Cat Got My Tongue

Hannah, after feeling the earthquake.

Where’d the last month go?

After my post about taking Hannah and Sam to the vet, life seemed to get a little more than crazy, beginning with Maine’s 4.0 earthquake on October 16, which caused the garret to shake quite noticeably.

Hannah was on edge for hours, anticipating an aftershock, while Sam simply went back to playing.

Mother nature struck the east coast again two days before Halloween with Hurricane Sandy. Fortunately, the garret never lost power, nor did it sustain any damage, though it did sway quite a bit due to the high winds. I was saddened to see so many places I knew as a girl growing up on Long Island ravaged by the storm, with some areas obliterated. Many of my friends in New York and New Jersey are still without power. We’re hoping for a speedy recovery for all who’ve been so badly affected.

When what we’ve always had is taken from us, our lives are shaken. Our sense of how the world works, our daily routine, is turned upside down. It’s during disorienting and grief-laden times like these that it’s important to remember what we do have, what we can hold onto: our connections with others, both human and animal.

This past week, after getting the flu shot, I became quite ill, which meant I was stuck in the garret for many days. Hannah and Sam kept me company: Hannah hopped up beside me on the garret chaise, where she curled up for hours, purring and nudging her head and paws into my arms. Sam, on the other hand, provided comic relief, entertaining himself (and me) by dashing back and forth through a toy tube. For the video, click here.

As these November days bring us closer to Thanksgiving, I’d like to express my gratitude to the family and friends who are a part of my life, to Hannah and Sam for teaching me every day to appreciate the little things, and to all the readers who keep tuned in to the Hannah Grace blog. Keep your comments coming.

And for another Sam video, click here.

– TLS

Please share what you’re grateful for in the comment box below!

To the Vet Clinic We Go

Who doesn’t dread the annual vet visit? This morning, we had Sam’s. And Hannah came along for her three-month liver level blood test re-check. Ten minutes in, my shirt was covered with a full coat of orange tabby fur.

I removed the carriers from storage yesterday evening to reinforce a “we come in peace” vibe, but Sam didn’t buy it. He hid behind the cat tree for hours, from time to time letting out a few tiny mewls that sounded like “no, no, I won’t go.” He came out of hiding only when it was time for his nightly dessert of crunchy duck and green pea kibble, and even then he was wary, snatching a mouthful and then dashing into my room and under the bed. Hannah, on the other hand, hopped up beside me on the chaise and purred to her heart’s content. I don’t know if that was because the carrier didn’t bother her, or because she was happy Sam wasn’t bothering her.

Sam: “I’m NOT going to the vet.”

This morning, I knew Sam was going to sound like a human being who was in the throes of bloody murder. But somehow I thought it wouldn’t be that bad. I put Hannah in her carrier first, backing into the bathroom and lowering her down into a soft over-the-shoulder bag she fits in quite prettily. Because Sam, when confined, tries to ram his body to freedom with a running leap, the hard plastic carrier with the metal door is reserved for him. This morning, he whimpered and cried when I approached, and, although I spoke to him quietly, he took out his hind claws in fear. I had to scruff him in order to prevent injury to myself and to him from all his flailing of limbs. Then he began to scream.

His tones were blood-curdling. As quickly as possible, I went down the Alfred Hitchcock-steep no-railing garret stairwell with them both, hoping the neighbors weren’t thinking I was actually murdering someone. When I got them both and myself into the car, I took a few rounds of breaths before turning the key in the ignition. Such screaming triggered the adrenaline rush and thought-racing symptoms that characterize my PTSD.

The garret living room furniture, during my attempts to get Sam into the carrier.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” I said. “We’ll be home soon.” Then Hannah began to whine. “I don’t like this either,” I said, as if they could understand. Then I shifted the car into gear and drove the few blocks to the clinic.

I’d brought a sample of Sam’s stool in a couple days earlier, having found a suspicious worm on the garret bathroom floor and again where Sam had been sitting in the living room. It wasn’t roundworm, that I knew (from having seen one of those last year when he tested positive), but I needed to be sure it wasn’t another kind of parasite. Thankfully, the results were negative, though Dr. Parker, our vet, said it might be a false negative if the infestation weren’t yet too far along. For precautionary reasons, he gave Sam a dewormer. Now I get to watch for (more) worms. If I see any, Hannah will have to be pilled as well.

The vet tech came and went with Hannah, and returned her while Dr. Parker was examining Sam: all was well. Sam climbed up on my shoulder then, and tucked his nose into my neck and wailed while we discussed his at times aggressive behavior with Hannah, and how to manage it. I told Sam he could go back into the carrier then, and he started to climb the walls (literally), and scream. For a moment, however, he found comfort in the scale, which stated he weighed a healthy 11.3 pounds.

After what seemed like forever, the visit was over. As I stood at the checkout counter to pay my bill, I thought I smelled something foul. Was it Sam’s breath? Dr. Parker had said I was brushing Sam’s teeth well. Perhaps it was a wet dog. When I got into the car, I smelled it again. It was raining outside, I told myself, it could just be my musty old car. But I knew: someone had pooped.

Back at the garret, I let Hannah and Sam out of their respective carriers, and there I saw Sam’s panic-induced diarrhea in the darkness of the large plastic crate. He somehow managed to pile it all deep in the back, under his leopard-printed foot rug.

I’m sure Sam will forgive me… at least by dinnertime. Hannah, meanwhile, nudged her forehead into my leg a few times when I collapsed on the living room floor. We’ll find out her liver test result tomorrow. For now, it’s nap time.

– TLS

How do your pets react when you bring them to the vet? How do you cope? Share your experiences and comments below.

Mir(c)a(t)cle (The Cat Miracle)

Hannah & Sam caught cuddling on the garret chaise.

I never thought it would happen…Hannah and Sam sitting together on the garret chaise…and sitting on the chaise, cuddling.

But, one night this week, when I was just about to get into bed, Sam called me over:

“Look!” he whispered so as not to jinx it, “Look!”

And so let this be known, and believed: sometimes the real closeness and companionship we yearn for really does come into being.

We just have to be open, and wait. – TLS

Share your pet miracle story in the comment box below.

Naughty No More

My days tend to be crowded with “productive” things to do: preparing for the upcoming teaching term, going to PTSD treatment, working out at the gym, paying the bills, picking up cat food, revising my new book. So I decided August would be the month I would finally get myself a “fun” project: clicker training.

Clicker training is something I’ve tried once before – a few years ago, as a volunteer at the Animal Rescue League, I went to a one-time seminar on the subject, specifically geared towards training cats for adoptability: acceptable behavior as well as cute tricks. Dogs are known for doing quite well with the clicker; cats are a little more difficult to train, but it’s done. At the time, I brought home my complimentary clicker to see if I could train Hannah to sit on my lap. As soon as I depressed the clicker, however, Hannah flinched at the sound. Some cats need a few clicks to get used to it – pair the sound with a delicious treat and they’re supposed to associate pleasure with the clicker. Not Hannah. So I tossed the clicker, and let Hannah be.

This past June, one of my writing mentors in Washington, D.C. emailed to tell me she was successfully clicker training her two cats. She taught them not only to sit and “come here,” but to do tricks such as standing on their hind legs and raising their front paws. She described how much fun it was for both her and her cats. I thought about Sam, how he cries for me to feed him an hour before mealtime and tries to steal Hannah’s food, and how he gets territorial and aggressive at times when I’m brushing Hannah. I’ve tried to ignore him, put him in a “time-out,” and otherwise not reward the behavior, to no avail. So I thought I could train him and as a result alleviate a growing tension in the garret household.

I bought a new clicker and the training book Naughty No More!, a publication put out by Cat Fancy, which my writing mentor recommended. (Of course when I typed in the title on Amazon, it came up with rather pornographic literature before I finally realized I ought to type in the additional word, “cats,” along with the name of the book.) I also bought two bags of treats, which I tested out on Sam before the arrival of the clicker and training materials – he thought they were scrumptious.

Once the clicker and book arrived, I read the instructions from cover to cover, excited to begin. The book’s foreward discussed the idea behind changing unwanted behaviors through positive reinforcement: “”Clicker training is actually fun for both you and your cat. …It’s a win/win situation for the cat and [his] human family.” Unfortunately, Sam did not make it even to the first trained behavior titled “Please Touch The Target,” because he was terrified of the clicker. When I clicked the clicker and tossed him a treat, he ran faster than I’ve seen him run since he was a kitten, and hid under my bed for the next hour. I thought, ok, perhaps he needs to get used to the sound. No – Sam’s reaction got worse. After the fourth total click (spread out across three days), he acted as if I’d administered an electric shock. As a sort of post-script, the book does say one can use a retractable pen for a more gentle “click” sound, should the cat be “shy” around the clicker, however when I took out a pen Sam took one look at it and ran away to hide for another hour. Hannah, on the other hand, simply sat there watching, as if she was bored.

The next time Sam began to cry for his dinner, I took out the clicker and clicked once. His crying ceased for thirty minutes after that. So I decided to keep the clicker and to use it for the complete opposite reason for which it was made: to deter behavior, not to reward it. I’m not sure how long this will last. Honestly, I hate depressing the clicker, because Sam seems so chagrined when I do.

I have trained Sam to sit, but not with the clicker. When I’m carrying a dish of kibble, Sam meows and quacks and dances around my feet. I tell him “sit” and he circles my legs and taps my calves with his tail. I say it again, “sit” and he lowers his rear and looks up at me, continuing to quack. “Shh,” I say, “no meowing or quacking.” He can hardly contain himself. Finally, when he’s sitting and quiet and almost bursting with delight, I deliver his reward: dinner.

– TLS

Have you tried to train your pets? Share your experiences and other thoughts in the comment box below.

The Meow-moir

I’ve just returned to the garret after twelve days away at the Southampton Writers Conference, where I participated in a memoir workshop led by the writer Roger Rosenblatt. In my absence, Hannah and Sam were visited by two of my local friends who graciously fed them, cleaned the litter boxes, and sent me daily updates.

Hannah and Sam engaged in a little mischief – table placemats strewn – and apparently did a little writing of their own while I was gone. My friend Delia stumbled upon this first entry: “Day 1 of Meow-moir writin rezuhduncy. Fud ok. H&S.” Hannah rubbed against Delia’s legs in greeting, and allowed petting. Sam, on the other hand, hid under the bed.

On day 2, my friend Stephanie checked in, reporting that Sam appeared in my bedroom doorway: “Maybe she’s okay since she fed me,” the photo caption read. “But I’m still not coming out of this room!” The following day, he did allow Stephanie to get quite close to him with a plate of his favorite wet food.

Day 4: “Meow-moir writin rezuhduncy writer’s block much napping. H&S.” Sam spied on Delia, then ran when he saw her notice. Hannah looked at Delia between licks of canned food.

The days progressed, and I missed them. I wondered what they did all day and night, how much they slept, if they drank enough water, if they played. I had dreams with them in it. I’d left Hannah for this long a period of time once before, but Sam had not been without me for more than a few days. I wondered if he’d forget me, especially when, two days before my return, he finally let Stephanie pet him. I felt guilty for not being there.

“Day Watever: Meow-moir writin rezuhduncy. Lost our narrative thread. Drat. H&S.”

Upon my return, I found Hannah on the bed – she leaned her head back to peer at me upside down. I touched her forehead with my fingers, then rubbed her back before she hopped away and hid. Sam sniffed at my palm, then ran away for dear life. Nobody meowed. I became concerned about a hard red scab on Sam’s nose – had he gotten into a fight? Or was it something more serious, like a bee sting, herpes, or a tick bite? My mind ran away from me as Sam flinched and whimpered when I tried to touch it.

The silent treatment lasted for a long while. As of today, however, I think we’re back to normal. And that thing on Sam’s nose, whatever it was, has fallen off.

– TLS

How do your pets react when you’re away? Share your experiences and other thoughts below!

Ch-Ch-Changes

I’ve noticed a real change in Hannah and in Sam these past several weeks – there’s more contentment, peace.

Hannah, who used to become quite agitated by Sam’s presence, now lounges around the garret living room with him nearby. Perhaps it’s the malaise that happens with cats in the heat of summer, but I have a feeling she and Sam are growing closer. Sam sits still more often – for the first time since he was a kitten, he likes quiet time.

More frequently, I’ve been finding the two of them sharing a spot in the living room or bedroom without Sam trying to annoy Hannah and without the ensuing scuffle conflict (that is not to say they don’t still play “the hunt,” a game during which Hannah growls and Sam caterwauls and then Hannah tackles him with one swift pow of her paw, and then they have an all-out brawl for thirty seconds). At rest, Hannah still does not allow Sam’s body to touch her, but the distance between them has gotten a great deal smaller. Perhaps, in another couple of years, I’ll come home one day and find them cuddling.

Sam, 7 weeks old

Stranger things have happened.

In other news, July 4 marked Sam’s second birthday. In the photos, I see the confidence and love he’s soaked in since he arrived at the garret when he was just seven weeks old. I adopted Sam the summer my mother was diagnosed with cancer, because he

Sam on his 2nd birthday.

epitomized life in the face of adversity – he was thrown from a car on the highway, suffered life-threatening injuries, and healed. Back then, and now that my mother has passed away, Sam has reminded me every day of the joy of being alive, and loved. The way he runs to the window at dawn, or snuggles his face against my hand, or reaches his paw to my shoulder – these little moments are big, to me.

And finally, the very good news: Hannah’s most recent liver test has come back normal! After several months of steroids, and tapering, we’re now about to be medication free. She’ll have to have a re-test in three months, but for now she’s considered one healthy nine year old cat.

Happy summer to all~

– TLS

Cat Star

Hannah’s little brother, Sam.

As Hannah’s little brother Sam approaches his 2nd birthday, he continues to do his mission work in the garret household, helping Hannah to heal from her previous trauma (the latest: he’s trying to teach her how to cuddle), and reminding me to laugh, every day. Today he was profiled in The Fluffington Post. Click here to see our Sam.

A little over a week ago, I had to go to New York for my late mother‘s memorial service. I left Hannah and Sam alone overnight with two automatic timed feeders. The evening before my trip, I set the feeder timers so that I could test them both to see if they would deliver food at the appropriate times and amounts of Hannah’s and Sam’s twice daily meals.

When the clock struck “food time,” the feeders made a whirring sound before spitting out kibble into the bowls. At first, Hannah and Sam ran for dear life. But then they became intrigued: food. I’d heard from friends that setting the amount of food to be dispensed from the feeders could be tricky, and it was. Hannah’s hypoallergenic kibble, which Sam also eats by default, is larger than the recommended feeder size. So I set the timer to deliver a larger amount to make up for the deficiency in output. It worked fine overnight. However, in the morning, just before I was to leave, I walked by one of the feeders and it suddenly dumped an extra quarter cup of kibble into its bowl.

Hannah is a grazer by nature while Sam eats anything available; this is the reason why I originally had to initiate timed feedings, to control Sam’s weight. This meant sneaking Hannah food behind Sam’s back, since she wouldn’t eat her meal in one sitting. As I looked at the timed feeders releasing more food against my orders, I let it go. It would be twenty-four hours, I told myself, and Sam would be well-fed and Hannah would need to learn to be there to eat, ready or not. (When I returned from my trip, it seemed all was well.)

Meanwhile, I think Sam’s stardom has gone to his head. He won’t stop gazing at himself in the mirror.

– TLS