Grover Cleveland

Grover Cleveland

with us

September 11 to November 8, 2010

Forever part of our family

To my Grovey:

Nothing could have prepared your Dad and I for walking into your room this week and finding you dead. I'm sorry your Dad had to go through that; I wish it had been me who found you first. I could hear the pain in your Dad's scream as he came to the realization of what happened to you. It didn't really hit me until I walked into the bathroom and saw you laying there peacefully, but lifelessly. Even then, how can you process something like that? I had seen you less than twelve hours before. You were walking around upstairs, taunting Gus through the baby gate, just like normal. How is it that you could now be dead? How does a cat go from completely normal to dead, just like that?

When you came into our lives less than two months ago, it was a hard day. It was the one-year anniversary of when we had last seen our Mr. Squiggles. I don't think you can ever know what your emergence into our lives that day did for us; you saved us. What was going to be an awful day turned into a day filled with love. We were so focused on saving you and enveloping you into our family that we hardly had time to focus on our pain. You were so skinny and sick-looking, covered in mats and missing hair. You needed us, but we needed you too.

The instant we decided to bring you home, you were a part of our family, our son. You were so loving and grateful to be in a warm, safe place with all the food you could eat. I remember I would lay on the bed with you, and you would inspect my face up close, then rub your mouth against my cheeks: the wettest kitty kisses ever. It was kind of gross, but really, Dad and I loved it.

We loved that you would stick your paws under the door, waiting for Gus or Sam to see it, so you guys could taunt each other. We loved that anticipation on your face, like you couldn't wait to start your game. We loved walking into your room and seeing you sleeping on the comforter next to the window. Sometimes you wouldn't even run to greet us, because your sleeping spot was way cooler. We loved seeing you play with Juliet, your round ball toy/scratcher. I loved seeing you fall asleep draped across her. How silly.

We loved your long tail, which was the longest I've ever seen in a cat. We loved how in the early days before you were strong, that your tail would drag on the floor. We loved that you loved to eat, that you finally had access to enough food. We loved the high-pitched trill you had for a meow, unlike any other meow we've ever heard! It was the strangest sound, and it made us laugh every time. We loved that you hated crocheted afghans and wouldn't lay on them, and would even go out of your way not to walk on them either. We loved that you slept on the back of the chair next to the door, waiting for it to open and perhaps allow the entrance of one of the cats you were so obsessed with.

I'm sorry that you had diarrhea. We gave you slippery elm, hoping that it would get better for you. Some days it did, some days it didn't. I'm sorry your liver was sick too. I hope there wasn't anything else we could have done to make it better; you took your medicine like such a good boy though. I'm sorry we didn't get more pictures with you. I'm sorry you never got a chance to live downstairs with the rest of the family. I'm sorry you never got to go outside. I'm sorry you never met Indiana. I'm sorry we never took video of the adorable noises you made. I'm sorry I didn't spend more time with you. I'm sorry I never got a chance to truly know the real you. I thought there would be more time.

Your Dad and I did the best we could, but I hope you know that in our hearts, you were our son, and we will always love you. Some have suggested that you were sick before we got you, and that your short time with us was so you could end your life as part of a loving family. Perhaps you were meant to "usher" Mr. Squiggles back into our lives, and after he returned, your time here was done. All I know is that your time with us was too short. I have feared every moment for the last two days that I may have missed something that could have saved you. I pray that I didn't let you down somehow.

For one glorious month, our family was finally complete. It was so crazy with 5 cats and 2 dogs, but it felt whole. Now our family is incomplete again, and there is nothing we can do to change it. It feels empty upstairs without you, and I can still see you everywhere I look. We keep the door to the bathroom closed, because we can still see your dead body lying there too. 5 cats seemed so chaotic, but now 4 just seems like too few.

Dad and I are sorry that we sent you off for necropsy, but as your death was so sudden and unexpected, we needed to make sure your brothers couldn't have caught something from you. Please understand that we would never have done it just for our own gain. I know the animal hospice place will take good care of you, and hopefully you will be back home to us soon, where you belong.

We are so sad that we never got to celebrate Christmas with you, but we will still make you an ornament for the tree, just like everyone else. I don't know if I can bear to make a stocking for you though; would you forgive me for that? Dad and I also plan on making a nice memorial to you. We haven't decided on what yet, but we will make sure it suits you. We will cry for you, and we will miss you. You will always be a part of our family, and you will always, always be our son.

Gus is Hazardous To My Health, Part One

Sorry I've been absent so much lately. I know I usually neglect my blog, but this time I have a great excuse: surgery!



Last month, I got bitten on my right middle finger by Gus. It wasn't really his fault. He had met Grover for the first time and was scared and stressed out. I tried to pick him up to comfort him, which was a HUGE mistake. He nommed on my finger, hard. I remember thinking, "Wow, I wonder if he hit bone? That hurts!"



Anyway, I'm not one to go to the doctor unless I absolutely have to. I figured I could tough this thing out. But, the thing was, in a few days I was driving to Iowa to sing in one of my best friend's wedding. After hearing horror stories about cat bites (everyone seems to have one), I actually called my doctor, whose nurse practitioner called in an order for the antibiotic Augmentin. I didn't want to be waking up in a hotel in Iowa with a raging fever. I'd have been totally screwed. S0 I was really proud of myself for taking the very adult step of asking for antibiotics. Heh.



Well, that finger hurt like h-e-double-hockey-sticks for a good week. After that, it finally healed up but was still red and swollen. I said to myself, "Aw, it's just a soft tissue injury; those take some time to heal. It's totally fine."



Let's fast forward a month post-injury. Said finger just looks kind of gross, with a big red bump on it. (Like alien babies are going to pop out at any time. Seriously, it looked weird.) My friend Amanda, who is a vet tech, looked at it and said, "Jen, that doesn't look right. You seriously need to go to the doctor." I said, "Nah, it's totally fine, it's just still healing." Amanda: "No, really, I think it's infected." Me: "...really? Crap. Ok, I'll call Monday."



So Monday morning, I did what any responsible adult would do, and called my doctor one month too late. I got in right away with the nurse practitioner, and I left for my 10:30 am appointment expecting an unpleasant lancing session on the abscess followed by a round of oral antibiotics. Oh, sweet, naive Jenny. (Pats self on head.)



The nurse practitioner, Liz, got me set up for a lancing, but opted for my doctor, Dr. Moss, to perform the actual procedure. It really should have been my first clue when both doctors looked at it and gave me their concerned doctor face. But it was still totally fine, really.



The lancing didn't hurt at all, just the stupid numbing injections beforehand. What up with that? I wanted to watch Dr. Moss cut into the abscess to see all of the cool pus come out, but only blood came out. Hmmm... Dr. Moss already had said he was sending me to an orthopedic doctor, so I knew this might be worse than I thought. I was told I had an appointment at 1:15. That day. Ugh.

All of the orthopedists in our area belong to one big conglomerate called OAK, in a massive building in Bradley. It's practically it's own hospital. And super intimidating. I waited for about forever and finally met the surgeon, Dr. Jones, who I swear doesn't like me. He had on his grave face, told me how serious cat bites are, that I should have gone to the hospital right away, shouldn't have waited a month, and shouldn't keep the cat. (Grrrr....) So, after about a one-minute examination of the finger, I was off for an x-ray. Then a wait for an MRI. In the meantime, Dr. Jones tells me the only option is surgery, two days from then. What??? Like, surgery surgery? Yep. Are you stupid? (I already know you are.) Didn't you pay attention when I said surgery? (This is me imagining what my doctor was saying/really thinking.)

So, after the boring and very not scary MRI, I was done for the day, but had to return in the morning for MRI results and pre-op instructions. At that time, I was told again how stupid I am, and that my stupidity had led to a bone infection, which would require them to bring in an infectious disease doctor. And would require six weeks of IV antibiotics. The surgery itself, though really quick, would require scraping the bone, which would in turn require general anesthesia. Like, general general anesthesia? For real? Yes, general anesthesia. You really don't want to be awake for this (And are you stupid? I SAID, general anesthesia!).

But what about my precious vocal cords? General anesthesia generally requires intubation, or more simply put, a plastic tube shoved down your esophagus...past your vocal cords. To Dr. Jones' great credit, he took my concern seriously (after all, I sort of attempt to make a living with those things), and agreed to avoid intubation if possible.

So I left the appointment in mostly a state of shock, because all of this was progressing so fast. Soon came a call from the hospital to pre-register me, and then I found out I had to go to the hospital for pre-admittance testing. That was no biggie, since I'm not afraid of needles and donate blood on a (fairly) regular basis. So then I'm less than 24 hours from my 10:30 am surgery--my first ever--and I am starting to FREAK OUT. Anyone who really knows me knows I am not a calm person. If I can worry about it, I will. So I went home to await my doom.

Coming next: the surgery and the aftermath. With pictures, if you'd like.

P.S. Please forgive any typos. I only have 8 fingers and giant club to work with.