Rest in Peace

Last week sucked the life out of me. It was a cumulative effect of the stress of caring for Bob during the last weeks of his life, then watching Bob lose his battle with cancers, then the three little orange kittens dying and so many other things. Pretty much everything that's not an emergency has been kicked to the wayside. I'm just wiped out and sick with a nasty chest cold. After 10 days I think I'm finally starting to feel somewhat better, but now I have a mountain of things to catch up on. I'm still trying to write “thank you” notes to donors from months ago and catch up on posts for cats in need and somehow try to figure out how I'm going to pay the mortgage next month.

©2011 Maria S. Mikey!

Yesterday I sat in bed and felt guilty, but I really needed to zone out. Things have been very difficult in the house since before Bob died. Everyone needs a break and there's just no way to get one.

Right after Bob died, many of the cats started peeing all over the house. It's been a nightmare. We know that Nicky, one of the big boys, is peeing and pooping inappropriately. He's peed into a cat food bowl that was sitting on the floor. Great aim, but shocking, since he did it right in front of me. Of course, he needs to go to the Vet. We have to rule out illness, but we also just dropped $800. on Nora's (Nicky's sister) emergency dental. Nicky is due for a wellness exam, blood work and urinalysis. Maybe he's not feeling well, but odds are this is the result of the “pecking order” in the house changing.

I upped the number of SSScats and Feliway diffusers. I ordered Spirit Essences from Jackson Galaxy. Sam and I are working with the cats to keep them calm, but Sam and I have not been getting along at all. We don't fight, but we don't talk, either. I know it stresses the cats out. If for no other reason, we had to fix that, too.

©2011 Robin A.F. Olson. Free at last, the DOOD relaxes on a cat tree in the living room.

Then there is the DOOD. Finally freed from two-month quarantine and not sick with Feline Leukemia, his debut into the rest of the house was probably going to spark more flare ups between the other cats and cause even more peeing. I knew it would probably be temporary, but that didn't make the fact that Nicky peed onto my family's heirloom oriental rug any easier to take.

Life is about managing change. Things are always in flux, but how do you deal with it when it all feels like too much?

Shutting down doesn't help and I can't just sit in bed with the cats and watch reruns of The Big Bang Theory for the rest of my life. I have to pick myself up and get to work and plow through some things. It's been a rough time, but I have to have faith that it will get better.

Sunday afternoon, Sam asked me if I wanted to clean the rug (again) or put clean sheets on the bed next? He was placating me. I don't think he wanted to do either, but he feared my wrath since the house is getting really messy and I was very angry about Nicky spoiling the rug. I don't know why I chose that moment, but I asked Sam to sit down so we could “talk.” I was done with being silently furious-it was time to just let it out and be done with it.

We had a long talk. We both let each other know we were fed up with the relationship, or lack thereof. It wasn't overly emotional. There wasn't any yelling. I think we were both to a point of either; “let's just get this over with” or DO something to fix it. I felt dead inside. I figured Sam probably felt about the same way. No reason to be afraid of being hurt. We've been in each other's life for 18 years. It's not always going to be smooth sailing and maybe we had grown apart so far there was no turning back?

I had no feeling about any outcome. However it worked out was fine, as long as something is worked out. I couldn't live like two strangers in the same house any longer. I really thought this was the end.

But...it wasn't. The turning point was when I told Sam I really wanted him to be my friend and he said he wanted the same from me. I had to tell him things that have really hurt me and about things I really need from him and he shared his feelings about what he needed, as well. We didn't try to be something we're not, but we did agree to just try to be friends. Our lives are intertwined in so many ways. We have to keep trying.

I'm glad Sam and I talked. Things are better and the cats seem more relaxed, as well. I realized you can't just plow forward and hope things will work out. They don't. You have to do the work or you can just suffer in silence.

As for the cats, there have been a few surprising updates. More on that in my next post, but first I gotta get some work done.

I was preparing to write about the conference I attended yesterday regarding the law changes for transporting animals into Connecticut. I was going to talk about what it may mean for my ability to rescue cats from the south, but all that is a blur now.

Last night I was sitting on my bed, playing with Doodlebug. It was 10:20pm. My phone rang. It was Maria. Oh no. She normally would not call me so late at night.

Maria's voice was low, emotionless, she was having trouble saying the words. I knew something was wrong. I wanted her to tell me what happened, but it was taking her too much time to get the words out and my anxiety was building with every second. I'm sure she was just trying to talk and not cry.

“One of the kittens just passed.”

It took a second for the news to sink in. My heart sank and I tried not to cry, too. What happened?! Maria felt he was just too little and underdeveloped-the runt of the litter.

Maria weighed the kittens earlier that night. Three were about 4.5-5 oz and three were around 3 oz. Maria had been feeling that something wasn't quite right about the smaller kittens, but she saw them being fed and she also gave them some milk replacer. Mama had gained almost ONE POUND in a few DAYS. Her diarrhea is resolving and she is clearly getting stronger, but it was too late for the little runt. We weren't even sure if it was a boy or girl who passed. I asked Maria to name the baby so she chose the name, Sammy.

I asked her if she thought the others would be all right and she said she was worried about the other two small ones. I asked her to make sure they were nice and warm-yes, heating pads were going...were they dehydrated? Did they need more milk? I didn't know what to tell her. I'm 1000 miles away and I could only try to think of who lived close by that could help. Should she take the kittens to the vet? If they had fading kitten syndrome there was nothing we could do. Putting them in the car would be further stress on them.

I started to regret referring to the kittens as Bob's Angels. Now it was coming true. Less than an hour later a second kitten died. Maria named him, Red.

I don't know what I'm supposed to say. I know that this happens. You can say it's nature. This is how it goes. The mother is barely a kitten herself. She was grossly malnourished. It's doubtful she was producing enough milk from each mammary gland. She is sick, herself, with diarrhea and is exhausted. There are many reasons why these two babies died, but I had been dreaming of having six orange babies running around my house one day. It was a comfort to having lost my own cat, Bob just two weeks ago. Now that dream was lost and utter grief was taking its place.

There was one kitten left that Maria was worried about. She named him Rocky because he was a fighter. She kept feeding him. Kept him close to her all night. Our friend, Izzy called her and gave her suggestions as to what to do, since she had just bottle fed the little white Angel babies (who are big enough to come here in a few days). Maria and I talked about taking the rest of the family to the emergency vet, but again-the fear of the stress on them just didn't make sense.

Brokenhearted, Maria fought hard for Rocky and urged him to stay strong, but early this morning, Rocky died, too. In his last moments, she held him in her hands and kissed him goodbye. She told him, as she did with his siblings who passed earlier in the night, that she love him.

Three of our kittens have died. The world can stop spinning now. Time has to stand still and take notice of these poor beautiful creatures who never even were old enough to open their eyes and see the world-who will never know the joy of playtime with their siblings-who will never grow into lovely orange adult cats. To say Maria is in pain right now is an understatement. To say I am not right there with her, is one, too. My heart is broken. I am terrified we will lose them all.

I feel like I jinxed the babies. I'm not going to call them Bob's Angels any more. They are “Bob's Pumpkin Patch.” They are going to make it. We are going to fight hard for them. They must survive. They are bigger and their eyes are opening. Let them not see the loss of their brothers and sister, let them see a beautiful world full of love. That's all we wanted for all our kittens, but like any rescue group, we will lose some along the way. These are the first kittens lost to us and we hope will be the last.

We need to fill our fundraiser for the kittens. They are going to have to have more vet care and monitoring and we want to make sure we have funds to cover all their needs. If you can help out with a donation, we would appreciate it a lot. If you already helped them, then thank you so much!

We have to find a way to be strong, for the ones are left, but I just want to crawl into my closet, curl up in the darkness and die. How do we go on?

This family deserves names and I was remiss in waiting so long to give them ones. An animal communicator told me that she never met an orange cat who didn't have a human name, so I'm keeping that in mind now.

Mama is Bobette. Means “bright fame.”

Three remaining kittens are: Teddy Boo, Jake O'Lantern & Mikey D. Cider.

LATE BREAKING UPDATE: IT IS VERY POSSIBLE THE KITTENS WERE BORN ON 9|11, not much earlier. Shelter thinks they were born the day after their mama arrived at Henry Co., not days prior. Waiting on confirmation, but this puts them at SIX DAYS OLD as of last night.

Sam and I drank toasts to Bob’s life, then we did something I never imagined-we set up a place for Bob in our bedroom. It was late at night and the Vet wouldn’t be open until morning. We decided to keep Bob near us-not in our bed, but nearby. I put a small blanket over Bob’s body, foolishly, to keep him warm. I could see his head resting on another blanket. He looked comfortable. I kissed him good night with tears in my eyes. It was very surreal.

Sam fell asleep, but I could not. I kept thinking about Bob, reliving watching him die, wondering if I did right by him or if there even is such a thing as the “right thing.” I gave up trying to sleep at 3am. I went downstairs to my office and put together a little memorial page for Bob to be posted on Covered in Cat Hair. I wanted to close the door to this blog-in his honor. My heart was broken and my voice, silenced. There were no words for me, for now. Just tears.

©2011 Robin A.F. Olson. Rest in Peace.

The next morning, we drove to the Vet. I sat in the back seat with Bob’s body on a cat bed next to me. His body was cold and hard. I petted him anyway. I thought about all the drives we made to Wappinger Falls, NY, for Bob to get chemo with me sitting next to him, his head resting on my hand. How I could feel his purr through my palm…the time he sat on my lap, he saw a truck passing and HISSED at it through the closed window—how it made me laugh. I remembered, too, that Bob never hissed at us.

I thought about how Bob was a stray cat that showed up at my Mother’s house in 1999; that my Father let Bob in the house, against my Mother’s wishes. My Father had dementia from numerous strokes, but he loved Bob and wanted him to be part of our family. Tragically, Daddy killed himself later that year. Bob stayed on with my Mother.

People will say he was her cat and that now he would go to Heaven and be with her, but I would argue that point. My Mother never cared for Bob. She fed him crap. She petted him, but she NEVER took him to the Vet. For the past five years I struggled to help Bob overcome the fact he had FIV+ because my Mother didn’t neuter him...how the FIV caused him all sorts of issues and probably caused the cancer to develop, too. I was so angry. Bob never had to die like this-and maybe he could have had an even longer life if he had just been neutered when he was young. My only solace was imagining that there were little “Bobs” all over northern Trumbull, CT. It made me smile as I looked down at my dead friend’s body.

We arrived at the Vet. We had to go to the back door of the building-of course, so the other clients wouldn’t see a dead cat and get upset. There was a big freezer by the door. I knew what it was for. I asked if we could put Bob in the body bag-that was protocol-a task they would normally do for their clients, but I didn’t think it was right for anyone but Sam or I to handle him.

They brought us a black plastic bag and some tape. We left Bob on his favorite blanket and I kissed him goodbye. Sam slipped his body and the blanket into the bag. I didn’t want to leave his body-I guess that’s pretty sick, but I did not want to let go. It’s our nature to feel this way, I knew that, but it didn’t make it any easier to leave him. I took another deep breath and carefully sealed up the bag. I wrote Bob’s name on the tape and drew hearts on either side of it. I knew they would place his body in the freezer, until the person from the pet crematory arrived to take him after the Labor Day holiday is over.

Bob will come back to me next week, but this time it will be inside a little tin box. I hate those boxes. I have a collection of them now. Each one reminds me of a life lost, of a friend I will never see again.

©2011 Ryan Feminella. This is the only photo of have of me & Bob together. It was taken a few weeks before he died.

My only comfort is knowing that I fought hard for Bob. I didn’t put him down months ago when he was starting to go downhill, I kept fighting for him-for his dignity-for the right to die in a natural way no matter how grueling it was on us and as long as Bob wasn’t in obvious pain. He was a living creature who deserved that basic tenet. Through this experience I’ve learned a lot more about being patient, being gentle with myself and others, and to deeply appreciate the little things. I look around and see my seven cats. This story will be about them, one day, but today we’re all together and we’re all basically fine. We have our obstacles, like anyone else, but maybe now just the fact that Spencer sits beside me washing his face after having his breakfast is just as wonderful as if I won a Lottery. He’s healthy and robust, relaxed and content. This moment is not ignored, it’s quite the opposite. This moment, like each moment today, should be revered because it isn't always going to be like this. I won't always have this moment. I don’t want to look back and realized I didn’t know how much I had, as the saying goes, until it’s gone.

©2009 Robin A.F. Olson. Beautiful Bob as he once was.

Bob was a magnificent creature—so perfectly calm, cool and collected with a big, big heart. I never heard him growl. He mooched food off my dinner plate and hated to be picked up, but there was something about him that always made me smile. I was honored to be part of his life and now, his death.

Rest in Peace, Robert J. Dole. Fly free.

I offered Bob some treats. He didn’t really want anything. He couldn’t seem to sit normally. He was “meatloafing” and then hung his head. He was sitting in the sun, at least. He wasn’t cold. I moved his bedding around on the floor to make him more comfortable. I offered him a sniff of catnip, but he didn’t notice it any more. I kept checking on him every few minutes. In the afternoon I picked him up and put him on his favorite blanket on the sofa. I rolled one edge up so it could act as a pillow. Bob rested against it, but never really settled down. I sat next to him and jumped, every time he moved. Did he need the litter pan? Did he want water? He was very weak now…where was Sam?

©2011 Robin A.F. Olson. One of the last times Bob & Nicky had a nap together.

I called Sam, he was on the way home. I told him to hurry. Once he arrived we decided not to leave Bob alone any more. I fed Bob around 5:30pm. He really didn’t want it. I got two syringes into him, but he didn’t want the third. He threw it back up. He hadn’t vomited in months. He was so weak he could barely move. I gave him some water. He was so thirsty. He almost drowned in the bowl. He could barely hold his head up. When he was done, I dried his face and gave him a kiss. I’d been with him all day. I needed a break. At 8 pm I asked Sam to sit with Bob so I could look in on the kittens and get them fed. I sat with them for a little over an hour. I didn’t want to go back downstairs. At 9:15 pm I walked back into the living room. Sam was sitting next to Bob. I asked him how Bob was doing. I looked at Bob and he was lying awkwardly, with his head hanging over the rolled up edge of the blanket. I said something about it to Sam. He thought Bob was too warm. I’d put a heating blanket over Bob and he had gotten out from under it and laid down away from it-more like fallen over.

©2011 Robin A.F. Olson. Growing ever thinner, Bob still enjoys being outside.

I lifted Bob’s head. He was facing away from me. His head was curiously heavy. He wasn’t resisting me at all. I put my index finger near Bob’s open eye. He didn’t blink or react. I could have touched his open eye, but didn’t. Bob was still breathing.

I realized that Bob was in a coma.

He was no longer responsive to our touch. It was time.

All I could say was; “Oh no…!” as the tears began to roll down my cheeks.

©2011 Robin A.F. Olson. All of his glamorous fur gone and still losing weight, Bob still had his dignity.

Sam sat on the sofa and I sat on a footstool so I could be just about the same level as Bob. We started to pet him and I talked to him. I told him I loved him. I told him it was okay to go, but that we would miss him for the rest of our lives. I told him to let go. I wanted this over and done, but I didn’t want this to happen at all. I wanted my old Bob back. My fluffy sweetheart who never growled-who everyone loved, but now he was dying in front of me and there was no turning back. I had to stay strong for Bob.

©2011 Robin A.F. Olson.

Bob stretched out suddenly and put his front paws together with the paw pads touching. I suddenly smelled feces. Bob was letting go of his bodily functions. We didn’t move to clean him up, we just kept petting him and talking to him. His body was shutting down. This is what happens. We had to stay with it.

Bob’s breath became a struggle for him. He would take in a sharp breath, then let it out raggedly. Each breath was paced further and further apart. Then, Bob stretched out again, his body suddenly relaxing. I realized it was the first time he really looked comfortable in weeks. Then he took another breath…and a few moments later, there were no more.

Bob was gone.

It was 9:53 pm EST. September 3, 2011.

We got some warm water and paper towels. Sam and I washed Bob’s body. I lit a candle. We kept petting him and talking to him as we worked on removing the soil from his body. Though he was gone, it mattered greatly to me, to respect his remains and to treat them with great regard.

When we finished bathing his body and he was in a comfortable position, I tried to close his eyes, but I could not. I looked at his face and he still had that “Puss in Boots” look…emaciated and hollow-eyed, but it was still there. I loved that face more than I can say. I loved that cat more than all the others-even dead, his body growing cold, I was glad to be near him.

We sat with Bob and didn’t say much. After an hour or so I asked Sam to stay with Bob so I could go back upstairs and tuck the kittens in for the night. I walked into the foster room and sat on the edge of the bed. I didn’t want to see these two month old kittens-with their entire lives ahead of them. I wanted to be alone. I didn’t want to think about cats. I looked at Amberly and her five kittens and said; “My cat just died.” I hung my head and cried.

©2011 Robin A.F. Olson. Goodbye my sweet friend.

Within seconds, every one of those kittens along with their mother, Amberly, came up to me. They formed a semi-circle around my crossed legs and started to purr. A few reached out their paws and touched me, wanting to be petted. It was if they understood my pain and were trying to comfort me. I told them thank you and gave them some pets, turned off the light and left the room, the tears racing down my face leaving a trail of drops on the floor behind me.

I couldn’t eat much or sleep. I had a constant knot of fear in my gut. Every morning I wondered if I would find Bob dead. A few mornings ago, I got up and I could not find him. I called to Sam, urging him to come down stairs to help me find Bob. We looked all around the downstairs, searching frantically. We knew Bob could no longer make the trip up to our bedroom, but where was he? I panicked and started to cry. I thought Bob tried to go downstairs to the litter pans-instead of using the one nearby in the kitchen. We found him at the base of the stairs one night, struggling to get back up the steps. I envisioned him lying there, unable to make it back, but he wasn’t there…so I blocked off access to make sure he couldn’t do it again.

©2010 Robin A.F. Olson. Blitzen and Bob.

After 20 minutes, I found him in my office, calmly sitting on a cat bed between two filing cabinets. I was so glad to find him, but knew that one day I would not be so lucky.

I got to a point were I hated to get up in the morning. I dreaded coming down stairs to start my day…to look for Bob—then the relief of finding him still alive. Getting him fresh water for the bowl, scoop the pans, clean up any messes the other cats made, get Bob’s food ready, get Bob fed.

©2011 Robin A.F. Olson. Blitzen and Spencer watch Bob eat in case they can sneak some off his plate.

Some days when the weather was nice, I’d ask Bob if he wanted to “go outside?” He would walk over to the sliding door and I’d let him out onto the deck. I often had a dish of cat grass waiting for him to munch on. Oh how he loved it! Bob couldn’t get out into the yard, but he could enjoy the fresh air and summer sun. It was my dream that if Bob had to die, he would do it on his chaise lounge, on the green cushion, with the sun in the sky and the birds singing sweetly nearby. I knew it was a long shot, but that’s what I wanted for him.

©2010 Robin A.F. Olson. Bob in his happy place.

Some times Nicky would keep him company and the two would hang out all afternoon. A few days before he died, four crows flew near Bob, cawing wildly. I got up and grabbed Bob, brought him inside. I knew the Crows knew Bob was getting close. I was NOT going to let them NEAR HIM! The next day the same thing happened with a big hawk. It flew past my office window, screaming, flying towards the deck. I got up and saw it swoop over Bob’s head! I ran outside and screamed at it to go away. It flew off, but I knew that it would be back.

Bob never went outside again after that.

©2009 Robin A.F. Olson. First time on the deck in 2009.

Bob was so thin. I could see his ribs, all the bones in his spine. He lost the fat padding in his cheeks and around his eye sockets, but he could still walk and still purred a tiny bit and still used the litter pan. He seemed happy after the syringe feeding was over. I would always wash his face and coo and fuss over him, telling him he was a good boy. I wanted him to have some good, after the bad, that even if we had to syringe feed him that something nice would happen when we were done. Some times I brushed him. When he had his full coat-before the ringworm destroyed it, he loved to be brushed. Now I could only brush under his chin and his chest. I used soft bristles on the rest of his body. It was shocking how much fur he was losing now. There was more of his fur on the floor, than on him, but he was still Bob.

©2011 Robin A.F. Olson. MacGruber making friends with Bob.

I got to a point where I wished Bob would die. I hated myself for feeling that way. I couldn’t take the stress any more. Seeing him broke my heart. I couldn’t sleep or eat much. I asked Sam to call Dr. Larry just to find out if we could book an appointment. It was right after the hurricane passed through and they had plenty of openings. We didn’t book a time. I just kept going back to understanding it was my fear motivating me to do this. I had to do the right thing for Bob. Sam and I talked about it all the time. We checked with each other-do we do it now? What about today?

©2011 Robin A.F. Olson. Bob used to be much bigger, but now he is dwarfed by Nora and Nicky-who were his best buddies.

Bob survived the hypo incident, but the next day he was more frail than ever. Sam had to go to NYC to see his Mother. I didn’t want him to leave. He promised to come back as soon as he could. I knew Bob wasn’t going to live much longer. He was just too thin to survive more than a day or two and I was getting ready to call Dr. Larry.

©2010 Robin A.F. Olson. Blitzen and Bob enjoy naptime.

Bob was a bit uncomfortable. He couldn’t walk very far so I brought him water, which he drank and I carried him to the litter pan-and he used it. I washed his feet and I fed him. I kept reminding myself to be GENTLE, to LOVE BOB, to just feel my heart connection to him, despite the anguish of seeing him near death. I had to ride this out with him. These were my last days with him. It was my way of honoring Bob’s life by making sure the end was as good as it could be. Yes, it was KILLING ME inside. My heart was breaking. I took a breath and just looked at Bob. Then, I noticed…one of his pupils was dilated and the other was not. My heart sank. He’d probably had a small stroke. My poor baby. It wasn't going to be much longer.

...end of part 3...

I don’t like to get into a discussion about religion, but I have to admit that if I hadn’t spent a few years taking classes in Shambhala Buddhism (a Tibetan form of Buddhism) and taking Refuge as a Buddhist, I never could have handled this situation as I did. I kept reminding myself things that I learned-that it was MY FEAR of watching Bob die that upset me so much. That it was MY FEAR that made me want to call my Vet and have him come over and put Bob to sleep to stop MY SUFFERING over seeing him decline. I didn’t want to witness these last days. I wanted to run away. I didn’t want to see my once beautiful Maine Coon, fade away into a walking skeleton, with barely a tuft of fur left on his body.

But I didn’t run.

I stayed put. I did Tonglen. I focused on Bob. I took joy in little things—his interest in eating a bit of baby food, watching his cute, soft tongue gently lap at the plate. He’d often turn his head away when I brought him a snack. He’d rarely eat much of anything on his own. I’d warm the food, I’d sprinkle treats on it. I’d rub a bit on his gums, to get him to taste it. I’d see something spark behind his eyes for a moment, then, he’d suddenly eat a bit while my other cats circled him, hoping to get a bite of that treat, too. I had to stand near Bob with a broom, to keep the cats away. Towards the end, I just held the plate in my hands-an offering to my friend, hoping he would take another mouthful. “Each bite is a victory for you, Bob” I’d say. “Eat up, Baba-D! Good boy!”

Some times Bob would purr. When he was well, he purred every time we fed him. I found it so endearing. He and Spencer would sit side by side, in the doorway of the kitchen, patiently waiting for breakfast to be served. Spencer got served first, then Bob, then, the others. They’d all go to “their place” and we’d present each cat with a ceramic dish, a dollop of raw food on top. Bob would go to his plate and eat it right up. Some times I had to sprinkle bonito flakes or dehydrated chicken to help him find the scent of the food. He would purr and purr while he ate. I loved that sound. I recorded him purring one night last December. You can hear his “burbling purr” below.

[swf file="Bob_Purring.mp3"]

With my friend Jennifer’s help, I was able to learn how to home test Bob’s blood sugar. She left me with some tools so I could do it myself. We never got his blood sugar to a normal level-it was very high. I started him on insulin, but I was arrogant thinking I didn’t have to watch his blood sugar values. I was too scared to try to test Bob’s blood, so I just watched him. He was doing ok, but drinking a lot of water-a big sign of a diabetic issue, but he had so many other problems, I could never truly be sure. I made a big mistake. I thought Bob might need more insulin and I gave him a few drops more. In a few days he was doing very very badly. His fur was falling out, he could barely walk, he was emaciated.

I got up the nerve to test his blood sugar. It was 32. He was having hypoglycemic attack and could have a seizure and die at any moment. How could I have done this to my cat?! I called Jennifer about 10 times. She helped guide me through the process of getting Bob’s blood sugar to rise. We gave him kayro syrup. I checked his blood sugar again. I HATED doing it because Bob was so frail, I couldn’t easily get blood from his ears. I had to poke him with the lancet over and over again. I cried. I fumed. I cussed! I HAD to do this. I kept saying I was sorry to Bob. He sat there and didn’t fuss. He was always a good boy.

Over two hours of small meals every five minutes, some laced with more kayro syrup, Bob’s blood sugar rose from 32 to 41, then fell to 36, then came back up to 78, then down to 70. Bob felt well enough to wobble-walk around the living room. He used the corrugated cat scratchers on the floor. He had a drink of water. He used the litter pan, but had the runs-most likely from all the sugar we’d given him...but he was doing a bit better.

His left rear foot was raw and red. We had to keep it clean and free from litter. I would carefully swab between his toes with a Q-tip. I used calendula cream to soothe his skin. Some times we had to fill a small container with warm water and a special cat shampoo to soak Bob’s paws. Some times he cried a bit, but he had started to limp a little and we need we had to help him stay comfortable.

It was a battle every day for a few weeks; making sure I got up early so Bob would be fed. I had to get out fresh water for his bowl because he liked to have a drink in the morning. I kept the litter pan he used spotlessly clean-I scooped it about 5 or more times a day. I kept a schedule of when Bob should be fed. Sam and I took turns or mostly I fed Bob while Sam held and soothed him.

...end of part two...

As you may know, a few days ago, on September 3, 2011, my dear cat, Bob Dole passed away. This is the unvarnished record of the last days of Bob’s life. It includes a description of Bob’s last moments. While difficult to write, and to read, I felt it was my duty to close this chapter with a brave heart, not to whitewash it or make it more palatable. This is life and this is death.

©2006 Robin A.F. Olson. Bob comes to live with me in 2006.

Less than a month ago, I noticed Bob was getting dramatically thinner. We ended up taking him to the oncologist where they did $1600.00 of tests and told us that Bob’s hepatic cancer was back in what remained of his liver, that the small-t cell lymphoma was getting worse, that his pancreas was probably involved and that he was also diabetic with a blood glucose of 500-onset from steroids used to treat the cancer.

It was determined that chemo was not working any longer and that no further treatments were recommended. It was time to let Bob go. We could take him home and care for him or put him down. It was time.

©2007 Robin A.F. Olson. Bob and Nicky are fast friends.

I got sick to my stomach. My head ached. I cried when I looked at Bob. At first, we chose to euthanize him in a few days, but after spending time with Bob and having many conversations, we made a difficult choice-to provide him with palliative care-simply feed him, keep him clean and comfortable and let him go on his terms, at his time. We knew this would not be an easy road, but since Bob was diagnosed with cancer last December, it’s been tough. Nothing new here. It was a crap shoot doing this. I risked Bob passing in a lot of pain. I risked that if we needed Dr. Larry, that we could not get him here because it would be late at night or a weekend---or during Hurricane Irene. Yet, we OWED it to Bob, to give him the dignity to live those last days on his terms, not on ours. It is part of nature for ALL of us to slowly fade away, from the moment we are born. To prematurely interrupt that process because we are afraid of seeing what will happen next, is not something I could accept doing to Bob.

©2007 Robin A.F. Olson. Bob loved to straddle the top of my Mother's old recliner.

I began to pay even closer attention to Bob’s every move. Was he eating? Sometimes, but not enough. I had to learn how to syringe feed him. This was very difficult-from an emotional standpoint. Here I was FORCING Bob to eat, when he clearly didn’t love being fed this way. I had to struggle with him. It made a mess. When I prepared his food, it had to be in a slurry. Too thin and it would drip out of the bird feeder size syringes-too thick and it would be tough for him to swallow and he’d protest by lifting his paw to push me away. I wanted to make sure it wasn’t too hot-or too cold. I added baby food to give him more potassium. I added a bit of tuna water or even blended raw chicken liver so it might taste better and so I could get more nutrition into him.

©2008 Robin A.F. Olson. Bob just plowed over any cat that might be in his path. Here Nora is getting squashed.

It was a struggle, not just with Bob, but with myself. I knew if I stopped feeding him, Bob would die. I knew if I kept going, was I just forcing Bob to live unnaturally? How could I live with myself if I just watched Bob starve to death? Yet, he was getting thinner and thinner no matter what I did. Every day I was shocked to my core at the sight of him. I couldn’t believe he could get so thin. We were feeding him every 4 or 5 hours with small offerings between that. It was exhausting, but it had to be done.

©2008 Robin A.F. Olson. Bob, Spencer, Nicky, Gracie & Petunia (and me under the covers).

Then, I came to a painful realization. Bob had been getting very low carbohydrate food. It was to keep from giving the cancer something to thrive on, but what I didn’t understand is that it was also probably keeping Bob from keeping any weight on his bones and it was keeping his blood sugar low-maybe too low! I was starving him and I didn’t even know it. Did you know that there is some sort of regulation that PREVENTS pet food company’s from listing carbohydrate values on their labels! You have to do math to figure it out. Why do they do this? To disguise the crap they put in food-you think you’re buying high quality stuff, but if it’s full of carbs, it’s going to be BAD for your cat. Dry food is the worst-even high quality brands-it’s VERY high in carbs and for a protein hungry, obligate CARNIVORE, it’s not appropriate…but Bob DID need SOME carbs in his diet, so I got something else to feed him to see if that would help.

©2008 Robin A.F. Olson. Home from being hospitalized for two weeks in 2008, battling Pancreatitis, Bob finally has his moment in the sun.

Every day I asked myself; “Is it time? Is he telling me he’s ready? Should I just put him down?”

...end of part one...

Our society has such an aversion to death. We don't want to talk about it, let alone, acknowledge it happens. If we can talk about it, it happens to other people, not us. We're fixated on making ourselves appear younger, shooting our faces full of botulism, getting lip injections, face lifts, hair transplants, in an ever more desperate attempt to cover up that we are, with every moment that ticks by, one step closer to “The Big Sleep.”

In the early 1900's people held funerals in their own home, in the parlour, the fanciest room in the house. It was reserved for only the most special occasions, like the death of a loved one or a wedding. I have to wonder if solemn, it was also dignified and beautiful to have this ceremony in the most uplifted space a family could provide. Nowadays, we run off to a funeral home, they touch “the body,” they prepare it for burial or cremation, they provide the space to have a service for a few hours or days. There is an aseptic quality to death. Someone else deals with the “gorey” details. We bring the checkbook and the tissues while our loved one is hidden away in a refrigerated compartment.

I'm not making a judgment, rather an observation. I ask that we take a moment to think about death, which in turn, asks us to think about life. How do we want to live our life so that when we die, we die with dignity, in a beautiful setting, with peace, instead of being surrounded by hysteria? How do we look death in the eye and make friends? How do we find a way to watch our loved ones with terminal illness, weaken and die, knowing there is no pill to fix this situation. There is no bargain to be made. I think somewhere in that is the key-there is nothing you can do sometimes, but to bear witness, provide loving compassion, then let go. Stop clinging to what you can do nothing about.

©1990 Judith K Feminella. Daddy with Blue, the cat.

Originally this topic was on my mind because June was approaching. I hate June. I hate it. June is not wedding month for me. It's “death month” in my family. My father took his own life on June 27, 1999. A few years later, two of my cats died in June and over the years there have been other losses during this month. When June arrives, I duck my head under the covers until July.

©2010 Robin A.F. Olson. Sammy needs a rescue. Read his back story HERE

The other reason I was thinking about death is because of Big O. Big O was one of Kitten Associates' first rescues from Georgia. Big was kicked outdoors when his owner died. Big was declawed and thin, kicked and teased by the neighborhood kids. Mary Jo, a kind-hearted cat rescuer in Georgia, took him in, then started to look for a home for the cat who was called, Sammy, back then.

©2010 Robin A.F. Olson. Big O just after he arrived in Connie's home.

It was early September 2010. I had just gotten Kitten Associates off the ground. I wrote about Sammy's plight, hoping to find a rescue to help him. I got more than that. I found an adopter. My own friend, Connie, who is passionate about helping every cat she meets. Connie has a few...cough...cats. She read about Sammy and decided to adopt him in honor of Lion King, a cat she had lost a few weeks prior. She didn't care what shape Sammy was in or what he needed. She knew whatever it was, she would take care of the problem.

©2010 Robin A.F. Olson. Only the best for Big O!

When Sammy arrived, we had already been calling him by his nickname, Big O (for Big Orange, not big you-know-what). Big had a big personality. He liked to talk and boss the other cats around. His tail was badly damaged by some sort of abuse so it had to be removed. He had hyperthyroid, so Connie took him to RadioCat to have his thyroid zapped with radiation to cure the problem.

Big O had a benign growth on his foot. She had it surgically removed so he would be comfortable.

Big peed all over her house after a few months, then focused on peeing on some furniture, ruining it. Connie was frustrated, but never gave up. We often tried to joke about our cats peeing issues. Connie tried to find out what was wrong with Big O by taking him to the Vet for more tests. They found nothing. Meanwhile, Big started to lose weight, but no amount of food would bring it back.

Yesterday morning, Connie discovered a huge pool of bloody vomit near Big O's bed. She knew he was in crisis and got him to the Vet. They took an x-ray. His abdomen was filled with fluid, obscuring the tumor they suspected was there. Big O, now just a few pounds in weight, was going to die. Connie wanted him to go home to live out whatever time he had left.

I went to see Big O last night. Connie warned me he wasn't doing well at all. When I first saw him, all I saw was orange fur. His body was mostly obscured by the bright green grass in Connie's back yard. Big O was laying flat, his eyes open, his breathing slow and regular. It was a warm day. I remarked at how all my cats were flat, too, not wanting to be completely hopeless for a few minutes more. Death was nearby. We all knew it. I felt like I was on a roller coaster. The car was traveling up the steep rise on the track. I felt my insides tense up, knowing I was about to go over the edge-not wanting to fall-not wanting to feel that sharp fear of facing something that terrifies me.

Big O got up a few times, clearly using everything he had to try to hide under the bushes or under the deck. I wouldn't let him. Instead, I bent down and gingerly lifted him up. There was nothing to him. He was skin and bones. He didn't resist. He basically fell over when I put him down. I'd been crying a lot since I first saw him, but now I needed to stop. I needed to face this for Big O's sake, if not my own.

©2010 Robin A.F. Olson. Big O rests on my leg last night. He had the softest, nicest fur.

So I sat with him while Connie tended to her other cats. I did a Buddhist practice called Tonglen. It was very hard to do, but the more I did it, the more relaxed I felt. I allowed my feelings to drop away and just focused on Big O. Focused on being there for him, being calm and peaceful. If it was his time to go, then he would die with as much dignity and love as possible. I wanted him to have a good death. He deserved nothing less.

It was too late to go the Vet, anyway, better to let Big O enjoy being outside. In a way, I wish he could have passed then and there, but in my own fear and my own desire to make it better, I suggested we syringe feed him some water and food. Although Big O perked up after that and we both felt a little bit more hopeful, last night things got much worse. Big O vomited a lot more blood and hid behind the toilet. He wanted to die alone, but Connie wanted to be with him, staying close to him until the morning came.

Connie drove Big O to her Vet this morning. He sat quietly in her lap during the drive. Normally he'd make a big fuss. A few minutes after arriving at the Vet, Big O was humanely euthanized. Connie did the right thing. She stayed on the roller coaster, riding the fear and sadness, then did what needed to be done. She wished Big could have passed at home, but he was in too much agony. It wasn't fair to him. Most of his life wasn't fair, but in the end Big O knew great love and care and is at peace. Sadly, we are far from it.

I'd like to say I've made friends with Death. I know the grim reaper lurks out there, lightly touching the next to go on the shoulder. He whispers; “It's time.” They leave sweetly and with love. I wish that was the case, but frankly it doesn't work that way. I can't do it. I still want to kick Death in the ass. He took a great cat to the Rainbow Bridge, one who deserved more time with those of us who loved him.

So Death, you can suck it. The month of June can rot. Big O fly free and go with love.

I'm so angry right now!

Jennifer wrote to me early today. She needed to find a foster home for a cat named, Martini, who was diabetic and whose family was going to put him down, instead of provide him with proper care.

Of course this cat, like so many others, was in a tough spot. Most shelters won't take diabetic cats and most people don't want to adopt them. The worst thing of all is that Martini was only SIX years old. I'm sure his diet was poor and was most likely the reason for him getting diabetes in the first place!

Jennifer spent all day trying to find out what happened to Martini and if they would let her take him and get him in to temporary foster care, while I would drum up someone to take him long term, until we could get him adopted. The folks at the DCIN were going to cover the costs for treatment. It was all good but I wanted to wait to ask for help until we knew the status of the cat.

Jennifer just wrote me again, with bad news. The family chose to euthanize Martini. They didn't even give him a chance. I do not call this “humanely euthanizing” a sick animal.

I call it MURDER.

And I have VERY STRONG WORDS for the VET who did the deed. He or she murdered Martini-he or she did it for a buck. That Vet could have tried to get help for the cat, too, but did nothing. Just put down a SIX YEAR OLD CAT who was NOT terminally ill! It's VERY likely that Martini could have gone into remission and not been diabetic with a simple diet change.

THIS NEVER HAD TO HAPPEN!

I know the name, address and phone number of the people that did this and I am more than tempted to SHARE that information with all of you. These people are vile, reprehensible, selfish monsters. They do NOT deserve to EVER have another cat. If I didn't know I'd get myself into a world of legal trouble, I'd tell all of you to call them and tell them what you think about what they did.

And this guy is a fire fighter. Aren't they supposed to SAVE lives?

Rest in Peace, dear Martini. I hope you have a noble re-birth and come back as a human so you can KICK THIS FAMILY IN THE ASS for what they did to you.

If you read my blog, odds are you, at least, like cats. From the feedback I've gotten over the years, I'm guessing most of you LOVE cats as dearly as I do. The question I place before you today is: Are you rescuing or adopting cats without considering the effect on your own life, well being? Are you clear-minded enough to know when to say, “No” when someone wants you to help then with a cat? Where is the tipping point between having a lot of cats and having too many?

I'm a collector. I have 140 tin lunchboxes, about 50 snow globes, about 40 salt & pepper shakers (only ones that are miniature appliances), cookie jars, old soda advertising signs, illustrated antique children's books and lots more. Everything is organized. You can walk across the room (unless there's a cat in the way). I keep the place tidy and clean (save for a few piles of mail or what not) and it doesn't smell bad unless I cooked dinner recently.

©2010 Robin A.F. Olson. Yes, it's a wall of lunchboxes! Everyone should have one...or two.

I have eight cats. Sometimes I have as many as 20. Am I a haorder? Or am I walking a fine line between enjoying my collectibles and cats, and sliding into chaos, disease and decay?

I wonder if any of YOU have the same fear I do: “I'm ok and can handle what I have now, but I could see myself going overboard if I'm not careful.”

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Recently, I was contacted by Marsha Rabe. She lives in Connecticut and loves cats. Twenty five years ago she met a woman who became her dear friend. They did a lot of animal rights work including anti-hunting, anti-circus, vegetarian education and more. She's been a tireless advocate for animals for most of her life. Her friend, who I've been asked not to name, “was beyond a doubt one of the most intelligent, charming, talented, articulate, and cultured people I have ever known.”

This is not the description of someone who is a hoarder...yet...over the years her friend developed a problem as described to me by Marsha:

WHAT HOARDING LOOKS LIKE

It started out as it always does, one good person trying to address the horrible overpopulation of cats by taking them in, one at a time.

For more than 30 years, a woman in New Haven took in strays and ferals, adopting them out at the beginning, when she could, but then gradually becoming overwhelmed. Simply maintaining the population took all of her strength and time. To her great credit, she spayed/neutered all of her cats and also provided basic veterinary care. But there was no time or energy left for placement, and besides, many of the cats were feral and basically unplaceable. They were, quite simply, the cats that no one else wanted.

For many years, the cats had a decent quality of life. But this summer, she became seriously ill, and the situation deteriorated quickly and horribly. She died on Nov. 9 from cancers related to conditions in her home.

She was my friend.

As I said, most of the 65 cats were feral and/or sick, and though we tried to find places for them to go, we soon realized that they had to be euthanized. We had the support of a kind and generous veterinarian, but the task was heartbreaking.

We are now trying to place the few that remain.

The only true outside feral is Perdita (last photo), a longhaired grey cat on the light green blanket. She is older, about 12, we think. There are three other indoor ferals whose photos I could not get.

I believe all of the others will come out of their shells, given time, patience, and one-on-one attention. If you have any thoughts about any of these cats, PLEASE let me know.

Thanks very much.

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I asked Marsha if anyone had tried to help this woman reduce the number of cats in her home and she answered:

Yes, I tried to bring up the subject of the cats many times, as did many of her other friends. But her intense sense of privacy and her uncanny ability to deflect any question about the cats — and then to change the subject — meant that none of us ever got very far…until this summer, when she got sick. Then she had to let some of us help, and we learned the details.

I think if your readers find themselves unable to say no, if they find themselves keeping their animals a secret, if they don't let people into their homes, if they find themselves becoming more and more reclusive...then they should ask themselves, "Am I a hoarder?"

What is painfully sad is that Marsha lost her friend because her friend's love and devotion to cats meant more to her than her own life. With lack of sanitary conditions in the home, it not only sickened the cats, it took the life of her friend.

I'd like to help Marsha find homes for the remaining cats.We just need a few folks to step up and lend a hand...that is...IF you have adequate space, the time and the finances to do so. I'm not going to write about hoarding and ask you all to adopt more cats unless your decision is made with a clear mind and adequate resources.

These are the cats who need help now.

©2010 Marsha Rabe. CLEMENTINE (two photos, above) One of the shyer cats, but is definitely beginning to hang out more. Her sister is Catriona, below.

©2010 Marsha Rabe. CATRIONA, Clementine's sister. About 4 or 5. Has one clouded eye. Shy, but coming out of her shell little by little.

©2010 Marsha Rabe, MOJO, a three-legged cat with a slightly twisted mouth (which makes eating messy), and a crooked tail. But he is a lively cat who just needs attention so he can stop feeling grumpy and find his way in life.It is hard to get a good photo of him because he is always rubbing your ankles. Robin's Note: I LOVE THAT WHITE FOOT!

©2010 Marsha Rabe, Perdita, is a semi-feral lady who may prefer a barn placement or outdoor placement. Very pretty lady. UPDATE: Perdita has been living INDOORS for the past month and is showing signs of coming out of her shell. I would LOVE to see her get a chance at a real home. At her age, living outdoors would be a cruel end for her. Maybe someone with a quiet home could give her a chance? Perdita is the heroine of Shakesperare's "A Winter's Tale" and means "lost one" in Latin.

There are a few other cats. One just showed up the other day so they're trying to get the situation worked out. If you have a barn and could take a few cats or a loving home or a rescue group that can help with the shy kitties or Mojo, please contact MARSHA RABE directly at:

marsharabe (@ symbol) comcast.net

NOTE: We don't display ______@___.com address to prevent spammers.

The cats have been vetted and are located in the area of NEW HAVEN, CT

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The ASPCA has excellent information about Animal Hoarding and how to recognize hoarding behavior. It's very sobering, indeed and I think it would be arrogant of me to think I could never be that person. I hope that this information helps all of you to keep loving your cats and to make sure you don't take on more than you can handle.