Saving A Cat's Life on Halloween

We've been wanting to update the blog, but life has a way of intervening. Not always with fodder, but with simply having nothing to say. Then, things happen. Roger starts his third (of eight) round of chemo. He has good days and bad, but mostly good. We celebrate. Then, the sun rises, and it's a beautiful Sunday morning.

One day you notice the cat is acting weird. Well, really how can you tell when a supremely weird cat has crossed the line yet again? He won't jump on to the bed. He stops eating. He walks around with his back hunched and curved. His purrs are reduced to minimum.
So on Halloween morning you wake up and wonder: Is Bonsai dying? He's always been a sick boy. He has grand mal seizures whenever he sleeps deeply. He falls off the bed in the middle of the night: THUD. He does front-roll tumbles when he runs over the uneven earth. But it's more than the sum of his cuckoo parts. He has stopped defecating and urinating. That's a pretty profound sign.

So on Halloween Sunday, you find an emergency veterinary hospital and make a phone call, repeat most of what has been written here and ask if he should be seen. They say, "Absolutely, bring him in." We drive half way to Sacramento, about 40 miles to the Sunday-open hospital. It's a truly grand place. Nine acres. Solar-powered. Staffed by kind and smart people. We feel safe in the bosom of their stunning efficiency.

They take him in. We go wait in the car for their report. We've packed our requisite comfort food: English Breakfast Tea and toast (on this trip it is a dark rye with brie and jam). We walk around their nine acres, laughing at the silly antics of California Ground Squirrels. We check out their solar units. We go back in and wait.
The vet finally calls out our cat's name to the waiting room. That's us. The vet is a remarkably comforting person. This is an emergency hospital. She's been in this situation many times. She tells that the x-rays show intense intestinal blockage and a full bladder. Damn. She tells us that he needs fairly expensive intervention and a couple of days in the hospital to figure out what's going on. There are no guarantees. There's no way to know if this situation is an "end of life" moment, a chronic condition, a blip on the screen.

So, we're sitting in an examining room trying to decide if we should spend almost as much as Medicare paid Roger's surgeon for his colon surgery to keep a silly, cantankerous, old cat alive (with no guarantees). Mmmmm.

The vet says, I'll leave you two alone to talk it over.

We decided to give the old boy one more chance. We bought his ninth life, knowing fully it's the last time we'll ever do such a thing for him. He was a sick stray nine years ago. Now he is a the small animal we share our lives with. He's lived in Santa Cruz, Port Townsend, Arcata, Grass Valley with us. We've asked a lot of a critter that would have preferred familiar territory everyday. We know his days are numbered with fewer numbers than ours. Next time, we'll say good bye. This time, we bought him another sunrise.

REMEMBER TO GO VOTE ON TUESDAY. IT'S AS IMPORTANT ELECTION AS ANY WE'VE EVER SEEN.