Poor Rascal

          We lost one of our favorite cats this week. We lost Rascal.

          "What happened?" you ask.

          Sunday night a week ago, Mike was sitting in his recliner with the cats in his lap when suddenly he yells, "He peed on me!"

          "Who peed on you?"

          "Rascal!"

          Mike got up, dumping Rascal and Macchiato off, and I saw there was indeed a wet spot spreading on the leg of his jeans. "Get the blanket off there before it soaks through."

          I got out of my recliner, where I'd been playing games on my iPad, and went to pull the blanket from the seat of Mike's recliner. "There's blood in it!"

          Rascal had no other way to tell us something was wrong. In the morning, I kenneled Rascal with an empty litter pan so I could get a urine sample. By early afternoon, he hadn't peed despite trying several times and I called the vet.

          "One of our cats has got blood in his urine," I told Kelly when she answered the phone.

          "I don't have anything available until Wednesday," she said after looking at the schedule.

          "I've had him in a kennel all day but he hasn't been able to pee yet."

          "You can bring him in on an emergency if you want to. There's an extra $80 fee for that."

          "Really? Do you think he'll be okay until Wednesday?"

          "I'll ask Dr. Lori. She's with someone right now so I'll call you back."

          About 20 minutes later Kelly called back. "Dr. Lori says you can bring him in on an emergency but I don't have any appointments available."

          Rascal drank some water and threw it up. Rascal tried all day to pee and he couldn't. Tuesday he was worse. I knew he was worse.

          "I won't be surprised if he's dead by tomorrow," I told Mike Tuesday night.

          "Should we have taken him in on an emergency?"

          Hindsight is 20/20. If I knew then what I know now, I'd have tried harder to get him in to see the vet on Monday — or paid the money. But to Mike I said, "I think that an emergency fee during office hours is just legal extortion. If they could have gotten him in — they should have gotten him in." But I'm not bitter!

          Wednesday morning, at the vet's office, Dr. Lori walked in. "Good morning," she says.

          "Good morning, Dr. Lori. He's not doing well," I told her.

          Her eyes got real big. "Oh, I'm sorry. I know I didn't talk to you but I asked Kelly if it was a male or female and I thought he was a female."

          "Kelly never asked me what sex he was."

          Dr. Lori felt his belly and in two seconds had a diagnosis. "He's blocked. When was the last time he peed?"

          "Sunday night that I know for sure. And I don't think he's had anything to drink since Monday."

          "And you didn't call yesterday?"

          In my mind I'm thinking, Why would I? Out loud I said, "You said you couldn't get him in!"

          We talked about options and she gave him some pain medication. We tried the easiest thing first. Laser and massage to move the blockage so he could pee. It didn't work. They wrote up an estimate for surgery and when Jessica presented it to us, she started going over it line item by line item. Me? I was standing beside her looking at the sheet and my eyes go to the bottom line. I stabbed it with my finger. "Seven hundred dollars!"

          "And that's the low side," Jessica pointed out. "It could be more." And she showed me on the estimate where the variations were.

          "SEVEN HUNDRED TO A THOUSAND DOLLARS!" was all I could say. Even though I wrote that in all caps, I didn't raise my voice. At least, I don't think I did. I'm not always aware of it when in the heat of passion.

          "I'll leave you to discuss it."

          Mike and I sat and discussed it. "How do you feel about it?" he asked.

          My practical side said it's a lot of money for a cat, but I let my heart speak. "He's such a good cat and I love Rascal."

          "Yeah, me too."

          Then I let my practical side talk for a while. "On the other hand, if we do this, there's no guarantee it won't come back. You heard Dr. Lori. It could come back tomorrow or the next day or next week or maybe not for a year or two. And he'll have to be on a special diet for the rest of his life." I paused long enough for another thought to occur to me. "Steph had to put their cat down for the same thing."

          The Robinsons, our friends and neighbors, had gotten a yellow male from one of the first litters Mama Cat had after we'd gotten her. And they loved that cat. "Jonecca (their daughter) cried for three days after we put Casserole down," Steph told me.

          We were quiet, thinking our own thoughts. I loved how Rascal would share my desk chair with me. He'd jump up and scrootch around until I moved far enough forward in my chair that he could lay behind me. If he was already in my chair when I went to sit down, I'd move his feet and sit on the edge. Sometimes he'd have to pull a foot or tail out from under my fat butt but he never complained, he'd just purr his contentment.

          Mike loved how Rascal always wanted to sleep on him. Sometimes it seemed like the critters couldn't wait for Mike to sit down so they could pile on him.

          And our bed is always full of critters. Itsy and Ginger, Spitfire and Rascal.

          "What about Smudge?" you ask.

          Funny story. Smudge used to be a terror at night, climbing up on shelves and knocking clowns down. So we started kenneling him at night in Missy's old cat condo. It's got three shelves on three levels for him to lay on, he's got his own food and water bowls, his own litter pan. When I go to scoop his box and he hears the door opening, he comes running and wants to go in.

          "Smudge!" I'd admonish. "It's too early for bed!" Smudge loves his condo!

          Our cats and dogs are living, feeling creatures, with personality and quirks all their own. They don't just live with us, they're an integral part of our days. We take care of them and in return, they give us joy and laughter. But right now, with Rascal being so sick, they also bring us tears.

          Mike broke through my reverie. "What do you want to do?"

          "I want to try to save him."

          "If we do this we can't put the barn door on," Mike pointed out. That was something we already had in the works. A man came just the afternoon before to give us an estimate.

          I just shrugged an Oh well. 

          "All right," he agreed.

          Before long, Jessica came back out. "I told Dr. Lori you were hesitant because of the cost. We can make a few adjustments to make it cheaper. We like to do a blood test before surgery but we can do surgery without it. And if you take him home today — and keep an eye on him, we can do away with the hospitalization cost too."

          I smiled. I know I did. "Okay! Let's do it."

          A few minutes later Dr. Lori came to speak with us. "I'm glad you're going to give him a chance."

          "You wouldn't put one of your kids down because they got sick," Mike told her.

          She laughed. "Yeah, but with kids, you've got insurance. The next appointment didn't show up so we've got some time right now to take care of him. I'll call you this afternoon when he's ready to go home."

          Mike and I weren't home very long. Just long enough for me to walk across the kitchen and open the door to let the dogs out when my phone rang. PA VET the caller ID said. It was the vet. I was sure they were going to tell me he came through the surgery just fine, but I was wrong.

          "Hello," I answered.

          "Peg, this is Dr. Lori. I'm so sorry," she said and I knew it wasn't good news. "He had quite a large stone and I'd gotten it out when the tech monitoring his heart said it'd stopped. I tried to revive him but couldn't get his heart started again. I'm really sorry."

          I made arrangements to pick Rascal up and pay the bill. Mike is more upset about this than you may guess. He couldn't go with me to get Rascal nor help when I took care of his body. It gave me a few minutes on my own to cry a few tears, stroke his soft fur, and say goodbye to him.

          "It's all the vet's fault," Mike blamed. His heartbreak was easy for me to see.

          "Wait a minute, Mike," me, the voice of reason says. "Dr. Lori has never been anything but good to us and there's plenty of blame to go around. We could have paid the $80 for an emergency visit."

          And with our own guilt came a sleepless night.

          Mike was so quiet the next day, I was worried about him.

          "Can I make you some chocolate chip cookies?" His favorite.

          "No."

          "How about vanilla pudding?" He loves it warm.

          "No."

          "Well, what can I make for you then?" I didn't know what else to do to make him feel better.

          "Nothing."

          Sometimes we don't want to feel better. Sometimes we just want to wallow in our guilt, especially when we think we deserve it.

          And life goes on.

          Our house, down by just one cat, seems so much more empty. And you'll have to excuse me while I dry my eyes and blow my nose.

          How about some road pictures?

  

        

          We were on our way home, going past Williams Corners when I see something way out in the field. You're gonna laugh when you see how far away it is.

          Can't see it, huh? I circled it for you. 

           And me! With my bad eyes, saw there was something there! I didn't know what it was but I snapped a picture anyway. Sometimes I'm fooled and it's nothing but stumps or clods of grass instead of a bear or a plastic bag hung up on a tree when I think it's a hawk.

          "Mike, I saw something."

          "Where?"      

          "Back in that field. I think they're some kind of big birds." I'm busy pulling up the last picture on the screen of my camera and zooming in to look. "They are! Can we go back?"

          "You'll wreck my fuel mileage," he complains.

          "Please!" I implore.

          Mike turns around and I get another chance to 'shoot' these birds. They are so far away that even with my zoom out as far as it'll go and cropping the photo, this is the best I can get. 

           Someday, when I have an extra three or four or six thousand laying around, I'm gonna get me a big ole honkin' zoom lens.

          "Peg! Wait! What are they?" you ask.

          Oh, sorry. These, my loves, are Sandhill Cranes! I had no idea we had Sandhill Cranes here in the mountains of Pennsylvania. I Googled it and found a map of their migration routes, winter vacation area, and nesting grounds, and we are not on their map at all! 

          "What are they doing there then?" you wonder.

          I know, right!

          I called my Miss Rosie. "Miss Rosie! We have Sandhill Cranes here!"

          "I know," she told me. "Lamar saw them a couple of years ago out by the Walker's Farm."

          "I saw them out at William's Corners."

          "That's just over the hill from the Walkers. Maybe it's the same pair."

          Later, at the feed store, I was talking about seeing them.

          "I saw them out at Saxes Pond," the young gal told me.

          I guess I'm the only one who didn't know we had Sandhill Cranes!

          On the way home I took a picture of Saxes Pond for you.

          And more road pictures.

          "Stinkin' power lines ruin my pretty farm picture," I mumbled.

          And that's all the road pictures for this week — but don't be sad, I have some good news!

          "What's that?" you ask.

          I found the urns I couldn't find last week.

          "Where were they?" I know you wanna know.

          I'd taken them into the pantry and put them on a shelf — and that's where I've left them too. If I move them now I'll lose them again for sure!

          And that's not all of the good news either. I also found the cat flap. Remember when I asked you if you thought they might have carried it off? Well, it seems that's exactly what happened.

           Mike and I ran a pex water line from the water room, across the garage ceiling to and through the front wall and out to the patio so we have water out there. It was as we were putting it through the front wall that I looked down and saw the flap. It was just inside the pet door that goes from the garage to outside.

          "There it is!" I exclaimed.

          "What?" Mike asked.

          "The cat flap!" I picked it up and examined it. There was a gob of hair stuck near the slide lock. We're guessing it caught in the fur of a coon or possum and when he went through this flap it raked it off.

          So the cat flap started here, beside the door into the cat room.

          And ended up waaaay down there at the outer door.

          Now if only my tweezers would show up!

          Mike got to play with his new toy this week. I watched as he maneuvered this big piece of concrete until he had it loaded then he took it down to the pond and placed it for a bridge support.

          Then we hooked up the bridge...

...and Mike put it back in place over the little creek that fills our pond.

          Why did we move the bridge to begin with you may wonder.

          Mike defined the creek a little better.

          It was after we had the bridge in place that I saw the willows have sprouted. 

           I picked some of the pussy willows, or catkins, for my windowsill vase.

          I wouldn't bother picking them for myself, but I'd pick them for my wildflower loving girls.

          Something else that's blooming is the Coltsfoot. No, they're not Dandelions. The flowers come on first and after they've set their seeds, withered, and died, the large, distinctive leaf will appear.

         Flowers inside of flowers! 

  

           Our pond has a leak in it, maybe even more than one. Mike thought if he would back-blade as far as he could reach into the pond that maybe, just maybe, he could seal it.

          "I'm going to tell everyone you're killing my frogs."

          "They'll come back," was his only reply.

          As I sit here, writing to you, Spitfire jumped up behind me just the same as Rascal used to do. I scooted forward in my chair so he had a little more room. It's something he's never done before.

          Rascal, when he got fed up with all of my getting up and sitting down, would move to another chair where I kept a blanket for him. So far, that chair still remains empty.

          Our usual Thursday morning breakfast was postponed till Saturday morning this week. We left the house just before seven. When we pulled out onto the main road, I spotted this funny looking deer beside the road but it happened so fast that I never had a chance to take a picture.

          "Mike, you have to turn around and go back! I'm tellin' ya, I've never seen a deer like that one before!"

          Mike wasn't happy about it but he did turn around — and it was all for nothing! Or almost nothing. There wasn't enough light to catch a sharp image as we drove past at a hundred miles an hour and I didn't know that until we were back on our way to breakfast or I could have had Mike slow down. After Googling it I see there are other pictures of deer just like this one on the web.

          "Why did you postpone your breakfast?" you ask.

           Good question and I'm so glad you asked! Mike was in need of a breakfast buffet with all you can eat bacon. I mean, who doesn't, right! So we went to Bishop's Family Restaurant in the small town of Ulster. 

            The bacon was good, so was the orange juice. The cinnamon rolls were good too. Everything else was just okay. Except the sausage links. Mike didn't like them at all. On the way back to the Jeep, I could see something blue and green laying on the ground near the Jeep.

          "What is that?" I asked.

          "I don't know," Mike answered.

          We got closer and I could see what it was. "Two microfiber cloths!" They were still folded as if they'd just been washed. I picked 'em up, shook a couple of dried leaves from 'em, and tossed 'em in the Jeep.

          After breakfast, we headed on up to Sayre to do a little shopping. That stretch of road on 220 above Ulster is where a pair of Eagles nest. I'd read in the wildlife column of our newspaper that the Eagles would be sitting on eggs by this time of year. "Can we stop on the way home so I can take pictures of the Eagles?" I asked Mike.

          "We'll see," was what he said but I knew that meant yes.

          When I first arrived at the nesting site there was another couple there and the nest was empty.

          "She left about..." the lady looked at her watch. "...40 minutes ago."

          I didn't get good shots of the Sandhill Cranes because they were so far away and ever since then I've been saying, "The next time we get a few thousand dollars to spare, I'm going to get me a bigger lens!" And now here was an outfit right in front of me.

          "What's a lens like that cost?" I asked and totally felt inadequate with my dinky little lens. "Five or six thousand?"

          "Or more. This right here, the way it's set up is over ten thousand."

          In my mind, I just can't justify spending that amount of money on a hobby. "Do you make money from your photos?"

          She laughed and her husband laughed. "Oh, heavens, no. I just post them to Flickr."

          That's how it's spelled. F-L-I-C-K-R no E.

          "Aren't you worried about people stealing your photos?"

          "No. If they like them well enough to steal them, I consider it a compliment," she said.

          "Just as long as they're not making any money off them," her husband added.

          "I know, right!"

          During our conversation, we introduced ourselves. Although I'm very jealous of the fabulous shots Pamela gets, it wouldn't be practical for the type of photography I do.

          "You can't take this thing on a hike," she said.

          I told her about my Human's page and she not only agreed to let me put her on there, she gave me a great story to go with it. I know my Facebook friends and family have already seen it but there are a few of you who haven't — and it's worth sharing.

          "I might swipe a couple of your pictures for my blog."

          "Go ahead," she said. 

          Pamela gave me permission so if you haven't checked out the more than four thousand pictures she has up there, you wouldn't have seen the pictures that go with her story.

          "Photography is an addiction. They should probably have a group Photographers Anonymous because there's no question, you become addicted. I had always taken pictures but not in earnest. About four years ago, we had just gotten a new Sigma lens. It had snowed the night before, about an inch. It was pristine in our little back yard. I was looking out and there was a shower of feathers coming down. A Cooper's Hawk had caught a pigeon in mid-air. He went to the back of the yard, sat down in the snow, and for three hours proceeded to pluck and devour the pigeon. That was my first opportunity to practice with my new lens and from then on, I was hooked." 

          As we were talking, the female came back to the nest and our cameras started clicking away. This is the best my camera can do. Pamela is just about sitting in the nest with the Eagle!

          "What's she doing?" I asked.

          "Moving sticks around."

          We'd already decided that she didn't have eggs yet and Pamela is hoping to catch a picture of the pair mating. "Patience is 99.99% of photography," she told me. "I did get a nice picture of her calling to her mate though. I'll send it to you when I get home."

           And let's end this week with that.

          Until next time remember, you are all in my heart.

          Let's call this one done!