Only White Men Get Fish?

A local deputy is evidently going around telling other people who fish that I "feed the fish to a cat."  Is this gossip?  Why it pissed me off:

Yup.  Price.  Who wouldn't eat anything else.  Yeah, I'm doing a big sinful thing giving precious resources that belong only to these guys to a family member.  A member of my family who was dying.

And if I want to use the few fish I can catch to feed the heads to my cats, the bodies to me, and the scraps to the chickens -- if fact, if I want to use them to fertilize corn -- that's my business.

But evidently only white males are supposed to get anything in this country.

And yeah, make smart remarks about a cat I had to fight for since February to try to keep alive.  When I have a DSL account.  And a blog.

Envy and Rage

Is one of the steps in grieving bitterness?

A perfectly nice man's perfectly nice dog ran up to us again.  She's very old, white-faced, deaf, has had repeated strokes.  She's happy, silly, and full of life.

I can't help but be bitter when I see these nice creatures, because all I can think is, "Why did sweet happy Price have to go through such a bad end?  Why is this dog still alive after she's been through so much?"

There is, of course, no "Why."  Shit happens.  This only makes sense if there is no god.  Because if there were, he's an undipt pinhead, nasty, brutal, with a short memory.

Dogs and humans seem to wander along for years after strokes, heart attacks and rheumatism.  Horses and cats seem to be well all their lives -- and then collapse, quickly and often horribly.  Dogs fade and give us a chance.  Felines rip our hearts out.  Dogs don't hurt any less, but they seem to bitch-slap us less.  This is just me thinking with a keyboard, nothing more.

Price -- The Day After

Here's my Facebook Page entry (with additions):  "Thank you so much, everybody. We had a lovely funeral, walked the beach, waded around in the mouth of the Clallam river, then went to the Clallam Bay Inn for MacNJack and Fish and chips.This morning I bumped into an invisible kitty hock and accidentally put down the same number of bowls (which I left; I figured he'd get the spirit food). 

Thank all of you so much for all your prayers and thoughts for him. I think funerals let us cry for ourselves, too (why dry-humored Britain went to pieces over Princess Di). I'm sharing the t-shirt quote. It gave me the first laugh today."

The T-shirt line:  "All our kitties and our favorite t-shirts are waiting for us in heaven."  

After a thorough washcloth bathing the night before, and being formed into a comfy posture and left to cool down and compose himself on a red towel in the back bathtub,  Price was wrapped in a grey, silver-shot pashmina I'd found years ago scrunched down in a knot in a filthy muddy hole  in a Seattle sidewalk and not only resurrected, but wore for years.  His outside wrap was one of Dan's maternal grandmother's quilts, on the bed for years and beginning to fray (We use respected old fabrics as funeral wraps). They were both handled by us and the cats, so they would smell familiar.  As we dug the grave, he got to lie in the middle room on the guest bed, which he'd always loved.

The grave was in sand, bedded with salmon-berry branches, then the mummy bundle -- head to the west -- topped with a wooden bowl with milk, margarine and a chunk of freshly-cooked salmon, wrapped in a red silk shirt I'd been saving for a funeral, covered with peach and plum twigs and some sword fern, then more salmon berry, then filled in carefully with goodbyes and hopes.  On top went a crystal vase with a red wrapped beeswax candle, surrounded by four Rainforest incense sticks.  The candle burned all day.  The salmon-berry birds sang in the woods into evening.

We should all get such funerals.

Good traveling, Price.

Price in my Seattle Pashmina

Price The Good Cat - He Wins.

Don't want to bum anybody out, but many people have been rooting for Price.  We did, however, know what was coming.

Price has really stopped eating, drinking or grooming himself.  I'm not going to bother him with his wheelchair any more; that can be saved for the next problem in another cat.  If he wants to go outside, he can limp along pretty well at this point; he has his little bootie on his limp foot.

Here he is, after a little Diazapan, freshly washcloth-bathed, on his comfy sofa.  The gray blanket is one of two, at this point being used like a diaper.  Sometimes he'll take an edge of the plaid blanket on his back.  This is just before the drug kicked in.  It's a very small dose; just enough to relax him and let him sleep in comfort.

There's a point where you stop bugging the old person and let them work on their last job.  He's 16 years old, warm, safe, relaxed, pain free.  As we say on Facebook:  Price wins.

Price and his wheelchair.

This is Price in his new wheelchair.  Now it can be seen.  He's figured out two ways to get out of it -- jump up on the couch, or roll it over.  CATS.

Price's First REAL wheelchair.

The only reason I'm not posting Price's first tryouts in his real wheelchair is because these folks asked me not to until we'd gotten it properly adjusted and working. We ordered the cart in the PM and got it in the AM the next day (admittedly, they're kind of around the corner from us, but it still came by a circuitous route and still made it).

Been monkeying with the adjustments, after watching the CD that came with the cart. Every piece of the cart adjusts.  About 2:40 on Youtube you can see one of the carts in action.

Yesterday, when he was in the cart, along with all the griping and complaining, he headed for the door.  "Let's see what this babe will do on grass!"  I told him he had to practice a few days first, and get adjusted right.  Instead, he spent the day behind the solar panels by the house, curled up in the grass, enjoying being outside with Dan, who was doing yard work or reading.  Dan needed some sun, anyway.

Price never was much of a touchy-feely cat, and he wouldn't take being covered with a blanket. He now spends his days and nights on the couch, tucked in with a plaid blanket.  In the evening, he wants to be snuggled up under my chin, purring and getting petted. So I have to lay on the couch petting Price rather than getting any art work down, and that's just how it is.  Gonna have to just change my ancient schedule, I guess, retrain my brain to do art in the daylight.  I'm glad we have sets of DVDs, like Treme, from the library.

Price ate very well yesterday, but not today.  He seems to be eating and drinking every other day.  We'll give the adjusted cart another try today, and film it for K9.

I'm quite worried about a hard lump in his belly, but the vet says it's probably scar tissue -- and he just didn't want to cut on him any more. Not after the massive surgery he's already had.  How much suffering do we want to put an old person through?  

In the meantime, he's resting and wanting outside occasionally.  Yesterday he almost got away from me, three legs and all, as he slipped out the door past me and whipped down the stairs.  There's life in the old cat yet.

Price's 1st wheelchair design -- and oops.

Okay, here's the first attempt at building Price a wheelchair.  I are sometimes all thumbs.

The original wheelchair design, with many markings and fiddlings.  Thank you, Maggie, at the Forks Ace hardware.

Um... ta da?  That doesn't look right.

Up and pushing around (complaining).

Oops. Back to the drawing board.

Well, after some more research and gathering of parts on the beach and at the Lion's Club rummage sale, I may be ready to have a go at it tomorrow.  At least Price was willing to move it around when I tried it on him.

We've pretty well accept that, after the heavy gut operation (and gods knows what possible growths may be advancing), that he's finally fading from us. He's sixteen, and had a good life.  We're going to keep trying to make his life happy.

We're lucky the weather has finally turned lovely, and we can sit out in the yard with him.  He's a basically tough, happy cat, and we'll do what we can for him.  He only wants fish now, and I'll either get it off the beach, in cans, or finagle a head and/or backbone from Ric the fish guy.

When I die, I want to come back as one of my cats.

Price Living With Bad Leg

Price's bad leg is dragging and making it hard for him to lie down.  So I put it up in an old-fashioned sling.

Because he's gotten used to lying around and feeling sorry for himself, we've been noodging him down the hallway to strengthen his good hind leg.  There is much whining and complaining, but now he can actually get to the litter box and the water without the dragging leg slowing him down.  We take the sling off at night, so he won't have a chance of catching it on things, or at least when he's without or supervision.  

Then afterwards there is purring.  Right now it's ling cod season, and I caught my first ling cod ever yesterday.  I have to fish when I can because Price loves fresh fish, and the Old Cat gets what he wants.

Price is Good for Now

Price and Leo on the couch.

Okay. Whew.  Here's the latest:

Price is 16 years old.  The lump in his belly is probably scar tissue from the operation (didn't find it before, because of the burn).

Only one of his legs is bad; the vet guesses an embolism, which isn't uncommon in cats his age.  This help explains a bad situation about three years ago, when a cat lost use of both hind legs.  Price is okay; he can walk.  Nothing can be done about it, but he's happy and gets around.

He's eating, drinking, doing everything he's supposed to.  The vet and we have decided no more cutting or desperate measures.  From now on, it's goodies and time in front of the fire for the old man.  

And thank those of you who had good thoughts for our old guy.

Price not doing well

Uh oh.  Price's hind legs are more wonky than ever, even though he's getting meds and massage. 

Just found a hard lump in his belly.  Hopefully it's scar tissue from the operation.  

Taking him to the vet today.  Hopes and prayers welcome.

Price and Leo - by request (and pizza)

 

A friend wanted to see a picture of our Leo, who can muscle his way out of the door and nearly knock you over before you can get the door closed.  He'd eat a postman for breakfast -- if he wasn't so nice, and if we had postmen.

Left:  Price, Leo, Shadow, on our bed.

Woodstove pizza.  Just a little partly-wholewheat crust, tomato paste with oregano, green peppers, garlic-basil olive oil, black pepper, and a scattering of Monterey Jack cheese.  Pretty much your original peasant version, a little bit of ingredients stretched to seem like more.  Which is where all the good stuff comes from, including onion soup and pancakes.

We Just Live Here

Why the drying clothes are not directly in front of Betsy the Woodstove.  

Actually, I need to get to her to stir the beans or have some tea, so I'm just kidding, Price!  (But don't tell him.)

 

His wounds are almost gone; this is how a melting kitty in front of the stove looks.  The big scar down his middle is from the operation.  He don't care.

Light Them Fires!

It's spring and sometimes we feel we don't need a morning fire.  

Price has other ideas.

We just live here.

Price On The Run

Since people have been asking how Price is feeling, a couple days ago he slipped out the door like a snake.  The neighbor got to laugh at Barr TV as we ran like mad baboons trying to catch him, twice around the truck and then heading him off -- barely -- before he slipped under the house.

Yesterday, when Leo came back from a heavy tooth-cleaning, and was lying half-drugged in front of the stove, Price was the only one not to be afraid because he smelled like the Mad Scientist (kitteh word for "Vet.").  Price stalked over to Leo, rubbed his head with his, and then licked his head.

Dan says Price has been to the Mad Scientist so much lately, his sense of smell has blanked the place out.

Price -- Many thanks to our good neighbors

I need to thank a neighbor for allowing me to talk her out of a couple of pounds of fresh local meat for Price. 

The vet said he needed protein, and this was the most high-quality protein I could think of, and the closest to mice; a mouse is to the antelope family what the rock hyrax is to the elephant: the closest living relative.  Closest  to the natural diet without setting mousetraps (then again, I think the maple tree having 81% of the same DNA I have is very close and very cool).

We've been feeding Price a 1/2-mouse-load of ground flesh an hour, following it with enough of his dry food to bind up the fat in his digestive system so it doesn't give him runny bowels.

Price has laid on a layer of flesh, and his fur is soft and gleaming.  He's still thin, but he's not scary desperate thin.

Price's recovery is very much due in large part to their priceless generosity.

Price Walking The Walk

Here's Price after killing the cat-tree and bouncing over in front of the stove and telling Jim he'll be coming back and taking that place in front of the stove, oh, yeah.

"Just keep movin.'  Ain't nothin' to see, here, 'cept Fearless, and that ain't none o' your business."

Price's Burn Healing Properly

The burn is dry, and doesn't smell.  It's beginning to granulate and sluff away.  The vet was quite happy with this photograph of the healing burn.  It's on his white belly, so it probably won't even change his hair color there.  He goes in next week to get the final checkup on his stitches and removal.

His system now rejects extra fat, which means he doesn't need it any more.  He needs protein.  So it's lean meat next.

And I had to chase down his smart-alecky butt today to give him his meds.

Price's Exam and The Fatness

Price went to the vet Monday.  His burn is healing under the scab, which is acting as a bandage.

He was prescribed skin antibiotics, to start as the gut antibiotics are finishing.  We have a little diazapam to encourage appetite and assist with sleep, if need be.  And a little mild opiate, if needed for pain.

Forks Outfitters's butcher gave me a fist-full of beef fat for our boy.  He ate four quarter-size mouthfuls on the way home.  Fat to be converted to vitamin C to heal faster.

The vet said Price would be sloughing the scab.  Today I found him beginning to clean the scab off, revealing bright-pink skin underneath.  Yes, I know the scab is made of himself, but EWWWWW.

Bacon Meets Its Match - The Price Saga

Price and the Sheep (Leo) in the sunshine by the stove.

Price had been in such pain, so miserable, so uncoaxable with his food.  His burns looked like bacon.

Last night, he was standing by the kindling pile, face-marking. Dan later saw him  sink his claws into the cat-tree and dig at it, straining his whole body backwards on his hind legs, in a way that looked painful, but that he obviously wasn't bothered by.

This morning, suddenly -- he got up and followed me around until I fed him.  I made him get out of the way during the wood-loading -- so he cornered Jim (the new/low cat) and smacked him.  Later, when Jim was complaining because now he is House Cat and doesn't get let outside to beat up the neighbors any more, he stopped and hissed at Price.  Price sat down and gave him, his "Yes?  Do you need another one?" look.

Maybe... I don't want to jinx anything, but thank all of you for the Love-Voodoo for Price.

Price Up And At 'Em

Price gobbling up canned catfood and chicken fat.  Oh, how thin!

Now we've eaten, time for Nips!

The boy gets fed every hour on the hour, with anything high calorie, although he wants the canned food with all the added vitamins, minerals, and Taurine.  Fish, chicken, milk, mayonnaise, whatever he'll eat - doesn't matter.  He doesn't get any of the shellfish, in this case mussels, because healthy humans handle those better than sick kitties.

Twice a day, Dan puts on heavy leather gloves, and I wash his belly down with a solution of nettles, dill and catnip, then apply antibiotic ointment.  He gets antibiotics for his gut resection three times a day.

We should all hope we get treated like this when we're sick.

Looking up Chinese herbs for helping with the other tiny tumors that were found in the ultrasound.  Price had a low-level facial tumor removed about 3 years ago.  He was found in a parking lot in 1998, as a half-grown boy.  And we're living in Clallam Bay -- an industrial forestry area.  We might as well be living with pulp mills.