Dolly (1988 - 2008)

Yesterday, a tiny but wonderfully spunky spirit passed from our lives. Dolly, our dear little spitfire of a cat, has died despite our thinking she’d be with us forever. Dolly suffered from renal failure; a common ailment of elderly cats according to the vet. Also, given her age - 20 human years - she was, plain and simply, old. Old and worn out.

She signaled her resignation from life by refusing food and water. Even cheese, her favourite. We knew it was bad when she passed on the cheese, although trooper that she is, she did make a valiant effort to taste the itsiest bitsiest piece. In retrospect, it wasn’t so much refusal as simply her not being able.

We knew it was bad when she stopped talking to us for she was a very verbose cat. Her conversation usually took the form of orders. As in “Get out of my shower!” She believed she owned the shower and my husband’s or my presence there was barely tolerated. You had to be careful stepping out for the Shower Nazi would be sitting directly at the door giving you her sternest glare. Or “Get to bed!” when I stayed up too late, the vocalization undeniably an order while she’d sit in the hallway glaring at me like an irritable old grandmother. Honestly - it was unnerving. Or her relentless “Get out of bed” at 5:29 am every morning. 5:30 am is hubby’s usual wake-up time but she’d always manage to beat the alarm by a minute which, during the week, was OK but not very welcome on weekends. Ignoring her meant a parade of paws up and down your body on the most vulnerable spots (still a welcome change from pushing things off the dresser or side tables).

We knew it was bad as she got thinner and thinner over the past year despite our best efforts to engage her appetite: freshly cooked chicken, various types of fish, special cat food. All to little avail. Her digestive system was failing and the gurgles embarrassingly loud – she’d simply ignore them. At her last vet visit, she weighed only 5 pounds and I hesitate to estimate what that delicate little skeleton enrobed in silky-soft fur weighed.

We knew it was bad when she stopped grooming herself. No doubt she knew her coat was in disarray; still, she showed her appreciation and love of being groomed and stroked with her favourite brush every day by constant circling back to ensure a good chin rub and then follow through from head to tail-tip. Until her legs could no longer hold her steady.

She stopped playing around. In July, we played our last game of Catch My Tail where she’d sit still with her back to you and allow you to pet her tail before whipping it away only to waft it gently over your hand again and again, temptingly. She had incredible control of that tail. Nor had we played Who’s Under the Door in quite a while…she loved to chase your hand or whatever was at hand from the opposite side of a shut door. Suffice to say, there was just enough leeway for her polydactyled paw to tap blindly at whatever caught her imagination, and she was faster than lightening! Thursday, in her guise as "littlest pony," I saw her take one last mad dash up and down the hallway. Maybe trying to outrun how she was feeling.

On Friday, her decline was bad, Saturday was worse and Sunday was unbearable.

I had a bad moment at 2:30 am one night when I saw a green light emanating from the bathroom. Half asleep I wondered when spirits move on, could they generate light? Had Dolly just died? I must have dreamed it. But no, there it was again, a very faint green glow. Knowing we have no night-lights in that room, I nudge hubby. “My shaver’s recharging,” the sleepy reply. Ahhhh.

We debated our responsibility. Was it better to allow her to pass away on her own or God’s timetable or to euthanize her? Neither felt right.

We knew it was bad when we didn’t recognize her voice, a few weak croaks of dissent as I picked her up, then acquiescence and total silence as we drove down the road to the vet’s. As there’d been a last minute emergency, we had privacy and extra time to say our goodbyes, to touch and love Dolly a little longer, and to thank her for being such a joy in our lives.

The vet and her assistant were wonderfully supportive, explaining what would happen, what to expect. A general anesthetic “to take the edge off,” a quick but gentle shaving of her forearm, then the vet expertly finding a vein, despite Dolly’s dehydration, to administer the heart-stopper. It was over. Her spirit and life gone in an instant.

We grieve her passing. We’re grateful for this last summer and the pleasure it brought her. We’ll miss her beauty, her other-worldly emerald eyes, her attitude and her presence, and the loss of her cheerful chirrups welcoming us home. We'll miss her touch, that gentle tap-tap on face, hand or knee to signal her need of attention, and her barely discernible purr. We feel her lack in all rooms of our house. Memories are strong and tears assail us when we least expect it. Dolly was very special, being intelligent and loaded with personality and chutzpa. She didn’t seem to know she was just a little cat. Feisty as hell, she took on those bigger and better, be it cats, dogs or people and she usually won. Just being herself, she touched our lives and those of our relatives and friends.

We pray she’s frolicking and enjoying all the mint in the Big Catnip Patch in the Great Beyond. Goodbye, sweet Smidge.

Back to her old self!

A few days ago, I wrote I thought our dear old Dolly was dying...and she was. A five pound cat can't afford to lose too many pounds! We took her off the antibiotic even though we didn't see the prescription through as prescribed. What good is healing when it kills?

I decided to discontinue her meds and immediately Dolly's appetite woke up. She's eating regularly now, no more blood in her urine and she's filling out nicely. The second bottle of meds sits coldly in the fridge; there, if we need it but I pray we won't.

No longer is she isolating herself on her favourite mat in the bathroom. No longer is she avoiding us (the bearers and imposers of bad medicine!). She's back to her chatty self, caterwauling to wake us up at 5:14 am, sitting in my lap, pushing our buttons to open the door - any door - so long as it leads to the out of doors. Her eyes are shiney as is her coat. Best of all, her appetite has returned. Dolly is back!

Sick old girl

Dolly's been listless, not herself. I notice a minute spec of blood on the floor. In her litterbox, more. The vet is kind but says old girls of 20 like our Dolly quite often suffer from renal failure. The tissues gets thin. They're more susceptible to problems. She tells me Dolly's lost 1.5lbs since her last visit. I don't need to be told. You can easily see how thin she is, feel how thin she is. Doc prescribes an antibiotic: "If it gets better, come back for another prescription."

We give it a go. It's Hell. Dolly's feels attacked as we corner her, cries weakly as we gently pry open her mouth and drop in the meds. We notice it reduces her appetite. We notice it illiminates her appetite. We notice it makes her withdraw from us. No petting. No lapsitting. Not even the too early wake-up calls. When I hold her, it's like holding a skeleton wrapped in fur. We watch her fade away in front of our eyes. She is dying.

Soon the bottle is empty. We pick up another prescription but decide to give her a day or two off. Almost immediately, Dolly's appetite is back and with a vengeance. No more blood in her urine. Things are improving. But the new bottle is yet to be administered.

Never Say Die, Dolly

Ok...this is the real reason why my Mistress has sooo much trouble blogging!

If I really beg, she sometimes stops typing to give me a chin rub...

Yeah, that's it...yeah, right there....lower, over, over....ahhhhhh. Oops, drooling a little, heh, heh...feels so good!

Thanks! I needed that!

Spring is definitely here!

Spring announces itself in so many ways. The birds at the feeders are usually chickadees, bluejays and the ubiquitous woodpecker swaying on the suet feeder. Suddenly, hordes of grackles appear. Robins flit about as do some other as yet unidentifiables. Crows are seen flying overhead, even seagulls. Then we see the Canada geese on the fly yet again even though the fields are full of snow and the ice is still on the water, be it river or lake.

Dolly-cat, as I've said, is struggling mightily with her "spring fever" - sudden spurts of energy drive her pounding, bounding down our long hallway (she sounds like a mini-pony race); she swerves and verves along the edge of the patio door, the verticals flying out of her way! Incredible action and speed for a geriatric cat! It's really a miracle. If you could see her getting off her chair every day in slow motion, you'd think she was half-way dead. But no, there's lots of spice in the old girl yet!

I leave the patio door open for her; it's so sunny and warm. Where can she go? And as we all know: rules are rules and no one is supposed to leave their cat on the loose! Heaven forbid!

The stone deck is still surrounded by snow as is the hot tub. But she finds a way, making herself thin and crying a little in complaint as she brushes in between the squeeze-space twixt snow bank and hot tub. Where in the world is she going? I drop down to see...the snow has melted a foot of yellowed grass along the south side of the house and she's headed for her favourite spot: the cat nip plant.

She pauses along the way, to look or maybe sniff at the purple crocuses which are already in bloom. But alas, the cat nip is barely breaking through the ground. She sniffs the budding plant longingly, then returns - reluctantly - at my call. Yes, spring is definitely here.

Wuss of a puss

Spring did arrive on time, March 21. How do I know for sure? Easy: Dolly, our cat, started that very day, caterwauling to be let out. Somehow, exactly on cue, Dolly intuited or her wild cat instincts kicked in: she knew it was Spring, and she knew she’s gotta get out!!! If she were wild, she’d be gonzo!

But she’s not wild; she’s domesticated, poor little girl. And even when we open the door, she sniffs disdainfully as if to say “I only wanted to check the weather, silly. It’s still far too cold!” and turns her back on the sunshine. She knows she can soak up all the rays she needs in a sunbeamed hot spot in the bedroom without the frigid air. Her actual exit will have to await a far warmer day. Yes, she’s a wuss of a puss!

The Littlest Bed-maker

Dolly, the cat, used to be wonderful bed maker. Ok, not exactly a bed maker but a bed-maker’s helper. As soon as the sheets were being pulled, it was part of her routine to jump right in there, try to stay on the bed despite the sheets disappearing and to supervise the arrangement of the incoming sheets. This meant occupying the very centre of the bed in a proud lionesque pose as if to say “This is my turf – I ain’t moving!”

Of course, we would put on the sheets, corners and all and a very visible bump in the middle would start to cry pitifully. “Let me out; I can’t get out!” We’d pull the sheet up high enough for the “bump” to escape. And it would start again. She’d stake out the centre of the bed, while the top sheet was shaken out and allowed to fall around her like a collapsing parachute. We’d tuck it in, only to have the pitiful occupant sealed underneath plead again for help to escape. If you tried to push her off the bed prior to being sealed in, it was just no go. She was the mid-bed owner and that was that!

On it would go, with the layering of the duvet and coverlet. We couldn’t help but laugh at her and ourselves for indulging her. This was the routine for years. But over time, like any of us who gradually lose interest in a past-time that used to spellbind us, Dolly lost interest in helping to make the bed. We miss her “help”.

The Mime

Toonsis was a cat, made famous years ago on TV’s Saturday Night Live, who was often seen at the wheel of a car. Dolly did her Toonsis imitations from time to time from our kitchen window where she would sit and mime her complaints to the hot tub occupants -- her Mistress and Master -- in the backyard below the window. “I want out,” she would mime her mouth opening, closing. “I want out!” she would mime, “It’s time to walk the fence. It’s sundown.”

She’d fix us bathers with that emerald-green glare while miming, her mouth opening and closing meaningfully. We hot-tubbers would put other words in her mouth, laughing at the comedic comments being attributed to her but finally I would cave in and let her out for her nightly acrobatics. I always wondered how quickly could I react were an owl to appear out of the dark sky with talons at the ready? I’d already lost one of my beloved cats this way and was determined not to lose another. Dolly often sat on her Wooden Fence to enjoy watching the Sun melt down on the horizon, her ears alert, her small contained self a black shadow feline outlined against the magenta or crimson or golden molten sky – a fiery cat.

The Littlest Pony's Path

At that time, Dolly had two mistresses, Daughter (mistress junior) and Mistress (senior). Dad, soon to be known as “the Master”, tended to ignore Dolly and she him at this time of their life except at Cheese-Cuttings. But that’s a story for another time.

Daughter announced she was moving out and taking Dolly with her. But how could that be? Dolly had a fenced-in yard, a fence she acrobatically strolled very night on the look out for Cat Ballou or the Great Owl who lived in the Boreal Forest near the Ottawa River north of the house or the Raccoons scrimmaging in the Neighbour’s Backyard. She had the Swaying Grass of the Unmowed Hillside to hunt Moles and Mice or Figments of her Imagination. She had the hot-tub edge to mince around like a Tightrope Walker. She had the Stars and the Moon most nights, and the Aurora Borealis on many special nights. She had Plants to sniff and Flowers to gaze at, a warm deck to sunbathe on. How could she leave that behind?

Mistress convinced Daughter an apartment was not the place for Dolly. It would be too small. After all, the Littlest Pony, as she was also known, made regular crazed runs from the top floor of the house downstairs to the main level, careened around the corner into the kitchen, cheetahed across the dining room, slewed down the hall; flew frantically down the basement stairs, rounded the rec room recklessly and ended with a flourish of a finish in the laundry room only to retrace her steps and race back up to the third floor. Sometimes Mistress deigned to chase her. Where would Dolly run in an apartment? Reluctantly, Daughter saw there was no wisdom in keeping her and thus Dolly (gratefully) was left behind, Daughter knowing she could always visit this strange little vixen she’d brought into her parent’s lives and home and hearts.

You're Not My Type

Cat Ballou, the neighbouring Romeo, was known to swoon about outside the kitchen’s patio door, flop his huge fawn and furry self upon his back, expose his very large, very fluffy belly and reach ardent topaz eyes and white-tipped paws towards the disdainful Dolly who sat watching from the other side of the window. Talk about a strange courtship! Cat Ballou was Pépé LePieu epitomized except he was all male cat, not skunk. “My dahling, won’t you come out...to play?” his eyes would emote, no doubt purring enticingly.

Now and then Dolly would deign to acknowledge him by spitting at the window while emitting a hair-raising scream which would bring the entire household running, fearing the worst. Naturally, the more often heard, the sooner ignored. This had absolutely no effect on Cat Ballou whose ever hopeful romantic efforts continued unsuccessfully -- despite the screaming and spitting -- until Dolly moved away.

Should I Stay or Should I Go?

Venturing Forth was always fraught with many variables for Dolly: the cold or lack thereof, the wind and strength thereof, the presence or absence of rain or Cat Ballou, the local Romeo who was very much enamoured of Dolly despite her obvious vehement and vocal disdain for him. But more about Cat Ballou later.

Winter was a particular trial for both Mistress and Dolly for the latter could never make up her mind in less than 5 minutes whether to stay or to go. For Mistress, this meant standing with the door open a five inch crack whilst rain, wind, snow, hail assailed the door! For Dolly, this meant sniffing the wind, checking for danger, cringing at incoming snow or hail but taking an awful long time to do all this.

Of course, Mistress usually made Dolly’s mind up for her by abruptly closing the door on that tiny rose-pink nose – the only part of her which could determine if the conditions were ideal. At that, Dolly could get quite huffy and indignant – Well! You could’ve waited! her body-language would say. On occasion when Mistress was her less-than-patient self, her Foot saw fit to unceremoniously push Dolly out the door despite the weather and Her Protests. “Fresh air is good for everyone,” was Mistress’s opinion.

What's in a Name?

Megan had a problem. As a child might suck a thumb to feel secure, to feel safe Megan too liked to suck and made do with the next best thing to a thumb. While relaxing under the warm strokes of her Mistress’s hand, she would slowly swing her tail around, pull it in towards her whiskers with her strange, mittened paws and begin to suckle the tip… never quietly – oh no…slurping like a pig at the trough. Most unladylike.

Of course, following all that loving and tail-sucking, very self-satisfied, she would elegantly stroll about the house, tail wafting gently aloft, its erect elegance marred only by the evident pinched, wet tip which looked more like the working end of a just-dunked water-colour brush. We, Her People couldn’t help but giggle behind her back. Like anyone with a bad habit who can’t quit despite maturing, Megan never managed to kick the tail-sucking habit. And so, she gradually became better known as Baby, given her baby-like penchant for sucking her tail much like a baby sucks its thumb.

Baby was a fine name amongst family but visits to the Vet were a Problem. Mistress couldn’t bring herself to admit this squirrelly, squawky marmalade tabby struggling to be free of her arms was her “baby”. And so, for reference in public, she became Dolly. Dolly, Baby, it was all the same to her. Call her and she’d come running, as responsive to either name as Mistress could wish. And a better companion, Mistress couldn’t ask for. Whether gardening, laundering, cleaning or computing, Dolly was Mistress’s inseparable companion, observing, attending, participating, discussing. Particularly if it was reading the paper, all three stretched out on the living room rug in the morning sun. Nothing was better than discerning exactly which article Mistress would read next then to lie completely across it. Very satisfying. Then discussing with Mistress why Mistress thought she should move and why she very often just wouldn’t.

Discussions, you say? Well yes. Everything had to be discussed for, despite their lack of common tongue, Mistress and Dolly talked about everything and anything: where to put the groceries, whether or not Dolly liked the latest food offered, what Mistress was writing on the computer, and why Dolly shouldn’t sleep on the keyboard, and more often, whether the weather was temperate enough for Dolly to Venture Forth.

In the Beginning

She came into our lives unannounced: a red-headed spitfire, a little wild thing as barnyard cats tend to be. Maybe she had to be meaner or crazier to survive her humble beginnings because she was so much tinier than the average cat. Reputedly, red-heads are hot-tempered and independent, and so she was in all her glorious marmalade fur. She had extra toes making her paws looks like big-thumbed mittens, despite their dainty pink-skinned under pads. A pink rosebud nose was framed by a white fur moustache accentuated east and west with delicate but long white whiskers. All this was topped with large, expressive, all-knowing, emerald green eyes, and perky ears sloughed with white fur.

It was Daughter who brought her home, introducing her to Dad and me as "Megan". Megan didn’t take kindly to being held or petted but would squawk loudly, complainingly, anytime someone presumed they could pick up this small wee thing for a cuddle. Okay. Squawk isn’t quite the right word. It was more of a blood curdling scream. A cuddler she most definitely was not, and she let you know it.

I (unknowingly to one day become Megan’s “Mistress”) persevered, insisting on holding Megan just a wee bit every day despite the loud complaints and tiny paws pushing stubbornly against my chest. Megan slowly began to enjoy this attention but only on her terms and only for so long. Petting too she learned to tolerate; eventually even seeking it out. Perhaps it was the joy of a full body massage or perhaps she’d simply been taken from her mother too soon. Whatever the reason, she soon earned a new name. But that's another story. And so begins the Saga of Mistress, Mister and "Megan".