Jesse's Last Chapter

My Jesse had her last day on earth January 13, 2017.  The new, young vet from Briar Patch--appropriately named "Kat"--came here with one of the techs, BJ, so we got to say good-bye right in the bedroom, right on the bed, where Jesse had stayed for the last couple of weeks. Carolyn didn't have to be the doctor, and I didn't have to be an assistant; we could just be the mommies saying goodbye to a presence that had been in our lives for as long as we were in each other's lives.  

As I write this, our youngest girl cat, Calleigh, is playing with one of her favorite toys in the world.  It's a needle cap from the needles that fit on my insulin pens.  There are probably 100 of them in this house, under the baseboard heaters, in the cellar, under the stairs, lurking under the refrigerator.  Life goes on, cat lives go on.

I believe that Jessa Jack Waddington McMaster goes on.  My sweet Jesse, indomitable spirit, happy and healthy and young and fearless, reaches out and finds hands that are always there to pet her. 

Silver Edged in Desperate Need

Jessa Jack Waddington 1997

This amazing kitten came to me in November 1997.  She was incredibly sick, so much so that I thought she was an amazingly calm kitten.  How wonderful, all sweetness and quiet.  And fevered.  And about to be euthanized as unadoptable.  This was the bad old days when kitties died more regularly at the Ithaca SPCA.  Her Mama had "died" and this little feral kitten was hanging by a thread.  And there I was, recently "divorced" from a 12 year relationship, headed into Heaven only knows what, with a spectacular woman--this is sincere, not sarcastic--who was allergic to cats.  And the kitten of my dreams appears, pewter gray, silver edged, in desperate need of rescue. 

Silver edged in desperate need.  Ah yes, that you were, my Jesse girl.  Ready to  teach me lessons that would take take two decades, two homes, two lovers to complete.  You were my ghost cat, the one no one knew existed except me and three other cats, Mama Kindra, Big Brother Path and your closest friend, your brother George.  Jesse was the last cat that was completely mine, adopted when I was struggling to feel complete in my own self, in my own house.  She taught me patience and delighted surprise when this sick kitten turned out to have a sense of loyalty, a sense of humor, and a sense of...self respect?  She  taught me to approach her at her own level, not as a tall, threatening presence, but as a creature on the floor, at the same level, reaching toward her--to have my hand guided by a sure paw, guided to her head, to her face, to the acceptance of a little cat who knew her worth to be priceless. The one time she escaped to the outside, I was able to bring her back in only because I used Kindra as a lure.  "Look Jesse, here kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty, look it's Kindra!"  I dangled Kindra in front of her, purring up a storm, because that was what my angelic Kindra did every day of her life, and Jesse followed her back into the house.  

And here I am, my heart silver edged in desperate need, watching this old lady cat purring at the end of her life. 

Jesse, at 18, in 2015

The Year Begins...

Jesse, in 2004 

Well, here we are, poised at the beginning of a new year. It's been an interesting week.  We got home from our great train adventure, going to Santa Fe via Amtrak--that's another story, with more pictures--on Thursday, December 29.  We were just bone tired and although we actually unpacked and started the laundry, we spent a lot of time just snuggling up with all of the cats.  The dogs were happy to be in a place where the floor doesn't move while they are trying to pee.

Okay, interrupting for some technical info.  This is, once again, being typed one-handed while I have my other arm wrapped around a cat.  Calleigh will tiptoe across the keyboard while simultaneously batting objects off the table so I tuck her in close and off the keyboard.  If I stop kissing her, or rubbing my face on her head, she looks at me and cries and pushes the laptop away with her back feet.  I guess that I just want to prove that I can still multitask.

Back to the story:  Jesse, our 19 year old matriarch, was upstairs in the bedroom where we had set up private accommodations around Thanksgiving.  She hadn't been eating well; she'd had a couple, scary, neurological-type episodes, so we brought her to the bedroom where her food could be out all day, she had a private litterbox nearby, she had her own bowl and a fountain for water, and she would have us at night.  It was really lovely. At night, we'd put away her food so that the dogs wouldn't get it, and she would come up on the bed without stepping on either dog and proceed to take possession of one of the human's pillows.  From this perfect position, she could wrap around the head of the human and reach down to grab a hand and place it in the right position to pet her.  She's been doing this since she was a baby, and it's the sweetest thing.  She was a very sick, nearly feral 3-month-old kitten when I adopted her.  She would only let me pet her if I laid on the floor and reached toward her.  Then she would stretch out a paw and guide my hand. 


                I took these pictures a month ago: 

Reaching.........

Right here......

Perfect

 She's been my baby for 19 years and has clearly preferred the mothering of Carolyn for the last 15 of those years.  In fact, she chose Carolyn before I did.  
And when I moved in with Carolyn, Jesse became a whole new cat.  She stopped hiding.  She sat on our laps in the living room.  She begged charmingly wherever we ate.  She was really happy.

When the kittens (the 1st set, from 2003) grew up and became obnoxious, Jesse moved into our bedroom for a couple of years.  When her 1st tormentor moved to the garage and the furnace room to flex his masculinity and a twisted sense of humor, she took over the house again.

Do you see in the pictures how her fur looks lined with silver?  She's always been the most beautiful thing; I called her my pewter cat, and that beautiful plush fur has stayed soft and thick and wonderful.  Now, her kidneys have begun to fail, in spite of the kidney diet she's been on, and she isn't interested in eating much of anything anymore.  She's not a cat who can be treated easily.  Giving pills is possible but very traumatic; trips to the office are accompanied with deep, loud howls and lots of stuff in the carrier that has to be cleaned up.  We've decided that we are going to simply give her the highest quality of life for as long as we can.

When we got home, we found that she wouldn't leave the closet.  She wasn't using the litterbox and we had to do some serious cleanup and rearranging.  She would eat if we hand-fed her and purred mightily when we would sit sit in there and pet her.  So, that's what we've been doing.
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The minute I finished writing this, we remembered that we had a jar of chicken baby food and took that to her. She got up and RAN to it. Sucked up the whole jar. Then, of course, I got dressed and dashed to Wegmans for more baby food. Carolyn spent hours luring her out of the closet with the food.  About the time she'd given up, Jesse arrived on the bed and walked right under the covers and curled up next to her. Next move? Carolyn sat next to her and petted her.  Hours later, during a pause in the petting, out came a paw, searching for a hand. She's still with us, 25 pounds of personality in a 7 pound cat.  

I thought that I was writing an obituary when I started this New Year's Day.  Nope.  Not yet.

Allegro, Office Cat

Allegro, sharing the warmth with Zuza and Lukas

Allegro died today.  She wasn't just the former office cat of Briar Patch, she was also the first cat Carolyn and I had together.  When I moved in, my baggage included my three cats, Path, George and Jesse.  But  before I moved in, my foster cat and her three kittens moved in, because Allegro--as she would soon be called--was the fiercest Momma cat you ever saw in your life.  My big, muscle-y boy cats were terrified of her.

She captured Carolyn's heart immediately.  She was the most beautiful calico Carolyn had ever seen and she was sweet and loving and so very grateful that she didn't have to be a homeless teenage mother anymore.  She took care of her babies fiercely, and she owned the house.  All of it.  Carolyn and I named Allegro and her kittens musical names.  I had already named the baby calico Minuet--sort of like Juliette, with dancing--and Carolyn thought Allegro, because of her speed and grace.  Little Rimsky was the first to purr a loud, but high pitched kitten purr which sounded more like buzzing than purring so she was named for "The Flight of the Bumblebee".  Her only boy was just a tad slower than his sisters, so was named Adagio.

About the time my cats moved in, Allegro began to go into heat again, and was rushed off to Briar Patch for surgery and rehab.  Then it was Thanksgiving and we moved her home.  Then we found out that she hated other cats, including her children and my guys wouldn't walk past her without an escort.  Then she moved into Briar Patch to become the Office Manager.  She charmed clients, annoyed most of the staff, accepted being a demo cat for client educational purposes and occasionally flirted with dogs that would have eaten her if given the chance.  Eventually the staff banished her to the upstairs of Briar Patch where Carolyn had her office.  She began to have some health problems which we tested and treated and tested some more.

When Carolyn retired it was made clear that Briar Patch no longer needed an office cat. The bad news was that we couldn't bring her home with our four inside cats. The good news was that after thirteen years, Allegro got a home of her own where she could be the only cat, and have a human all her own.  Our friend Susan took her in and gave her everything a cat could want--ample access to her food, multiple sunspots all over the house, a place on a warm water bed at night and lots and lots of love.  

We're going to bury her here when Spring comes.  We miss her so much.