Cody’s blog

Miss Jerry, April 15, 2006 – March 6, 2018

Jerry came to live with me in September, 2006, when she was just shy of five months old. She was one of the many kittens born on my brother’s ranch to their various barn cats. My first post about her was New Kitty!, on September 4. At that time, we still thought she was a boy (hence the name Jerry).

At first, she stayed outside on the porch in a kitten cage, and brought her in the house a few hours at a time to gradually introduce her to the other cats. The plan was for her to be a companion for my tuxedo kitty, Socks, who was living in the back bedroom by herself to keep her from being terrorized by the big orange bully, Spot.

Jerry was a happy, friendly little kitten who would purr if you so much as looked at her. She wanted to be friends with everyone. She proved to be an excellent hunter, as well. Several times I went out onto the porch in the morning and found a dead mouse in her cage — they would come in to try to get her food, and she would kill them. Her cage was only maybe 2 x 3 feet, but in that small space she was able to catch mice.

She was a scrappy-looking little thing at first, her fur being mostly undercoat with sparse longer hairs sticking out. (My mom, who was also thinking of getting a kitten at the time, rejected Jerry, saying she didn’t want that funny-looking cat. So I took her, and mom ended up taking a two-month-old kitten, which was way more than my then-86-year-old mother could handle, and she soon returned the kitten to the ranch.)

But Jerry had the most gorgeous deep orange-amber eyes, which eventually faded to pale gold.

That October, I went on a two-week vacation, while mom stayed with the cats. When I came home, Jerry’s long hair had come in, and she looked like a completely different cat! By this time, I had also pretty much figured out that she was female, since she was old enough to have developed boy parts if she was going to. I liked to joke that when I left on vacation, I had a fuzzy little short-haired boy cat, and came home to a fluffy long-haired girl kitty!

She had a funny way of walking, with her hind legs splayed. She rarely ran anywhere, preferring a sort of determined, quick stride, head down, looking straight ahead. She could jump when she wanted to, and liked to climb to the top of the cat tree, but she wasn’t particularly graceful at it.

Jerry was a sweet kitty, but frankly, not very bright. She’d get confused easily and always had a sort of vacant look on her face. I remember going out to my brother’s ranch one time, looking out the window to the side yard, and seeing a long-haired black cat with splayed hind legs, and saying, hey, that cat looks just like Jerry. He must be her father. (We knew who her mother was, of course, but the father could have been any of the various toms at the ranch.) My brother said that was Ren, one of two black cats who’d formerly lived down at the pump house. Ren was the stupidest cat ever, my brother said. Not a brain in his head. Seems she took after her father, in intelligence as well as in looks.

When my house burned down in 2011, we temporarily went next door to live with my mom. Mom’s little one-bedroom mobile home didn’t have anywhere for the kitties to have their own room, so I screened in the small back porch for Jerry and Socks, while Spot stayed in the house with me. I put in a six-foot cat tree, so they had some vertical space, and a chair so I could sit and visit with them daily, along with their food & water and litter boxes. It was a bit cramped, but it was the best I could do for them in the months while I got my new house built. When the weather turned cold, I put plywood over the screens to close it in, and draped fleece blankets over the chair and cat tree to make little tents for them.

I made sure the new house had a room for the girls. Jerry and Socks settled in quickly and life went on as before, for a while.

It was around this time that Jerry started to develop problems with constipation. At first, it was just a matter of taking her to the vet to get unblocked every once in a while, and making sure she had plenty of wet food with some occasional pumpkin. Eventually, her condition progressed to megacolon, and she needed daily medication.

She seemed like a big lump with a fat belly, but she wasn’t really fat, she was just full of poop. Her colon had lost its elasticity and it was hard for her to move her bowels. But she was pretty healthy otherwise, and it didn’t seem to bother her too much. Fortunately, she was pretty easy to give liquid meds to. She didn’t like being restrained, but if you were patient and put the syringe up to the corner of her mouth, she’d just open her mouth and let you squirt it in.

In July 2013, my heart kitty, Spot, died. Without the big orange bully claiming the rest of the house, there was no reason to keep the girls confined to one room, so I opened their door and let them out. It took a while, but soon they were hanging out on the couch and enjoying the freedom of the house.

Miss Jerry even became something of a lap kitty, although she was so heavy I’d have to boost her off after while so my legs wouldn’t go numb.

This video perfectly exemplifies Jerry’s relationship with Socks. She walks up to her, they sniff noses, Jerry turns to walk away, and Socks swats her as she leaves, just to show her who’s boss.

Socks had her own health issues, and she passed in November, 2015. For a few months, Jerry had the house to herself. But she seemed lonely, and didn’t know what to do with herself. She’d follow me around the house, crying tiny little squeaky mews if I wasn’t in the same room with her, and she wanted to sit in my lap all the time. I thought she missed Socks, and since she’d always wanted to be friends with her, I thought she might like a new friend.

In January, 2016, I got Davey, hoping he and Jerry would be friends. She tolerated him a bit at first, but he was way too rambunctious for her, and pestered her until she retreated to my bedroom and wouldn’t come out. A few months later, I got another orange kitty, Simba, hoping an older kitty would take some of the pressure off her. Simba and Davey soon got to be good friends, but poor old Jerry didn’t want anything to do with either of them. She took up residence in my bedroom and refused to come out unless the boys were in their rooms.

Once or twice, the boys joined her on the bed and they shared the space for a brief time, but pretty soon, Jerry would get tired of having them there and go hide in the bathroom. They never really fought, but she would hiss and growl at them if they came too close, so I kept her door closed most of the time. She didn’t seem to mind it. I suppose she was used to living in one room, which she had done for most of her life. And she got to spend the nights with me. She wasn’t much of a cuddler, but she’d often lie on my lap while I read for a while before going to sleep, and then when I turned the light out, she’d go sleep at the foot of the bed, or on the stool next to the bed. She’d sleep under the covers during the day if it was cold, or snuggle amongst the pillows.

She liked to play, but she didn’t want to get up to play. She’d lie on her back and wave her paws in the air at strings on a stick. Her favorite toy was my hand. She’d swat and bite at it, but never hard enough to leave a mark.

Last summer, her megacolon got to the point where the meds weren’t controlling it any more, and she needed surgery to remove most of her colon. It was major surgery, and she had a rough time when she first got home, but once she recovered, she was much better.

Amazingly, she went from 12 pounds before the surgery to 10 pounds after. She had two full pounds of colon and poo removed from her little body! It was strange to see her without that fat belly she’d always had. Poor kitty, dragging that weight around! She became more playful and active and was doing really well.

Her end was sudden and unexpected. One morning, she got up in distress, stumbled around crying for a minute or two, then crawled into my bed and died. It was all over in just a few minutes. I suspect it was a heart attack, but I’ll never really know. She only survived another eight months after her surgery, but I’m glad she was able to live her final months healthy and happy, and didn’t suffer long at the end. Rest in peace, my darling girl. I’ll miss you always.

She came to live with me in the summer of 2003 with her brother Felix when they were around four months old. They were from a litter of barn cats at my brother’s ranch.

While Felix was a friendly little goof, Socks was always stand-offish and a bit high-strung. I would pet her a little bit every day, but she didn’t really care if she got petted or not. Meanwhile, Felix would be crawling all over me, rubbing and snuggling.

Things changed when one day a young bobcat came up onto my porch and attacked Socks. Through the glass in the porch door, I saw a blur of tan fur chasing her, and heard the thump of them hitting the porch wall. I jumped up and opened the porch door, to see Socks crammed into the corner of the porch, held down by one of the bobcat’s huge paws. They both looked up at me. I didn’t want to threaten the bobcat into attacking me, but I had to make it let go of my kitty, so I reached down and tapped it lightly on the side. That startled it into letting go of Socks. She dashed into the house, and the bobcat jumped off the porch and stood there watching me. I didn’t want it hanging around to possibly attack my kitties again, so I ran outside yelling and waving my arms, and it trotted off around the house. I chased it twice around the house, until it finally took off down the road.

I found Socks hiding in the kitchen under the cabinets. I let her stay there until she felt like coming out the next day. The whole side of her face was swollen where the bobcat had whacked her head, and her eye got infected from a small puncture wound near her eye, but she recovered completely after that. She also decided at that point that I was okay, and we became friends.

She also started spending most of her time indoors after that.

By her lights, the entire house should have been hers, but my older cat, Spot, didn’t agree. He never liked the kittens and would have liked to chase them away, but as long as Felix was around to act as a buffer between Spot and Socks, there was an uneasy truce among them.

Sadly, I lost Felix when he was about a year and four months old. Socks really missed her brother, but even worse, without Felix around, Spot started to harass Socks terribly. I started keeping her inside all the time so Spot couldn’t chase her away, and I was constantly breaking up fur-tearing fights, and poor Socks was so stressed, she was peeing and pooping everywhere. Finally, one day, I shut Socks in my spare bedroom with a litter box and food and water, just to get a little peace and quiet. I figured she’d be crying to be let out soon enough and I’d open the door then, but she never did. In fact, she seemed much happier to have a space of her own without that big old bully always after her. So from then on, she had her own room.

She had a kitty bed on top of the filing cabinets, with a window to look out of, and everything seemed fine.

I visited her every day, but I did worry a bit about her being alone most of the time. I remembered how much she loved her brother, and thought she might like a friend, so in 2006, I got another cat from my brother’s ranch, Jerry. Unfortunately, it turned out Socks didn’t want another friend. She didn’t want anything to do with Jerry. Thankfully, they didn’t fight, but they never got to be close, either.

When my house burned down in 2011, I made sure my new house had a spare bedroom for the girls to live in.

Just as in their old house, they had kitty beds and a cat tree and a window to look out of.

Two years ago, I lost my heart kitty, Spot. I still miss my big orange buddy, but with him gone, there was no reason to keep the girls shut in their room any longer, so I opened the door and let them come out into the rest of the house. After a couple of days of wondering what all this new space was about, Socks decided she was queen of the house, and claimed it as her own.

As she got older, Socks started having some difficult health problems. She developed stomatitis and had to have her teeth pulled, and she was put on prednisolone. She absolutely hated taking medicine, and wasn’t eating reliably enough to put meds in her food, but fortunately we were able to get the pred in a transdermal gel I could rub on her ear flap, and she grew to tolerate that.

Later, she developed hypercalcemia, which is often a symptom of lymphoma. Many tests, including a biopsy, couldn’t find any sign of lymphoma, so we just treated her high calcium with weekly Fosamax pills. She didn’t like that at all, either, but at least it was only once a week! And for a while, it controlled her hypercalcemia, and she was doing pretty well.

Then, earlier this summer, she started throwing up a lot and losing weight. Again, the vet couldn’t find anything wrong in exams and blood tests, so he thought it was just a side effect of the meds she was on, and put her on an anti-nausea med. That was a liquid she had to take every day. She really hated that, and it became a bit of a daily battle to get it into her, but it did stop the vomiting and she started doing better again. Fortunately, she didn’t hold a grudge, and five minutes after the hated syringe of medicine, she’d be in my lap purring up a storm.

This past weekend, she suddenly stopped eating, and spent all day Saturday hiding in the cat tree. I thought if she wasn’t better the next day, I’d take her to the vet on Monday. On Sunday, she sat in my lap for a little while, but didn’t purr and didn’t seem like she could get comfortable. When she jumped down, she suddenly started howling in pain. I decided I’d better not wait, so I bundled her up and drove her to the emergency vet 50 miles away.

Turned out she had a huge tumor in her abdomen, and was severely anemic, probably due to internal bleeding from the tumor. It seems likely now that she did have lymphoma all along, but it hid from detection until it was too late. Treatment would have required surgery, which she might not have survived because she was so sick, and which wouldn’t have had a high chance of success anyway. So I decided to let her go.

I used to call her my fussy little diva. She wanted everything just so, and she would let you know if things weren’t to her liking. If she didn’t think she was getting enough attention, she was inclined to stop eating. The food she liked one day she refused to touch the next day. When she sat in my lap, I was required to stop whatever else I was doing and stay still and pet her—just enough, but not too much—or she’d jump off and run away. She terrorized the pet sitter and hid from guests. She’d prowl the house at night, knocking things off counters, and playing loudly with her toys at 5 AM. Sometimes she drove me crazy, but I loved her dearly.

She liked to sit at the door and smell the fresh air.

She had little black speckles on her little white feets.

She had a white girdle on her tummy.

Being a mostly-black kitty, it was hard enough to get a good picture of her, but she also hated having her picture taken and would run away whenever I pointed a camera at her. But I did manage to get a few good shots of her over the years.

This is the last picture I took of her at home, sitting on top of the firewood in a sunbeam.

We had twelve years together, but it’s never enough. I will miss my little fussbudget terribly.

[Originally posted on Livejournal and Dreamwidth 8/30/2013]

Today is 49 days since my kitty Spot died. There is a Buddhist belief that after someone dies, they will spend up to 49 days in a transition state called “bardo” before moving on to the next life. So relatives and friends of the dead will continue to pray and make offerings for them for 49 days, to try to help them achieve an auspicious rebirth.

I wanted to post a memorial to Spot right away, but it was too hard to look at pictures of him and think about him. I thought maybe after one month I would post, but after a month I still couldn’t do it. So then I thought I would post after 49 days. I don’t know if the 49 day bardo applies to animals, too, but if it does, then today Spot is off to a new life. I hope it is a good one for him, and that his suffering is less than it was in his past life.

I first met Spot in November 2002, while I was in the process of buying my new home in Tehachapi. The first mention of him in my journal was the November 9, 2002 entry titled Generators, cats, novels:

And, I appear to have a cat. Several other people had spotted it before I finally met it on Thursday. A nice big orange tabby. He was a bit skittish, but quite friendly once he finally decided to come out and say hi. Apparently he’s been living under the house. There was some cat food left there, and I put some out for him, and my brother said he would stop by every couple of days to put out some more, so I’m hoping he’ll be okay until I can move down for good.

First picture I posted of him was March 19, 2003, soon after I moved into my new place for good, in the entry The Cat Came Back:

(I remember trying to take that picture: Spot kept trying to climb my leg, he was so eager to be petted and loved, I couldn’t get him to stay on the ground to be photographed. Poor guy had been mostly on his own all winter. I’d been driving down for the weekend every other week or so, and putting out food for him when I was here, but otherwise he had to feed himself with whatever mice and squirrels and such he could find.)

I hoped he’d stick around until I could get down here for good, but as the time dragged on and there were a couple of long stretches when I couldn’t make it down for a visit, I wondered if he’d go find someplace else to live. I didn’t spot him at all the last time I was here, and this time a week went by and there was no sign of him.

Then yesterday, I was sitting on the couch near the doors that lead out to the deck, and I thought I heard a meow. And there he was, complaining loudly and demanding food and skritches. “I’m glad you’re here!” I said. “Now you can catch that mouse that’s been running around.”

“Well, he’s in there and I’m out here,” he replied pointedly. “Give me some food and pet me and we’ll see what can be done about it.”

So I did, and thanked me by twining himself around my legs so furiously every time I went outside that eventually I tripped over him in the dark as I was coming back from the shed, and we both went sprawling, and I saw no more of him that night. But in the morning he’d forgiven me, or else he was hungry again, and he was back.

So it seems I have a cat. Or he has me. Since it looks like he’s here for good, I figured I’d better give him a name. I’m calling him Spot, after Data’s cat.

At first, he was an outdoor kitty. He’d been used to living outdoors, and I was still dealing with pretty bad cat allergies, so I didn’t think I could bring him inside. Of course, he had other plans — it was hot in the summer, and I’d leave the door open, and the screen door didn’t always latch, and he was perfectly capable of opening the screen door and strolling in. Usually, I’d pick him up and take him back outside. But he’d come right back in if he had the chance, acting like he owned the place.

I’d go outside and sit on the porch with him. I remember that summer, spending mornings on the porch with my coffee and Gameboy, playing Yu-Gi-Oh! games while Spot twined around me and purred. Such perfect, golden mornings! I hadn’t had a cat since high school, since I’d developed such horrible cat allergies I could barely be in the same room with one, and although I’ve always loved cats, I spent thirty years without one. Then I moved here, and there he was! The decision made for me: I had a cat.

In late June or so, I got a couple of kittens from my brother’s ranch: Miss Socks and her brother, Felix. Unfortunately, Spot did not want kittens in his space. After a couple of days, he took off and was gone for over a week. I was almost ready to give the kittens back, but finally, Spot came back! I was sooooo happy! I took him into the house and let him stay there after that. I left the back door propped open for the rest of the summer so Spot could come and go as he pleased. He mostly stayed indoors or behind the house, while the kitties stayed in the front, and an uneasy truce was maintained.

A year later, though, Felix went out hunting and never came back. After that, things deteriorated between him and Socks. I suppose he thought he’d finally gotten rid of one of those pesky kittens, so now he’d get rid of the other one! And Socks was always hostile towards Spot, too, unlike Felix, who loved everybody and everything and was on his way toward making Spot his friend. When I had the three kitties, Felix acted as a sort of buffer between Socks and Spot. Without him, Spot terrorized Socks until she was peeing everywhere, and I was breaking up fights several times a day. Finally, I put her in the back room — where I’d already set up food and water dishes and a litter box for her, so she could eat and pee in peace most of the time — and closed the door. I thought she’d be meowing to be let out after a while, but she never did. She seemed to enjoy having a room of her own, safe from that mean old orange kitty. So she lived in there, and Spot had the rest of the house to himself.

After a while, I thought Socks must be lonely living in a room by herself most of the time, so I got Jerry to keep Socks company. It turned out that Socks didn’t really want any company. She tolerated Jerry, but they never got to be friends.

Spot was a very affectionate kitty, once he got comfortable wtih me. He liked to sit on my lap for hours — and he’d get mad if I tried to pick him up and move him off me. He’d never really learned to get along with people as a kitten, and he could be rough sometimes. He’d take a swipe at me or even bite me if he didn’t want to be moved. I finally figured out that the only way to get up without having him swipe at me was to just stand up and dump him off my lap. Same if I wanted to sit down and he was in my spot — I couldn’t pick him up and move him, I’d just sit half on top of him and he’d jump up and run off.

But if I picked him up and held him, he’d snuggle against me and grip my shoulder with his paws and purr and let me walk around with him and even dance him around. He loved to be hugged and snuggled and petted. He’d come when I called, most of the time. I remember one time, I was standing on the porch and he was outside down near the road. Just to see what he’d do, I called, “Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty.” He looked up at me, then took off running toward me as fast as he could go, across the yard and up onto the porch and right to me. I petted him and told him he was a good kitty! If I wanted him to sit with me, I could call him and pat the seat beside me or my lap and he’d jump right up.

I often wondered how such an excellent cat came to be living as a stray at my house. I thought maybe someone had abandoned him there. It wasn’t until several years later that I found out his story: one day while I was out, my mom was at my place outside in the yard with Spot when the neighbor up the road drove by. Our neighbor recognized Spot and told my mom that she’d taken in Spot and his brother as kittens when their owner didn’t want them. But Spot and his brother kitty didn’t get along, and eventually Spot’s brother chased him away. The neighbor thought he’d probably been eaten by a coyote or a bobcat, and was surprised and glad to see him still alive and in a happy home. He was clearly a very smart and savvy cat, to be able to survive on his own all that time, until I could come and give him a home. But that explained why he’d never learned to get along with other cats, if his own littermate had chased him away.

When I talked to him, he seemed to understand what I was saying. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, you could tell it was because he had something to say. He’d look me right in the eye and meow like he expected me to know exactly what he meant. He could open doors if they weren’t latched — he’d hook his foot around the screen door or a cupboard door and pull it open. Or, if it opened in, he’d just put his big, hard head against it and push it open. Sometimes he’d go inside a cupboard and check things out. I’d wonder where he was and go around the house opening cupboard doors, and he’d stroll out like he belonged there.

My mom likes to tell the story of the time he came next door to get her to come to my place and let him in. This is how it happened: after she moved in next door to me, he’d go up and visit her now and then. Sometimes I’d let him outside when I left for the library in the morning, and then later she’d drive into town and get the mail. On her way home, she’d stop at my place to drop off my mail, and she’d let Spot in the house. One day, though, I didn’t have any mail, so she drove on by and went home. But when she got there, Spot was waiting for her on her porch. He’d seen her drive by and went next door to get her. He started down the hill to my place, stopping and turning to make sure she was following. Once he saw she was coming, he took off back home. When she got to my place, he was waiting by the door for her. So she opened the door so he could go inside.

He loved to hunt mice and squirrels and lizards and anything else he could get, and generally he ate what he caught. One summer, he went out every morning and caught himself a chipmunk and brought it up onto the porch to eat. He’d eat it on the porch doormat, consuming everything but the tail. After he was done, I’d take the doormat and toss the tail down into the yard. After a month or so, I went down into the yard, and was startled to see it carpeted in chipmunk tails! They were everywhere.

If he could, he’d sneak into the house with his prey. Then the mouse would get away from him and hide under the desk or the couch. He’d lose interest and walk away — and I’d be stuck with a rodent in the house! I’d tell him, you’re supposed to be keeping the mice out of the house, not bringing them in! I’d try to remember to check his mouth before opening the door for him, but sometimes I’d forget. Eventually, he learned to dash past me and run into the bathroom with his prey. I’d close the door and let him finish it off.

I worried about him when he was out late, but he knew how to take care of himself, and always managed to avoid the coyotes and bobcats and other predators out there.

What he couldn’t avoid were all the various health problems that plagued him. About a year after we moved in, he started coughing, but a steroid shot fixed him right up. The vet thought it was mild asthma. A year or so later, he started having trouble peeing. He had crystals in his urine that were blocking him. Putting him on special food fixed that. He got ear mites really bad one summer, and it took months of medicines and ear drops to finally clear them up. He got various injuries that had to be treated. But he was a tough guy and bounced right back from most everything.

We evacuated three times for fires. The first time wasn’t really necessary — I’d gotten spooked by a panicky neighbor and spent the night at my mom’s place in town. Whenever he was in a new place, he inspected it thoroughly, sniffing around and peering into every corner, until he was satisfied he knew where he was, and then he was fine. I remember my mom telling me that, while I was at work, at one point she couldn’t find Spot and was worried that he’d gotten out. She looked all over her apartment, but couldn’t find him, until she opened the cupboard above the kitchen counter next to the refrigerator — and there he was, looking out at her! He’d apparently thought it was a good place to hang out.

The second time was for the West Fire — the one that started a quarter of a mile from my place and burned half our mountain. Mom had moved up next door to me by then, so both of us and our cats packed up and went to my brother’s place. At first, we put Spot in one of the rabbit hutches. He didn’t like that at all, and spent most of the time sitting in his litter box.

The third time was the Canyon Fire, when we lost our home. This time, we stayed in my brother’s guest house, and Spot had the run of the place. Once he’d checked everything out, he was pretty comfortable in the place. In the Sept. 9, 2011 post, Life Goes On, I wrote:

Sleeping on the fold-out bed in my brother’s guest house with my kitty curled up next to me purring, I thought, he doesn’t care that the house is gone. He’s happy because he has me. A safe place to stay, food and water, someone who loves him to snuggle up with at night. That’s all he needs. So I take a lesson from my kitty. I have everything I need. All will be well.

And it’s true. I miss my kitty way more than I ever did my house and everything in it.

After the fire, we moved in with my mom while I got my place cleared off and a new home built. We fixed up her back porch for the girls, Socks and Jerry, so Spot could have the run of the house. He was familiar with her house, having visited many times before, so he didn’t have to get used to a totally new place. On the other hand, he also knew that his own house was right next door, if only he could get to it! He snuck outside many times during the first few months, trying to go home, but we mostly got him back in fairly easily. One time, though, he was gone for hours, and came back with soot up to his knees. He’d been out exploring, and apparently realized finally that his house was gone, and we didn’t have too much trouble keeping him in after that.

He didn’t really like being at my mom’s place, though. He complained a lot, got very clingy and irritable. That was also when he first started having kidney problems. Probably his heart trouble was developing then, too, although we didn’t realize it at the time.

When we got into our new house, though, he relaxed and was much happier. He seemed to know he was home, even though the house was different. I think he realized it was in the same place. He only spent a few days checking things out before he settled right in.

We had a little over a year in our new home. I’d noticed he was losing weight, and he was coughing a lot more, and things went quickly downhill from there. His last few months were stressful and difficult, and I don’t want to dwell on them. We had eleven good years together — not enough, but then, it never is.

Farewell, my beloved Spot. Gate gate paragate parasamgate bodhi svaha.