Holiday Fig

Fig has made it through Christmas and will see us into the new year - reason enough to celebrate when he was given only a few weeks to live several months ago. He continues to slow, is a bit thinner, and has nodules under his skin, but has kept his healthy appetite for food, human company, and life in general.

He has taken to sleeping under our Christmas tree, fitting for the gift that is his presence in my life.

As we enter 2010, I look forward to continued life lessons from my intrepid feline friend. From Fig and me, have a very happy, healthy, peaceful, and prosperous new year.

Leaving a legacy

In the few months that I've lived with the knowledge that Fig has cancer and will probably not live to see another full year, I've thought about his legacy - the impact he has had on my life and the lives of others. He is a genuinely sweet spirit - never malicious nor one to hold a grudge, and yet he is most definitely his own cat, and relates to the world on his own terms. Obsequious he is not. He wants to love and be loved, to give his trust, to take in the world with all his senses. There is time in his day for running and leaping, and always time for a long nap. He lets me know when he needs his space, and when he wants to interact. No guile, just Fig. There is much to admire in his balanced way of being in the world, many good qualities worth emulating.

In the end, I will always think of Fig as the best kind of teacher - one who helps us learn by modeling, by being his own best self. In that rarefied light, how we can do other than see our own best selves and strive to hold on to that image?

In the past year, I've watched Fig make a true friend out of someone who never had a pet in his life, and who was generally uncomfortable around animals. Along the way this friend has discovered new depths of gentleness, tenderness, and patience, and has experienced his ability to love and communicate with an animal. What a wonderful legacy!

Even more wonderful is the ripple effect of positive experiences. That same friend has reached out to someone from his childhood, and as a result, a child on the other side of the world will be able to have an education. I think about the trajectory that child's life will have now, the choices that will be open to him, and how he will be able to care for his parents in their old age. One action, one contact, can have a tremendous impact on not just one person, but the people in that person's life also. It is at once humbling, sobering, and exhilarating.

Of course, I cannot attribute my friend's action to his relationship with Fig. But there is no need to completely discount it, either. Just like a flower blooming through the tiniest crack in a concrete wall, good will find the light of day, and we never know what path it may take.

As I reflect further, I realize that I have had the benefit of knowing Fig for over a decade, and I must ask myself how open to learning have I been during those years? So many people and animals have touched my life for the better that I feel a deep need to pass along what I have gained. What will be my legacy?

A not so silent meow

Fig usually communicates in a series of near silent "hahs" and a lot of body language - ear movements, tail swishing, and other meaning-laden gestures. Occasionally, when he is really desperate to be fed, he will emit a soft meow. Having lived with other cats who could have singlehandedly put the word "caterwaul" in the dictionary, I have always appreciated Fig's more considerate approach to communication. Still, once in a while, it's nice to be reminded that he does have a voice.

There is a very vocal orange tabby in our neighborhood that loudly demands attention whenever he sees me. Mango, as I've chosen to call him, is quite affectionate and will jump up on the hood of my car to more readily reach my hand, all the while meowing at full volume. One evening I introduced Fig to Mango. Fig immediately began calling out in a full-throated meow. Mango responded in kind, and the two of them had quite a conversation. Were they establishing/defending boundaries? Introducing themselves? Complaining about the state of the weather? I'll never know, but it was an impressive display.

It was interesting that Fig found his voice in the presence of another cat. He has a history of being a pretty solitary beast by preference when it comes to his own kind, but he certainly had a lot to say to his new neighbor. It made me think about people, and the rhythm of our own conversations - how some people tend to listen quietly, others prefer to dominate the conversation (sometimes, whether or not they have something to say), and some speak up only in certain situations. Sharing our thoughts, our words, can be a way of making ourselves known and of knowing, of reaching out and connecting with each other. Yet we can also draw our lines in the sand, push people away, or hit them over the head with a barrage of words. The former purpose requires engagement by both parties; the latter may be unilateral. It takes at least two people to build, but only one to aggress or destroy - a disturbing thought.

Winter approaches

The air is decidedly colder - there was ice on the plants, railing, and roof this morning. Winter is well on its way, and we pull on our sweaters, gloves, and caps as we venture outside.

Apart from his perennial curiosity about the front yard, Fig has not shown much interest in going outside for quite a while, preferring to spend his days curled up on the sofa or on his cushion under the dining table, near the heating vent. He is a little thinner, and is developing some bald patches on the backs of his legs where new fur isn't growing to replace the old. He is a little slower, and we can feel nodules under his skin. Still, he doesn't seem to be in pain, and his appetite for food, attention, and watching through the window is as strong as ever, so I hope that he will remain with us through the holidays. Winter may be upon us, but we don't have to succumb...not just yet.

Junk food junkie

Fig is a real junk food junkie. Earlier this year he was happily downing paper-thin sheets of dried seaweed from the Asian grocery store, and his fondness for bacon has been described elsewhere in this blog. A friend recently offered Fig a fried pork rind, and a new love affair was born. I don't know if it is the salt, the crunch, or the porcine echo redolent in those crispy nuggets that drives him wild, but he will happily hold them in his front paws when seated on the lap and munch them down. All he needs now is a six pack of Bud and a football game!

I hesitate to feed him such things, knowing they are not part of a wellness diet, but he enjoys them with such obvious relish that the quality of the days remaining to him seem more important, and I give in to his imploring eyes.

Turkey stuffing

Fig loves Thanksgiving. Roast turkey, in particular; he used to follow me about the kitchen all morning while I prepared the bird, hoping I'd drop a gizzard or two while he waited for the main event. One year I wrestled unsuccessfully to turn an especially large turkey part way through the cooking process and it slid to the floor; Fig's eyes were as large as the bird itself. For days after Thanksgiving he would take his post in front of the refrigerator door, as if willing the leftover turkey inside to leap into his mouth. There was always a brief mourning period when the last of the turkey was consumed, before the countdown to next year's Turkey Day began.

Yesterday I had the good fortune to dine with friends, so I didn't have the dubious honor of preparing and roasting turkey myself. They were kind enough, however, to send me home with a generous supply of sliced meat. Fig could smell the turkey the minute I walked through the door, and he began begging for it, despite the late hour. He has a special turkey radar, I think; it is quite impressive. Even this morning he bypassed his customary plead to go outside and strode expectantly into the kitchen, straight to the refrigerator.

So today, after stuffing himself with turkey, Fig had a long post-Thanksgiving nap, only to wake up and ask for more. Ask Fig to name his favorite holiday and it's certain he will look you straight in the eye and say "Thanksgiving!" Would that we all could answer with such clarity when asked what we want.

With a little help from my friends

Having a close, caring relationship with a pet is one of life's most joyful rewards. To be accepted by a member of another species, one with whom you do not even share a common language, is a small miracle. The companionship, comfort, life lessons, and amusement they provide are gifts worth the pain of their eventual loss. Still, the pain is not to be denied. And in some ways, knowing that Fig is going to die, just not knowing if it will be this week, next month, or next year, feels more difficult to handle than coming home to find that your pet was hit by a car or had a sudden stroke while you were gone. In the anticipation of Fig's death I have felt the pain of that loss nearly every day since his diagnosis. It is a two-edged sword, though, as I have also cherished, with more clarity, the gift of these moments with him. They are all the more precious to me, knowing that they are finite.

Last week Fig had some bad days - poor appetite, listlessness, excessive sleeping. I worried that his cancer had taken a turn for the worse, and I began grieving him even though he was still alive. I was very touched, therefore, when a couple of friends who follow this blog reached out and asked after Fig and me - to be sure that we were both okay. The golden thread of friendship became a lifeline, reminding me that while life is fragile, good friends are there to help us navigate the rough waters. And so, as we prepare for the Thanksgiving holiday, I know that I am most grateful for the friends - feline and human - who keep me company on life's journey. May all the blessings you have bestowed upon me be returned to you a thousandfold.

A turn for the worse?

Fig has been quiet the last two days, and his appetite has been poor, despite getting his steroid shot last night. Even his beloved Bonito flakes haven't tempted him much today. He spent most of the day sleeping in his crate, and asked to come back inside after only a short while on the back deck today. I worry that he might be in pain, that the tumor is growing larger or that his kidneys are failing to the point that he just feels too sick to be more active or want to eat much. It is possible that he is having a bad day or two and the steroid might kick in tomorrow, but according to the vet he has been living on borrowed time. Strange concept that, eh? When do you "give" the time back? When you die?

I feel despair and anger that I can't do more to help my friend. I also feel selfish, for I don't want to lose him. I am comforted when he gently bumps his head against me or purrs softly when I rub his silky cheek, and watching him charm others with his innate Figness brings a smile to my face on even the darkest of days. What a magical creature he is!

Please don't leave us yet, Fig. Your passing will break my heart.

On the move

On Sunday morning my housemate and I were busy packing in anticipation of the movers' arrival, and Fig took advantage of our distraction to slip out the pet gate, which we had left slightly ajar, to finally explore the cul-de-sac that he had been monitoring from the front porch all summer. Already in a mild state of panic at the prospect of not being completely packed before the movers came, my anxiety shot to new heights when I discovered Fig was missing. He had never been allowed to roam freely, and since he takes steroids he is more susceptible to infections. What if we don't find him? We are moving today, out of the area, and no one will be here to let him in if he finds his way home! I may never see him again! I felt as if I couldn't breathe, and my heart was pounding wildly as I walked up and down the street, walking behind houses, peering under neighbors' porches, all the while calling for Fig. Then I saw him - a flash of black and white bounding between houses at the end of the street - before he disappeared again. I called to my housemate, hoping the two of us could corner him, but he was not to be seen. I resumed my search and after some time my housemate called that he had found him. Joyfully I headed to where he was standing, expecting to see my beloved Fig cradled in his arms, only to learn that Fig was hiding deep in a corner under a neighbor's porch. Flashlights, broom handles, and all nature of cajoling did not budge him from his sanctuary, but eventually the sound of a packet of cat treats being opened lured him out, and we were reunited with Fig.

His moments of freedom were followed by some hours confined in his crate, let out only at short intervals to use the litterbox or get a drink, until we were at the new house and I could set up a space for him. As he has done in previous moves, Fig handled the change with more equanimity than I did, acting as if this was part of his daily routine.

In the past few days he has thoroughly explored his new home, which is much larger than the previous house. He has been more affectionate and playful, too, as though the stimulation of new sights, sounds, and smells is bringing out his inner Fig. Like people, cats are unique in the way they deal with changes. Some hide under the bed for days and refuse to eat. Others try to run back to what is familiar. And some, like my friend Fig, eagerly explore their new envionment and joyfully embrace it as their own. In the midst of a life rife with transitions on many fronts, I aspire to Fig's grace.

Winds of change

Today is another of those blustery days straight out of Winnie the Pooh - the wind is blowing branches and autumn's fallen leaves all about, and the air is crackling with dry energy. The weather seems to inspire Fig, who has had "whack attacks" the past two mornings, in which he bounds through the house from stem to stern like a demented rabbit. After his intense activity he finds a warm, comfortable spot to sleep, and within seconds he is lost to his dreams.

I have been keeping him inside the last few nights due to the cold nighttime temperatures, so I was surprised to see him eager to nap inside the house today, rather than in his favored crate on the front porch. Perhaps he senses that our days in this house are limited, and he wants to make the most of it. Cats can be incredibly sensitive to change, and as I've been packing boxes in anticipation of a move to a new house, he's been investigating each box carefully.

Fig is one of the few cats I've known who is possessive about his "stuff." Yes, cats can be territorial, but that usually applies to a favorite spot on the rug, the backyard, or the neighborhood, not to a scratching pad or a cat toy. Yet I have observed Fig to be noticeably relieved - that's the only word for it - after a move to a new house when he sees his stuff - scratching pad, favorite toys, bed, etc. - being carried inside the new place. After it is placed, he always runs over to use it, checking it out to make sure it was returned to him in good condition. I've joked that because he spent so many weekends before I adopted him on display at the local pet store adoption fair he had time to peruse and become a connoisseur of cat merchandise, but he definitely has a sense of what is his "stuff."

I hope that he will take to the new place with as much equanimity as he has exhibited in my last few moves. I had thought that my current house would be his last address, and I had even thought about burying him in the backyard, but happily he has lived long enough to make at least one more move. Now to designing his new space to keep us both happy!

Rain, rain, go away

It has been raining off and on for more than 24 hours, and it is driving Fig crazy. The thought of leaving Fig out in a cold storm is more than I can bear, so last night he slept inside like a civilized cat, despite his protestations to the contrary. Early this morning he pleaded to go out. It was only raining lightly, so I opened the door and he ran onto the porch. When he reached the unprotected section of the porch and the rain drops hit him, he turned around and gave me a disgusted look, as if to say "What is this? Make it go away!"


Sometimes I think Fig believes that people have power over the weather, just as we have mysterious power over lights, running water, and other functions within the house. We are both demigods and animated can-openers, the machinery behind the cat universe. I control the flow of water in the sink when I bathe him, so there is some logic, I suppose, in his thinking that I have equal control over the waterworks outside.

It is a strange relationship we share with cats. To them, I think, we are at once both gods and servants. But then, don't we do the same with those in positions of authority over us? We stand in line for hours in all kinds of weather just for a glimpse of a favorite celebrity, or proudly frame a letter from the White House, yet when our icons are caught in the midst of human frailties we are quick to condemn them, or rail against them when their opinions run counter to our own. And how we demand they serve us! One more concert, film, book, or the favor of an intercession with a government agency, a bit of pork for our industry, our city. Somehow, though, the feline approach seems more elegant, less disingenuous. "Yes," they seem to say, "you can indeed make food magically appear each day. So how about putting that skill to good use and opening up a can for me right now?" Ah, the honesty of living in the moment!

Whether to laugh or cry?

Fig's kidneys are slowly failing him. As their function deteriorates, they seem to be working overtime, for Fig has become a prodigious - and unpredictable - urinator. Sometimes I feel as though I am singlehandedly keeping the manufacturers of clumping catbox litter afloat, as I scoop out enormous clumps from his boxes on a daily basis. Along with an increase in volume has come a decrease in control, especially when Fig is picked up.

Recently a friend picked up Fig while we were in the kitchen, holding him under his front legs and supporting his back with the other hand. I glanced over and was dismayed to see a stream of urine spouting up and across the kitchen. "He's peeing!" I shouted, and my friend, caught by surprise, turned to face me, not knowing that Fig was hosing down the decks. The two of them had the effect of a fire hose. I jumped back as the stream narrowly missed me, and Fig was quickly carried over to the sink to finish his business. A good deal of mopping, scouring, and disinfecting followed, during which time I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. His incontinence will only get worse as his disease progresses. On one level, it is only urine, heavily diluted at that, and can be cleaned. On another level, though, it is a reminder that the day is coming when other systems will fail, and I will have to make a difficult decision. And, to be honest, it is sad to think that I cannot freely pick Fig up and hold him on my lap. At least not unless I am prepared for a warm, wet lap that instantly turns cold.

Hmm...do they make Depends for cats? What do other people do when their sick pets are constantly urinating, defecating, or vomiting?

Morning Becomes Fig

Fig is definitely a morning person. If I am not out of bed by 6:30am he will begin scratching at the door, sometimes pushing it open and trotting into the room with his plume of a tail held high. He then looks at me with big round eyes and gently chastises me with a series of faint "hahs." He is at his friskiest and most affectionate in the morning, excited to greet the new day and take up his sentry post on the front porch. Even though the mornings have been chilly of late, Fig is eager to partake of them, seemingly impervious to the cold that sends me running for warmer clothing.



He is certainly a different creature by night - much less affectionate, more fearful, and drowsy. Night is something to be endured - preferably slept through - until it is time to get up and go outside again. Of course, on those evenings when the temperature is mild enough for him to sleep in his crate on the porch he is rarely in it; I have observed him watching the nocturnal activities of our local fauna with great intensity. In those instances I suppose that the stimulation of being outside supercedes his morning orientation.



I wonder if people and animals take on each other's orientation to morning or evening. I am a morning person by nature, and delight in the sight of Fig happily chasing a bug around the porch in the cool sunshine. In those moments, we are one in the joy of a new day.

Grateful for today

Fig has been having a spate of good days, and I am thankful to be able to share them with him. He has been affectionate, wanting to be around me, and quite frisky. He pushed the bedroom door open the last two mornings and jumped on the bed to remind me that there is more to life than lolling in bed. He seems to relish being outside on his deck, and scampered about this morning. I even thought he might make a leap for the railing, but he drew short of doing that. It is wonderful to see him so full of life, to feel his warmth against my skin. Life is precious.

Consumer Beware?

This week Fig is due to have his meds - the chemo capsule and the steroid injection, both of which are administered at home. Last month, at the vet's recommendation, I took him in for a full blood panel before they gave me the medication to take home. It was a stressful experience for both Fig and me, and what we learned was that the cancer is continuing to interfere with his kidney function and that the treatment is not damaging his liver and white cell count, at least not enough to discontinue treatment. The vet told me then that she would probably only need a single blood test, rather than the full panel, next month. She also thought that Fig had another 4 months at the outside.

So I called the office to see what I needed to do before getting his meds, and was directed to the vet's voicemail. She left me voicemail in return later that evening, telling me that I should bring in Fig for another full blood panel, and that maybe next month we could do just one blood test. My hackles went on full alert - this was sounding suspiciously like a sales job to me. If the vet thinks my cat is dying within a short timeframe anyway, why encourage me to stress the poor animal and incur even more expense for more blood tests? And why didn't she ask me how Fig is doing before deciding he needed yet another full panel when she had told me the previous month that he would only need a single blood test?

In truth, Fig seems to be doing fine. The slight gait irregularities, hints of palsy, and occasional remote/strange behavior I observed shortly after his diagnois have all disappeared, and he walks and acts quite normally. His appetite can fluctuate, but overall is fine. He has normal bowel movements, and his eyes are bright and clear. This morning he was full of energy and bounded all over the house like a rabbit. So why does he need to be tested again?

I think that this vet just wants to squeeze as much money out of me as possible while Fig is still alive. After all, I won't be a source of revenue for that animal hospital once my pet is dead. It doesn't appear that she cares one whit about my cat, or how stressful it is for him to be hauled to her office to be poked and prodded. When I originally discussed treatment options with her and another vet at this hospital, the emphasis was on treatments that could be administered at home, to eliminate that stress.

When your pet has a terminal diagnosis, I think one can be more susceptible to guilt and pressure to spend money on tests and treatments, as if cash will chase the specter of death from your doorstep. I've decided not to buy into it, but rather will let Fig's appearance and behavior tell me if the treatment is harming him. So far, things look good.

Appetite and the great outdoors

Fig's appetite has been a bit off since yesterday. The weather turned cold suddenly, after several days of unseasonable heat, and I brought him in off the porch at night, worried that he might be more susceptible to illness since he is being treated with a steroid. I know he prefers to be outside as much as possible, so I wonder if being denied unlimited access to his outdoor sanctuary has diminished his food lust. We often speak of being in the great outdoors as giving us an appetite; perhaps the same is true for cats. They are, after all, wild creatures at heart, even though they enjoy their warm spots to nap and favored treats to eat. A normal appetite is but one outward signal of a healthy, balanced state. When a domestic cat or a human being connects with nature, it is possible we connect with our true inner nature - the artifice of forced domesticity fades into the background and we are awakened to our appetite for life. And to live, we must eat.

But today, even bacon and his treasured bonito flakes have not tempted Fig. He seems interested in food, but won't eat. He is restless, and paces back and forth between the house and the porch, as if he isn't sure which world he wants to be in. As I write this, he has chosen to settle behind me on the back of the sofa. Hopefully he'll dream of bounding through tall grasses in his beloved outdoors, and wake up ready to devour his prey.

Fig Camp

Last week I had the opportunity for a brief escape to the Sierras, and a friend kindly agreed to take Fig for a few days. Fig is a very mellow traveler - he climbs into his crate without much fuss and sleeps in the car, so it was no trouble to get him over there. Since there are other cats in the house where he was staying, he remained in my friend's bedroom. Windows on two sides with low sills provided him with hours of entertainment, and his appetite didn't suffer one bit. Neither, it seems, have his territorial tendencies. When I called in for a Fig report, I was told that he had awakened the household quite early in the morning when the two other cats began pawing at the bedroom door. Fig became agitated and ready to defend his turf. When my friend opened the door to shoo the cats away, one of them bumped into the other and the two of them indulged their fight instinct with each other while rolling down the hallway. Unfortunately, they had riled up the dogs that share the house, so the cats beat a hasty retreat down the stairs, followed by the dogs. The barking, cat shrieks, and sounds of frantic scrambling served as an instant alarm clock for the entire household. I heard that Fig was beside himself with laughter and pleased as punch at being the catalyst.

As much as I love Fig, it was good to take a short break from worrying about and tending to him. And I was that much happier to pick him up, laugh about his exploits, and bring him home.

He is looking good these days, and acting normally. I don't know if this is the last hurrah before the cancer worsens, or if the medicine is working, but I am grateful for it. Perhaps it will last well into fall and winter. One can always hope.

Feline discrimination

I've heard that felines are discriminating animals - as a species, they have a reputation for being finicky eaters, for example, and they don't blindly offer their affection with the eagerness of many of their canine brethren. However, I feel compelled to share an example of discrimination against cats, namely in housing. Recently I have been searching craigslist for a new place to live, always checking the box for "cats allowed" in my search. One place looked promising but the rental agent wasn't sure about the owner's pet policy. Turns out the owner will accept dogs but not cats. I don't understand why, when pet owners are often charged exhorbitant pet deposits and sometimes even pay extra "pet" rent for the privilege of keeping their extended family intact. To be sure, there are irresponsible pet owners, but there are all kinds of irresponsible people in the world, and in my experience, people who open up their hearts and lives to pets can be just as stable and responsible as non pet-owners. To me, a house is truly a home when a four-legged shares the space with me.

Fig is old, neutered, and certainly not about to tear up the walls, engage in endless caterwauling, or otherwise commit mayhem. He just wants a quiet, peaceful place to be with me and live out what is remaining of his life. Is that too much to ask?

Today, the world feels just a little bit colder to me.

To know or not to know

I know that Fig is going to die, almost certainly within the next 12 months, probably within the next few months. In a way that knowledge is a gift - it gives me time to prepare for his death, to make the most of the time I have left with him, to come to terms emotionally with losing him. I remember when my mother died, and it was very different. She had surgery for lung cancer and seemed to be recovering when she took a sudden turn for the worse and never made it out of ICU. She died within 2 months of her surgery, and I never saw it coming. Much of that time she was on a respirator, so she wasn't able to talk. And there were so many things I wanted to ask her, so many unfinished conversations between us.


To lose my mother was an awful, defining moment - the severing of a spiritual umbilical cord that left me alone, baptized in the realization that life is precious and too fleeting to not honor the gift of each moment, each connection with another. Just as light and dark together give visual form and texture to the world around us, life and death are bound in their own symbiotic dance of meaning. Knowledge of Fig's mortality forces me to wring as much as I can from each moment we have left together; priorities are clarified dramatically when impending death casts its shadow across the face of life. Fig's incontinence is relegated to the position of mere inconvenience, while the sight of him bounding up the stairs in the morning to greet me is an occasion for great joy and gratitude for another precious day.

And while I still catch myself getting caught up in petty grievances more often than I would like, I took from my mother's death the lesson that to spend time harboring grudges or indulging in unwarranted anger at perceived slights is to dishonor life, a foolish expense with no lasting reward. What lessons, I wonder, will I take from Fig's death?

The Power of Communication

Now and again I stop to marvel at how effectively animals and people can communicate, especially considering that we don't share a spoken language. Fig is no slouch in the communciation department, and he doesn't even use feline verbal language, except on very rare occasions. His primary voice is the silent meow, a breathless "hah" to signal that he wants attention - usually food or to be let out onto the porch. He uses his plumed tail to beckon - if he wants to be fed, he will find the nearest available human, walk up to them, and combine his silent meow with a soulful look. Then he will turn around and head for the kitchen, slightly twitching his tail and stopping at the doorway to be sure he is being followed. When he engaged in this behavior with a houseguest, she told me that Fig was trying to "take her out." Not knowing the context of her remark, at first I thought she worried that he was going to attack and kill her. Too many gangster movies, I guess. When I understood what she meant, I was impressed yet again by Fig's cross-species communication savvy.

Fig also knows how to galvanize people (namely me) into action. As his kidney disease has progressed, he has the occasional "accident," sending me scurrying for the cleaning solution and an armload of paper towels. Now, if I am a few hours behind on the litterbox cleaning schedule, he will saunter over to a bookcase or other spot and begin sniffing intently, with one ear cocked back, all the better to hear when I've gotten his message, grabbed the scoop, and headed for the litter box.

The School of Fig

What is it about bonding with animals that makes us more human? Do they teach us by example? I've lived with pets all of my life, and save for one german shepherd who used to slink off the sofa with averted eyes and guilty posture every morning, I have been struck by their authenticity and capacity for returning love without game playing. Fig is an exceptional companion in that regard. Even during periods when I had extensive business travel, he never gave me the cold shoulder when I returned home, but was always genuinely glad to see me. He enjoys meeting new people and is not one to hide under the bed when company comes calling. His early experience of being abandoned by his first owner didn't make him bitter and mistrustful of people; he is always ready to forgive and forget. He asks for what he wants, as best he can with his body language and silent meows, with perfect trust that I will provide it. There is something immensely calming about living with a being who takes each day as it comes, with no worries about the future, no need to prove himself, just an unapologetic ability to enjoy the simple pleasures of life - sleeping in a sunny spot, eating favorite foods, watching the world from his perch, and having his cheeks rubbed. Obviously life is more complicated for humans, but still we have much to learn from our four-legged companions.

Back to the vet

A week has gone by without a word - a humbling testament to how quickly time marches on when we are busy living it. Last Tuesday Fig went to the vet for the blood panel needed before he could receive his next chemotherapy medication. I hate to stress him by taking him there, but this seemed necessary. They drew his blood and we waited...and waited...and waited for the results. In that instance, time crawled as I worried about Fig's stress level, about what the results would be, and what our options would be. At last the doctor came out with a dizzying array of colorful charts that essentially told me:
1) Fig's kidney function is continuing to deteriorate due to the cancer (it is still growing)
2) His liver function and white blood cell count are still good (he can have more chemo)

I caught myself feeling disappointed that the chemo wasn't stopping the cancer. He looked and acted so much better than before we started it - he has an appetite, his coat is still glossy, his eyes still clear, he is still alert and even plays after having some catnip. How could he not be getting better? Ah, the human proclivity for hope and denial!

Then we discussed options. I asked about the more aggressive chemo approach. Sadly, I learned that it would require weekly hospitalization for hours while an IV dripped the chemicals into him. This is where the quality of life issue comes in, since Fig would be miserable spending one whole day of each week he has left on earth being at the vet with a tube stuck in him. He might even have another seizure or stroke, and become debilitated or even dead as a result. Clearly, this approach does not seem an option for Fig. So we opted to take another capsule home. The pharmacy technician gave me a pair of blue latex gloves with the capsule - just to drive home how toxic is the substance I am putting in his body. I feel like a poisoner, but shove the capsule down his throat and wait until he swallows. I continue to hope that he will outlast the vet's prediction of 1-4 months left.

I have been wondering if, on some level, Fig knows that he is going to die. He wants to spend nearly all of his time on our front porch, watching the birds, cats, and neighbors; it's as if he wants to soak up every bit of experience and stimulation possible, making up for years spent indoors. And even in food, he wants constant variety. I have to mix wet food of different flavors and dry food with the bonito flakes to tempt him. These days I have 3 or more tins of different cat food flavors open in the refrigerator at once to accommodate his need for diversity in meals. One night my friend and I took him for a short walk - it was a mild evening and the night sky was sparkling with stars. After a block he ensconced himself on the warm asphalt and regally watched the bats flying overhead, listened to the crickets, and quietly enjoyed our company. I am glad that we are able to spend these moments together. Glad, too, for the miracle of technology that allows us to capture his moments and antics on video - memories of Fig that will outlast his all-too-brief passage on this mortal coil.

Hard Truth

I took Fig to the vet today. They wanted to do a blood panel before dispensing his monthly chemo capsule. It's not hard to get him into his crate these days - he seems to think of it as his sanctuary - but at the other end, it can be difficult to get him out of it. Especially after he's been spooked by hearing a myriad of dogs barking and trotting by us. This time I had to upend the crate and pour him onto the stainless steel table. One woman held him while I rubbed his head in a vain attempt to distract him from the needle being inserted in his neck to draw blood. We all got through it, though, and he was happy to scramble back into his crate afterwards.



Then we sat in the lobby to wait for the results. Isn't it odd how anxiety distorts time? It felt like days passed before the vet came out with a sheet of colorful graphs comparing his baseline tests to the ones done today. His kidney function is somewhat worse, due to the cancer, the vet said. The good news is that his white cell count, his liver - all are fine, which means that he can continue with the chemo. I asked how long she thought he had, acknowledging that there are no guarantees. She said that renal lymphoma moves quickly, and that he probably doesn't have more than 2-4 months, although it's possible he might live another 6 months.



Now I wonder if I asked the right question, for what do I make of the answer? He will die of this disease well before the 5-8 year window I thought we had before he got sick. So does the amount of time he has left matters? Or is it the quality of time he has left that is important? How does a cat value its life? For Fig, perhaps, the answer lies in the number of birds and other creatures he observes from his post on our front porch, or the amount of bacon we give him from our plates in the morning, or how long we gently rub his cheek in just the right spot. Yet I truly don't know.



I was disheartened by the vet's report, though. Since Fig has seemed better since we started treatment (more of an appetite, more normal activity levels, etc.), I was thinking that he might be a candidate for the more aggressive chemo treatment than the one we are using. I've been told that treatment hits the cancer harder than the capsules do, so he might have more time with that treatment protocol. But the vet explained that it would require Fig to spend whole days at the hospital on an IV drip. Given how stressed he gets by just a short visit to the vet, it doesn't seem that given a choice, Fig would choose that treatment for himself; it doesn't feel right to make that choice for him, just for the possibility of extending his existence.

Bath Day

Generally Fig gets a bath about once a week - it keeps the dander at a mostly manageable level, and ensures that the spots he doesn't get around to cleaning too often remain sweet smelling. I partly fill up the kitchen sink with warm, soapy water and line up several towels on the counter, then bring Fig over and lower him into the water. We've experimented with a variety of cat shampoos - for shaggy cats, scratchy cats, cats longing to exude an organic aura, for cat owners with allergies - each one costing 3 to 5 times the price of any shampoo I've ever used on my own head. He usually suffers in silence while I soap him up and rinse him with the spray, then use a washcloth on his face and ears. Sometimes he seems to enjoy the finish, when I wrap him up in a couple of bath sheets and gently rub him dry while holding him on my lap, although he rarely allows me to dry him completely, preferring to jump off my lap halfway through and go through an elaborate ritual of shaking each leg in a comical dance before settling down to lick himself dry.

Fig has never been a very difficult cat to bathe, especially not compared with the Maine Coon cat I had to bathe regularly for her dermatitis - she exhibited superhuman strength when it came to wriggling out of my grasp at bathtime. He showed a little more spunk than normal today, though, even growling at me while I rinsed him. I'll take that as a sign that he is feeling more himself, even if it makes bathtime a bit more challenging.

At last Fig emerged from the towels, did his dryoff dance, and happily made his escape to the warm sunshine on the front porch, where he continued his surveillance of the neighborhood.

The Baconator

Fig is a bacon slut. No matter where he is or what he is doing, you can count on him to charge into the kitchen when he smells bacon cooking and park himself at your feet, willing you with his eyes to drop a piece. He'll turn up the most delectable pieces of salmon in favor of bacon, he'll walk away from a meal in progress to follow the bacon to the dining table, and he is your instant friend when you have a piece of bacon in your hand.

Does he think about bacon in the afternoon or evening? Does he dream of chasing down bacon-filled mice? Or is it just a morning phenomenon? Ah, the deeper mysteries of Figness.

Alert Fig

Decisions, decisions

Fig seems to be responding well to his second steroid injection, which I gave him last Saturday. His appetite is normal, and he has put some weight back on. He is active and alert, and doesn't seem to be in any pain. I can look at him and momentarily forget his diagnosis.

So, the time is at hand to decide about his second chemo treatment. The vet wants me to bring him in for another blood panel to see how the first treatment, nearly a month ago, has impacted his white blood cell count before giving him another dose. He warns that going ahead without the test could be risky, should his count be too low. I see the sense in that, but remember the experience of his first panel - he got so stressed out that he became nonresponsive and was drooling; the vet thought he might have had a seizure. Is that risk more acceptable than the risks inherent in not testing him? To compound the equation, there is the cost of the test - not insignificant. I am fortunate to have a friend who is willing to share the cost with me, but it is still a consideration. It shouldn't be (guilt is telling me that a responsible pet owner will have the resources needed to provide whatever treatment her pet needs), but it is (reason is asking me if I can afford expensive lab tests for a cat with an incurable disease when I have postponed some routine, but expensive tests for myself this year out of financial considerations).

The other question casting a shadow over this decision is the impact it will have on Fig. Will the chemo weaken him, will it make him feel sick? After the first treatment we had to contend with bouts of constipation and diarrhea, alongside his unpredictable incontinence. It wasn't fun forcing pumpkin down his throat; he and I both ended up with as much pumpkin on our outsides as went into his insides, and I know he didn't understand that I was doing it for his own good. Thank goodness the pumpkin worked, though, in conjunction with a stool softener. Better a more gentle approach than a harsher one, I think, given his health.

So, given his seemingly improved health, should I try the more aggressive chemo or stay with the moderate one? Will the more aggressive chemo give him more time? What will the quality of that time be? What matters to Fig? What is the impact of all this on us?

The fact that euthanasia is an option with pets, unlike people, both simplifies and complicates the basis for making health care decisions. When our beloved companions seem to be suffering and treatment is either not efficacious or affordable, or when the burden of caring for a sick animal overwhelms us emotionally, physically, or financially, we can "put them out of their misery." And perhaps, even feel noble for having made such a difficult decision. I'm not kidding myself about the difficulty of that decision, either - it is no small thing to decide to end a life, even if it is the life of an animal. Hopefully that decision is a long way off.

For now, I will probably opt for the blood test, and based on the results and the vet's recommendation, decide to continue with the moderate chemo or try the more aggressive chemo. But this time I will insist that the vet allow me to remain with Fig while they draw his blood, rather than allow them to take him to a back room where he is cut off from me. I know my presence calms him, so I owe him that much.

Fig

About Fig

I met Fig at a pet adoption fair a decade ago. I was actually looking for a kitten, a companion to help Missy, our other cat, shake off the depression she developed following the death of her companion. Although losing Tintalle, a friend for 17 years, was too open a wound to yet think about adding another to our household, I couldn't bear to see our remaining cat languish in depression - she had stopped eating and was pulling her fur out - so there I was. There was one kitten available that day, but it had already been adopted. One other cat interested me. He was grown, a large black and white domestic longhair with a sign posted on his cage: "Keep your fingers out! I bite!" He looked more miserable at being in such a noisy public place than dangerous, so I reached my fingers inside and rubbed his soft cheek. I felt the rumblings of a purr as he rubbed back against my hand, and I knew I had found a new friend. An application, interview, and some preliminary visits later Fig was home.

The cat rescue group told us that he had been found half-starved under some pipes beneath an apartment building in town. Apparently he had been abandoned by his previous owner when he left the building. His early experience didn't seem to dampen his ability to give and receive love, however, as Fig and I bonded quickly and deeply. To this day, he loves people, and happily greets visitors to our home with a swish of his stately plumed tail and a keen eye for potential treats.

Apart from some dental work and regular vaccinations, he has not needed much veterinary care, and always took to new situations with great equanimity. In November the only thing that came up during his exam was a borderline heart murmur. So at age 12, I assumed that he would be with us for another 5 at least. When I observed weight loss and a total loss of appetite, though, I knew something was seriously wrong. After an ultrasound, blood panel, and biopsy we learned that it was renal lymphoma.

There are days when I rage against the unfairness of the cancer, striking such a sweet, innocent creature. And there are days when I weep at the realization that he is going to leave us, probably much sooner than I had expected. I listen to the vet, with his warning that even with treatment, Fig may only have a few months left to live. I read about other cats with renal lymphona, and cling to stories such as that of the woman whose cat with a similar diagnosis lived for 2 full years beyond her projected demise. And then I agonize over what is the right thing to do for him: let the disease progress naturally? Fight it with steriods and chemotherapy? Moderate chemo or the more aggressive version? How will it impact the quality of his life? And how will I decide when, or if, euthanasia is the right option?

But while these questions hang over my head, there is still the business of daily living. Fig still expects to be fed, let out on the porch, cuddled. Last night he actually ate some catnip and played with my partner - something he hasn't done in weeks. Clearly the steroids are making him feel better, at least for the moment.

It starts

My friend is dying. Not without a fight, though - he has already lived a week beyond the 2-week window the vet gave him on that black afternoon he calmly informed me and my best friend that my cat has renal lymphoma, inoperable and incurable. To let him die without a fight was unthinkable, so we opted for the recommended treatment of steroid injections and chemotherapy capsules, not knowing if he would be around for a second round of treatment. But he is with us still, his voracious appetite for observing life from our front porch and devouring plates of cat food garnished with bonito flakes belying the cancer that is growing inside him. And so, to honor his spirit, and to chronicle this last phase of our life together, I am writing this blog. Perhaps I will learn a bit more about loss, death - and life - along the way.