— Doug Guido
Cats: I’ve had a few, all great, all different, all but one gone.
SASHA
I bought the house with the HOA with my then girlfriend, LM. We had been together for a couple of years at this point and thoroughly enjoyed our new surroundings. LM, Bunny and I were rolling along, when one day LM came home with some news.
“I was talking with my sister today and she mentioned that she has to give her cat away. The management company of her apartment complex was cleaning the carpet in her unit and noticed she had an unauthorized pet. They want a non-refundable $200 deposit and she doesn’t have it, so the cat has to go to the pound.”
I knew her sister only slightly, having met her once.
“Have you ever seen the cat?” I asked.
“No,” she replied. “Why?”
“Well, I don’t want it to go to the pound. Ask her to send you a pic.”
Which she did, and she did. The pic was of a cute, fuzzy grey kitty, of an undetermined variety.
“Tell her that we’d like to come take a look,” and we did so the following weekend.
The cat, Sasha, turned out to be a female Persian, about three years old. Remarkably, her sister was the cat’s third owner; Sasha had been bounced around for some reason. I offered to take her home with us, and she agreed.
The meeting of Bunny and Sasha was a moment of suspense. Sasha, who I later learned was the result of a kitty mill, had been declawed by its original owner, a cardinal sin in the cat world. Bunny, on the other hand, was a street cat with all of its weapons intact. A fight between them would have been quick and ugly. Fortunately, Bunny graciously accepted the younger cat, correctly sensing that it was no threat to her existence.
One fairly consistent trait of a house cat is their desire to drink flowing water; they’ll drink it out of the bowl, but their preference is from the tap. Bunny and I had been sharing the bath vanity sink for some years; I brushed my teeth while she drank. One morning, I half noticed that she blew the jump up to the vanity, hitting against the side. I picked her up so she could drink and thought nothing more of it, but her days of jumping that high were over.
Bunny gradually declined thereafter, showing her age. A trip to the vet only confirmed the obvious; she was failing. Her condition worsened to the point that she couldn’t keep her food down. LM and I started for the Humane Society one day, but I couldn’t do it and sobbed like a kid; we turned around. After a few more days watching her suffer, I took her in and held her while the vet did the deed. I could feel the coldness of the syringe as it brushed my hand, and shuddered as she died.
So that left the three of us, but not for long. LM and I had peaked on our relationship and we both knew that it was time to go our separate ways. I sold her a condo I owned in town, and she still lives there today with her daughter and family. So it was Sasha and I, and it took Sasha a while to take a liking to me, probably because she’d been let down by humans before. She was my first ‘house’ cat, one that had never been outside. I introduced her to the courtyard of my townhouse and she enjoyed hunting lizards, experiencing some of the fun of being a cat.
Living alone again for the first time in 10 years, I looked around for something to occupy my time, now that I was a retired gentleman. Looking at the map, I thought it would be good to get away for a month that summer and decided that Maine would be a good place to look. I found a place in Bangor on Airbnb that had a reasonable rate for the month of August, so I booked it. About that time, the coronavirus pandemic hit, but I determined to stay the course and left town for the three-day drive to Maine. Sasha, like most cats, hated the long car ride and fussed pretty much the entire trip. To her credit, she quickly acclimated to the rental in Bangor.
When we first got Sasha, all was well for the first year or so; then one day, we noticed that she’d quit eating. And drinking. This went on for a couple of days before I took her to the vet, who was puzzled by her condition. He put some kind of hydration pack under her skin, and the next day she started eating again – back to normal. For about 6-8 months that is – then it happened again. It was if she couldn’t get anything down her throat, so LM, who by this point was a registered nurse, got out the turkey baster, filled it with water and gently shot water down her throat. Next day, back to normal!
However, after a couple of weeks in Maine, that condition struck again, only I didn’t have a turkey baster with me. So I started calling around to local vets who, because of the pandemic, weren’t taking any new patients! I must’ve called eight places and kept getting the same response: no new patients. I finally found a vet in neighboring Brewer, Maine who could see her that afternoon. I drove there in a driving rain, only to find out that the door was locked and I had to call and have someone come out and get Sasha.
Soaking wet, I got back in the car and called the place; minutes later a girl came to get Sasha, but I wasn’t allowed in!
“But how will the vet know what’s wrong?” I asked. “Can you have the vet call me?”
“Yes,” came the reply. We were almost yelling at each other, it was raining so hard.
She took the carrier and went inside; minutes later, my phone rang.
“Hello, I’m Sandra the veterinarian. What is the cat’s problem?”
“She can’t eat or drink and this has happened before. The Tampa vet put a hydration pack in her and she came around within 24 hours.”
“Ok, that’s what I’ll do if warranted.”
Which is what she did and again, Sasha recovered. But by this time, I knew that this problem wasn’t just going to go away. We were going to have to figure out what was wrong. When we got home, the first call I made was an appointment for her at the local vet. A Dr. Garcia examined her.
“She’s got this little nodule on her throat here,” he indicated. I felt it and it was a small bump that I’d felt before.
“I can try and aspirate it to get a reading on it, but it’s so small that I may not be able to.” I encouraged him to try.
He came back a few minutes later and reported that he was unable to do so, and recommended a full biopsy, the estimated cost in excess of a thousand dollars.
“Ouch, that’s a lot. What if they find cancer?” He estimated the cost for the operation to be around three thousand dollars, then added:
“These surgeries are not always successful and could kill the cat.”
My mind reeled at the costs and implications.
“Is it too late to obtain pet insurance?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“Yes. Even though we don’t know what’s wrong with her, we do know that she has a life-threatening condition, which would prevent her from being approved.”
Well shit. Now what? By this point in my life, I was on a fixed income, no longer making the big cheese and $4,000 was a lot of money. And there was no assurance that it’ll be money well spent. With my decision really made for me, I decided to continue on as usual, with the turkey baster on standby.
And I had to use it, as her condition gradually worsened. Eventually, much like Bunny, she could no longer keep her food down and was wasting away. I called the vet; Dr. Garcia greeted me.
“Well, I’m afraid it’s time, she can’t keep anything down,” I said.
“Ok,” he said and instructed his assistant to prepare accordingly.
It’s tough to write about these scenes without reliving the heartbreak attendant with such actions. I sit here and cry as I type, remembering holding her while she died. They took her away and through tears I paid the bill and walked out with her empty carrier, sobbing like a child.
LUCY
One thing about us earthlings, we’re pretty resilient. We seem to be equipped to handle loss from death, perhaps because we learned early on that we too would die someday. And as I gradually repaired from Sasha’s death, I looked around for something to do, to get out of the house, take my mind off things. Casting about, I found a website online, Volunteer.gov., which puts folks in touch with federal agencies that recruit volunteers to work in their areas. I saw many opportunities for campground hosts in national parks and forests, where you’re given a campsite for a defined period of time in return for keeping up the grounds and bathrooms. One need of interest were site hosts, responsible for the upkeep of the visitor or nature center with accommodations provided. I found such an opening in New Mexico and had an enjoyable summer working for the Bureau of Land Management, at the Dripping Springs Natural Area in Las Cruces.
Upon returning home with my batteries recharged, my empty home got me thinking about another cat, so I perused the local humane society’s website. I eventually came across a Bengal female named Lucy, about a year old. After a few days of indecision, I drove over to the humane society to take a firsthand look. Just in case, I brought the carrier with me.
I had last visited the center when we put Bunny down; the staff and volunteers were kind then and helpful now. I was put in a small room with Lucy, a beautiful grey, black and white cat, quite a bit bigger than Sasha or Bunny. We seemed to hit it off and, after filling out a myriad of paperwork amid the constant din of barking dogs, Lucy and I headed home.
And we did hit it off — Lucy was clearly delighted and grateful to be out of that place and in a home. She adapted quickly and was my constant companion for the next eight months. While I enjoyed the company, I began to want another adventure, and once again turned to the Volunteer.gov website. I found an opening that sounded interesting: the site host for the Army Corps of Engineers’ Conservation Center at the John H. Kerr Dam and Reservoir in Boydton, Virginia, just over the North Carolina border. I corresponded with the ranger and she sent pics of their accommodations; it all sounded good and we agreed on a start date.
Knowing cats don’t enjoy long car rides, I started driving to places in town with Lucy a couple of weeks before leaving, trying to get her comfortable with being loose in a car. As Boydton was a full day’s drive from Tampa, we’d have to overnight in Raleigh before meeting with the site rangers the following day. It was clear the Lucy didn’t enjoy the car, but it was only for a day and a half, whereas Sasha did a full three days — I thought Lucy could handle it.
I was mistaken. Our day started out fine — she explored all of the gear I had strategically stowed in my SUV, her stuff included. I made a pit stop, and Lucy made an attempt to get out upon my return, but we continued on uneventfully. Until I got hungry and made another stop.
It was for a BBQ sandwich to go in the little town of Callahan, FL; I parked in the shade near a forest and went in for the sandwich. When I got back to the car, I failed to note where she was, and when I opened the door, she shot out, went under the car and into the woods. What happened next can best be described as a nightmare.
I called to her, but Lucy saw the woods as a chance to have some fun and be done with car riding. Florida woods aren’t friendly places to walk through, full of vines, thorns, palmettos and other unfriendly flora. I tried to stay near her as she ventured deeper into the woods, falling down every now and then in the slippery, sloping terrain. The temp was close to 100 and I was suffering from exhaustion after 8-10 minutes of chasing. I finally got close enough to get a hand on her, but grabbed her low on her back, not the nape of her neck, which is the place to grab a cat. She turned and bit me and got loose; I fell, bloodied, exhausted and defeated. She disappeared into the thicket, frightened by my clumsiness. I had lost her.
I looked to get out of the woods — I got my bearings when I heard cars on a roadway nearby and headed for it, through an extensive toiletry area of homeless people. When I got back to my car, I collected myself, figured out where I was and called the Sheriff of the county. They contacted their animal control person, who called me back immediately and showed up less than 10 minutes later! Her name was Nicky, and she was eager to help me find my beagle.
“My what?’ I asked.
“Your beagle. Dispatch told me you’d lost a beagle,” she replied.
“No, it’s a cat, a Bengal cat! I even spelled it out for the dispatcher.”
“Oops,” she said, checking her printout. “It does say Bengal, sorry.”
Nicky turned out to be a cat person too, and helped me look in the woods again and set up a trap in hopes Lucy would eventually get hungry. Still dazed and not knowing what else to do, I got back on the road, eventually meeting with the Corps staff the next day and moving into my residence.
I called Nicky that next night – she had checked the trap and had an opossum, but no Lucy. I stayed in touch with Nicky for the next month as she diligently checked the area for signs of the cat, dead or alive. I had to force myself to quit wondering what had become of Lucy and move on, absorbed with learning my new responsibilities.
At the one year mark, I contacted Nicky again, more to close the book on Lucy than anything else.
“No, no sign of any kind, including road kill,” she said. “I think she might have connected with one of the neighbors that border the forest.”
Hmmm. In a final effort to locate her, I got on Google Earth, found the restaurant in Callahan and zoomed in the on residences that bordered the neighboring forest. There were only a couple, but curiously, for one residence a phone number popped up. What the hell; I called and got an answering machine. I started to hang up but, continuing with what the hell, I left a message and my phone number. The next day, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Yes, Doug?”
”Yes.”
“My name is Amy, in Callahan. You left a message about a lost cat.”
“Yes, I did, only it was about a year ago. I was working with Nicky with your animal control office and she thought that maybe Lucy had found a new home.” I told her of my ordeal in the neighboring forest.
“Oh, sorry to hear that. No, I haven’t seen any stray cats, but my father’s house backs up to the forest — I’ll check with him.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it!”
And she did, calling back the next day to report that her father hadn’t seen any stray cats. She went on.
“I raise cats myself and I know how attached we become to them.”
“Oh, what kind do you raise?”
“Persians.”
“Ah, I had one of those once, they’re great!” I went on to tell her Sasha’s sad story. Maybe thinking back to Margaret’s sister in Chicago, I ended the call with:
“Well, if you ever have one that needs a home, I’m your man!”
And so I went back to my catless life. Until I got a text one day from Amy, saying a gal who bought a second Persian from her to keep the first one company now wants to rehome it and are you interested?
“Hell yes!” She gave me the contact info for Sally in Tallahassee. I contacted her immediately.
“Hello Sally? My name is Doug and I got your name from Amy in Callahan. She says you want to rehome a cat.”
“Yes, I do. He’s the half-brother of my first one Ollie, but they’re not getting along. Amy says you’ve had cats before.”
I readily told her my history with cats, ending with the sad plight of Lucy.
“Well, you sure know cats! Sorry about Lucy.”
VINNIE
She sent me some pics of ‘Vinnie’ and it was love at first sight. I told her that I was very interested in taking him.
“It’s a date! See you then!”
To be continued…
Originally from Detroit, Doug Guido graduated from Western Michigan University in Kalamazoo, after cramming a 4-year education into 6 years. Subsequently he set off on a Siddartha journey through North America in a ’64 Corvair Greenbriar camper van, covering 20,000 miles in six months. After arriving in Houston Texas, he entered the homebuilding field in the roaring ’70’s and ended up in Tampa in 1981. He has written short stories over the past thirty years, reflecting on various incidents in his life that he hopes are entertaining. His self-published memoir, I’m Only Living Once, is available in paperback on Amazon books.
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