read a couple of chapters of a Dresden File. Grimore finds his kitty stairs, gets on the bed, and finally, finally stops singing the Song of His People.

Somewhere between 9:15 and 10:35 am. Grimoire tries to wake me up. I pull the comforter over my head. He steps on my head with his enormous paw. I make some incoherent noise and he settles back down.

10:35 am. My mother calls. (I hadn’t muted the phone on the off chance Ken needed something.) I mumble something incoherent and hang up. I try to fall back asleep.

12:42 pm. Ken texts that he misses Grimmy and I already and wishes we could all curl up for a nap. What follows is this exact exchange:

Me: Garblzornk…
Ken: I’m too tired for Vogon poetry right now. Maybe later, my love…
Me: No tea. No milk. No will to live.
Ken: Do you have tea bags? That you can get to?
Me: i don’t know, do i?* fire bsd tree prtyy**

Understand that from my end, I have to close one eye and hold the phone approximately 6.3 millimeters from my other eye. I’m Mr. Magoo without my glasses on.

Also during this exchange, Grimoire attempted to get my attention by patting me on an exposed, sensitive portion of my anatomy. His claws need trimming. My responses was less than gentle.

A few minute later, as I am lying on the bed, having given up on falling back asleep and listening to the gentle rain on the leaves outside, I receive another text:

Ken: Come to the front door now, my love.

I wrap myself in a spare sheet, immediately turning into the female lead in a romantic comedy, and go to the front door. It’s raining and lovely. Did he tell me to look at the rain? Instructions unclear. I head back to the bedroom to find my phone and ask when the doorbell rings.

It’s Ken. He’s holding a cup of English breakfast and a small container of milk. Apparently there are tea/coffee facilities all over work (although he had to buy the milk somewhere). He tells me he loves me, kisses me, and dashes back off into the rain.

Although the tea is almost cold by the time I drink it, it’s the best-tasting tea ever.

Time to do some unpacking.

2:33 pm. Find my own tea stash. Unfortunately, have not yet found the electric kettle or a pot for boiling water. Or mugs.

2:37 pm. Do I own all these spices? When did that happen?

2:49 pm. [in Count von Count voice] Three! Three boxes unpacked! Ah ha ha!

2:52 pm. I HAVE FOUND THE ALCOHOL.

3:15 pm. Run out of boxes to unpack. Have created ongoing list of things to find in storage and things to take to storage.

3:36 pm. Sitting in bathroom, playing a game on my iPad. (Do not judge me.) Struck by the sudden realization: Oh shit, I live here now.

(I stopped blogging after that.) Ken came home, we napped, and then went to the storage unit and unpacked the trailer and SUV…in the rain. Then we came back to the apartment to unpack what needed to go into the apartment, and an incredibly wonderful young man from an apartment across the way saw us and volunteered to help. So I lay on the bedroom floor with a stressed Grimoire until they were done. We tried to take him out to dinner a few days later, but somehow he ended up taking us out to lunch. (No, I can’t quite explain how that happened.) (Which reminds me, we still owe him dinner.)

Grimoire did fantastically well, all things considered. He had his carrier to hide in, his sheepskin to lie on, and a litter box, as well as access to the front of the SUV. We did give him Kitty Xanax, which helped, although he still frequently sang us the Song of His People. Sometimes he napped on my lap or on the console between us. Sometimes he lay in the litter box. Sometimes he tried to squeeze into a hole between our stuff to get further back into the SUV, necessitating that I remove my seatbelt and dive after him before we lost him forever. It took him a few days to get acclimated to the apartment, and he still follows me from room to room, but he’s a happy boy because his people are here.  🙂


*The depth of my exhaustion is clear from the fact that I have given up on capital letters. Normally this would appall me.
**An attempt to quote Buffy’s “Fire bad; tree pretty.”

photo