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.