Can I Keep It?

Aida, Aida Velveeta. But that's just her stage name...

 

I had a recurring dream before I found Aida.  I phoned all of my friends and told them about my new kitten.  "Her name's Aida.  Aida Velveeta, but that's just her stage name..." I had searched for my cat for weeks.  On a trip to Knoxville to have my wedding dress fitted.  She wasn't there.  Nashville on the way home.  No her.  The pound in Collierville.  No Aida.  The Memphis/Shelby County Pound.  She wasn't there. And then, in a small cage at the Memphis Humane Society, I found her.  Tiny, shaky and newly operated on.  Someone had abused her.  Her tail had died and needed to be docked. "That's my cat," I stated to the lady at the counter.  "That one?  Are you sure?"she replied incredulousy.  "Yes,"I sighed, "I'd know her anywhere."

And I adopted her and brought her home where she could be safe. I promised her that no one would ever hurt her again.

You see, I needed that promise myself.  My father had committed suicide a few weeks before.  I figured maybe we could patch each other up.

Well, relatively safe anyway.  Carmen adored her.  The first in a long line of canines dispelling the myth that dogs and cats can't get along. At least dogs and Aida.

We often joked that they were so close that they had always traveled through lives together, trading which one got the short tail in each incarnation.  A border collie, Carmen had a long fluffy tail.  But the only black on Carmen was on that tail.  A thin line of it right where a docking would occur. This time it was Aida's turn apparently. 

The abuse always caused her trouble.  She leaked when she slept.  She had bowel problems. And she was terribly shy.  Fewer than twenty-five people had ever seen Aida in real life.  My brother stayed with me for a weekend once and declared that we were imagining her.  He swore the pictures were someone else's cat staged in our home. We started calling her the "Ghost Cat".

But Aida had many nicknames- The Big Cheese, Cheesy Poof, Fuzzy Bag of Bones, Stinky McStinkington. The list was endless.

My least favorite was "Bee Hive".  Aida liked to crawl into my hair in the wee morning hours and knead it like bread.  Only her claws nicked me.  Oh, it was painful!  Once we had a housesitter who had never met Aida, even though she had stayed here on many occassions. Late one night, as she slept, needy Aida over came her fears and perched on the housesitter's head.  The housesitter awakened to what she said felt like a hive of bees stinging her head!  She quickly realized that it was Aida.  She laid there, taking the abuse because she was relieved that Ghost Cat had finally come out for her.  Aida never hid from her again.

Aida was sweet, warm and friendly to us.  When Boudreaux came to live with us, he fell instantly in love with her.  She allowed him to mouth her head as she went about her business.  It was constanly a slobbery mess.  Aida didn't mind at all and sought out his company daily.

But Aida's health had been failing of late.

Yesterday, after contacting the vet who saw Zoe through her cancer, we took her to AngelCare and had Kathy Mitchener help us to take her home. Aida had lost more than half her body weight and was bleeding internally.  She was constanty leaking fluids. 

A fighter until the end, Kathy took little Aida back to put in the catheter in her arm. Aida started jumping up and down like a monkey.  Pop! Pop! Pop! Then Kathy quietly told her that she didn't have to fight anymore.  Aida stopped.  Laid down, stuck out her paw and allowed her to insert the needle without moving a muscle.

Kathy brought her back to me and Hud and laid her in my lap.

It was a sweet and peaceful ending for my sweet and peaceful friend.

I love you, Aida Velveeta.  Kiss Carmen and Zoe for me.  But stay away from Tee Tee.  She never really was a fan of yours. Well, of anyone for that matter.

Aida was sixteen.

* Thank you, Kathy Mitchener.  You are the kindest, dearest person.  You gave her the peace she deserved. Hud and I appreciate everything you did for the three of us.

What Else I've Been Doing on My Summer Vacation

Aida.  Did not eat for five days.

I have no idea what happened.  Normally, Aida wanders the house like a ghost, drifting in and out of rooms.  Stealthy.  A ninja.

Until you get in the kitchen and then she becomes a loud, hungry impatient diner at a restaurant whose appetizer was too small and has been waiting over an hour for her entree.  You know, the one who's already had two free glasses of champagne and now wants you to comp her a dessert.  That one. Loud. Noisy.  Demanding.

For five days, she laid under her bed in her bedroom.  Face to the wall.  Didn't eat.  Didn't drink.  Nothing.

We thought it might be the end. 

Aida's fifteen.  We missed her quinceanera, so she didn't get the big ball gown or the Cinderella coach to carry her cake out the the crowd of adoring relatives.  It was May 14.  The day we had to let Carmen go.  She understood.

And then I remembered the miracle cure for all felines who have seemingly lost the will the live.

*Cue the streaming rays of light, unicorns, rainbow and glitter*

 

Meat Flavored Baby Food!

 

*Cue singing bands of faeries and cherubs with candy raining down on the planet*

I swear to the almighty that cats on the brink of the Rainbow Bridge will come flailing back to Earth like the Road Runner for that stuff.  It must be cat ambrosia.

Cut to the chase.  She's fine.

Oh, it's been a slow process, nursing her back to health.  I could only feed her the teeniest bits of it at first.  She's dropped down to a skeletal four pounds.  But for a skinny old lady, she's doing all right.

There's been some drama up in here is what I'm laying down if you're picking it up.

Whew.

The Quiet One

About a week and a half ago, our poor old Zoe came up lame in her right rear leg.  She couldn't put any weight on it at all.  She was panting heavier than ususal and closely following me around.  I should have known.

Zoe didn't feel well at all.

That's the thing about Zoe.  I've never heard her whimper, even as a puppy.  She'd stumble out of the truck as a baby, shake it off, even though she landed on her head.She's never cried out loud, even though she has a booming basso profundo bark.  She never made a sound when she ran behind the studio and cut herself on some tomato cages, even though she had gutted herself.

She was about six or seven.  I let her out.  She came back inside.  All seemed normal.  Except Zoe was trailing me so closely, she posted me up at every turn.  I finally looked at her and asked what was up with her.  She looked up at me, embarrassed.  That's when I saw the little drops of blood punctuating her moves.  "What have you eaten now?" I sighed to the dog who can crack golf balls with her teeth and once ate the plastic knob off of my gear shift in the car.  I searched her mouth for the wound and found nothing.  A speck of blood dotted the floor to the left of her and I reached over to wipe it up.  It was then that I looked up and realized that I was looking inside of my dog.  A six inch gash slashed her side.  It had only cut the skin and had not punctured the fat layer so there was very little blood.  I called Hud.  He came right in and off we went to the emergency clinic.

Zoe, too big to lift, climbed into the car without a sound.  At the clinic, she laid on the floor, quietly waiting for the doctor.  All the while, silent. Calm. Stoic.

So, I really should have known. 

Hud's had to take her off running inthe last few months.  She's run to get the ball only once and carry it off to guard it.  He'd bring her home.  It's unlike her, but we chalked it up to her size and the fact that she recently turned eleven.  That's old for a big dog like Zoe.

When she couldn't set her foot down, I took her to our vet.  A dog that big has to be gassed so they can x-ray, so I waited.  Made small talk to people and ooohhhhed over their pet's boo boos.  Hud got off of work and came to wait with me.

Doctor Jo called us back, finally.  Zoe has a thinning of the bone near the ball joint of her femur.  It's either a vicious bone infection.  Or, yes, cancer.  We optimistically took the option that it's an infection. Two weeks of antibiotics and we'll go back.  See if she's progressed and if not, biopsy.  Maybe amputate.

But the good news is that Zoe seems better.  She's putting weight on the foot and has climbed the stairs three times!  I baby her, still.  But I'm hopeful that my fall-down-and-rub-some-dirt-on-it dog is getting better.

Next time, speak up Zoe!  How else is momma supposed to know?

Lighten Up

Time to lighten up.  Ease my flow.  Change direction.

Lots of things cause my lips to curl up on the edges. The small bits are what I take the most delight in.  Things like this.  Meet Estela:

 
Zooborns had this to say about her:

Estela the Spider Monkey is now on view in Melbourne Zoo's Primate Nursery with her grandmother Sonja. Estela was abandoned at birth by her mother Sunshine, so Primate Keepers stepped in to provide 24/7 care to pull the tiny newborn through since her birth on January 17th.

 

Primate Supervisor Jess McKelson explains "Because Sonja didn't feed Estela, the baby didn't get the crucial protection against infection that comes from the colostrum in mother's milk. So the baby has been very prone to infection, and we have needed to keep her under quarantine conditions at times. But we have still placed a major priority on getting her acquainted with her grandmother, Sonya, so she can learn the behaviours that are natural to a Spider Monkey."

 

Ahhhh.  Nothing like a tiny monkey making it through diversity to put a fresh spin on your old wounds.

Everybody send a wave of good vibrations to my sweet husband, Hud, today.  He really could use some of the blog love, too.  Thanks for all of it that you sent my way.  Like my friend, Virgina said," It's like finding an extra cookie when you think you've reached the end of the box!"

*Go to the Melbourne Zoo's site to see updated pictures of little Estela!

I have no idea why the link won't work above so clink it down here, 'k?*

Mean Girl

I don't know why I was mean to this girl.  I called her ugly.  Agreed with her family that she was stupid.  Didn't find her amusing in the slightest.

 

I threw her at the world, looking for a place for her to stick.  And the world was mean to her as well.  The world broke her arm three times, her foot, her collar bone, all of her fingers and her nose.  It gave her four car accidents, tearing up her face and premanently damaging her drawing arm.  It attracted an abusive man for her to marry when she was young.  It gave her a schizophrenic grandmother who named her, "whore" and beat her every chance she got because of the antics of a soap opera star.  The world bestowed her with an alchoholic grandfather who enabled the grandmother in every way.  Called her names.  Said she was unworthy of any kind of love.

It gave her cancer.

Lately, I've been feeling that the universe dislikes me.  Maybe because of the way I treated her back then.  I've been dealing with random acts of meaness.  A vendor at the TACA show stormed my booth three times, damaging a print and screaming at me.  I don't even know her name or what she does.  The show coordinator apologized.  It was not her fault.  She cannot control the mental stability of her vendors.  But I have to ask, "Why me?"  A commentor on a blog I frequent is consistantly rude to the point of being a bully to me despite the fact that I am saying what several other people are expressing.  I have to ask, "Why me?"  A random stranger in another car gave me the finger and I was not even changing lanes or driving below the speed limit.  And yet again, "Why me?"

When she turned thirty, I started to be kinder to her, but I have never really forgiven myself for what I did to her.   Maybe now is that time. 

For finally loving me.

*This beautiful photograph of my twenty year old self was taken by my dear and talented friend, Vickie Johnson Bradshaw on a trip we took to Panama City.*