Hannah Turns 10

Hannah turns 10 years old today.

We met during a crisis - I was coming to terms with a life-long trauma; she was abandoned by an abusive owner. It was May 2, 2006 when she was dumped at my feet at Saint Meow’s shelter in Cambridge, Ma., at the estimated age of three. I stood there, stunned.

She looked up at me with her green eyes and let out one long cry. Before I could think, I told the shelter manager, “I’ll take her.” She was my first pet. Together, Hannah and I learned what it meant to love safely again.

Hannah, post-adoption, age 3.

Hannah almost died of life-threatening pancreatitis in 2008, when she was five, but today she turns ten, and she’s healthier than ever. When I asked what she wanted to do for her birthday, she said,”sunbathe.” So be it.

Happy 10th birthday to Hannah! We thank all of this blog’s readers for continuing to follow our story as it’s developed over the past three years. Stay tuned…

- TLS

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Healthy Hannah

Hannah, the contented.

I still haven’t mastered the art of the vet visit.

This week was Hannah’s annual checkup. Last year, she was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease that affects the liver, and includes such symptoms as vomiting and a lack of appetite. After months of steroid treatment, in October her liver level tested at the higher end of the normal range, so Dr. Parker recommended a re-test in six months, before then if her eating habits or behavior changed. During these past few months, Hannah’s appetite has remained normal – although she won’t eat her entire meal in one gulp (in the fashion of her brother Sam), she does finish her food, most days. Of course, the night before her annual vet visit, when I took out the cat carrier, she refused half of her dinner, and, for hours, Sam hid under the bed.

Sam, always the prankster.

Going to the vet holds a host of anxieties for the cat, but for the human, especially this human who has PTSD, it’s a whole production of mental and physical coordination. In years’ past, a vet visit would completely unhinge my ability to hold a thought in my head, and would send my mind back into the terror of my childhood. I’d have to refer to my pre-scripted (on a Post-It) list of statements and questions for Dr. Parker. Now, I manage to “keep calm and carry on” as well as can be expected when one is trying to get an unwilling cat into a carrier and transport her to a vet clinic in time for the appointment: layers of fur on one’s shirt, and some sadness and/or guilt for the inability to explain to the feline that she is safe and you’re not giving her away, will always be a given (for me, at least).

Five years ago, Hannah almost died of life-threatening pancreatitis and I’ve tiptoed around her ever since, fearing I might otherwise upset her to the point of psychosomatic-induced death. I worried about her wellbeing at times to the point of driving friends (and Dr. Parker) crazy. It’s taken a long time to work through my visceral fear of losing this being whom I love.

This year, on the verge of her tenth birthday, Hannah, at a trim 7.95 pounds, has received a clean bill of health. Dr. Parker says she has one of the best teeth he’s seen in a ten-year-old kitty (and I’ve never brushed her teeth, as I have to do for Sam). And, the great news: Hannah’s liver is functioning normally. She has exhibited a change in behavior – she has become quite insistent on cuddling on the garret chaise, during which time she rubs her wet nose and mouth, forehead and ears, all over my hands until my palms are drenched and my arms are covered with fur; she has also begun a practice of sticking her butt in my face for minutes at a time, which, Dr. Parker says, is simply her way of asking me to scratch her back near her tail, something she never liked before. I’d thought she’d been trying to tell me something was wrong, like she was the time she developed struvite crystals in her urine and kept running her tail (which was wet with pee) along my hand.

“Do you have any questions?” Dr. Parker asked.

For the first time in a long while, I didn’t. I felt suddenly relieved and happy, and my body relaxed. “I guess I just have to get used to the fact that Hannah is healthy.”

“Yes,” said Dr. Parker. “No more kid gloves for her.”

I tend to think of a cat’s lifespan – both physical and emotional – as reflective of a human’s, but at warp speed. Hannah has reflected to me the salvaged life of an abuse survivor, a kind of healing I never thought was truly attainable. I’ve always questioned its veracity. Now, I know such recovery is real, and to be trusted.

– TLS

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The Blind Date

Photo of Hannah & Sam, which I shared with my date.

How about a post that doesn’t mention cat pee or poop?

Recently, I went on a blind coffee date with an attorney. He ordered spearmint tea and baklava and declared, “If I ever have a pet, it’ll be a black and brown cat!”

“You mean a tortie?” I asked.

“Huh?” he responded.

“Never mind,” I said, taking out my phone where I store a photo of Hannah and Sam. I showed it to him. “I have two cats.”

My date studied the picture of Hannah and Sam sitting on a windowsill together when Sam was just a year old. Whenever I’ve shared this photo with anyone the usual response is, “Oh they’re so cute!” or “Hannah is pretty,” or “The look on Sam’s face is priceless.”

My date looked a bit perturbed. “You have skinny cats,” he said. He looked up at me then and I saw he had crazy eyes.

Now, I didn’t reject my date just because of his response to the cats. I’d spent over an hour with him by that point, feeling disoriented by his egomaniacal speech and strange point of view on issues of culture, money, and parking spots. But now I felt it was truly confirmed: this wasn’t going to work.

*

I spent the first two weeks of January at a creative writing MFA residency at Lesley University – local, but very long days, which kept me away for regularly-scheduled cat feedings and required that I set up the automatic timed feeders for Hannah and Sam.

The first day, I was in such a rush that I knocked one of the feeders over, causing kibble to spill all over the garret kitchenette floor. Sam was more than happy to help me clean up. He moved his mouth across the floor as if he were a vacuum cleaner. Over the course of the residency, my mind scattered, I’d repeat this klutz performance more than once.

The hectic residency schedule left me with no down time, which aggravated my PTSD-related anxiety. I slept little, and in the morning had to rush the cat feeding. Normally, Sam eats his breakfast in one gobble, but Hannah eats only half, then takes a break. In order to prevent Sam from eating her food and make sure Hannah gets her nutrition, every morning I put away Hannah’s bowl after her first round, eat my own breakfast, then present the bowl to her again, at which time she eats the remaining food, but only when she’s assured that Sam isn’t going to intrude. She looks around anxiously, part-paralyzed with the anticipation of the orange tabby pushing his way into her bowl. Sam cries if I place him in another room, which only causes Hannah to leave her bowl and sniff the door where Sam is. So I don’t put Sam in another room. Instead, I take out his favorite multi-colored string toy and we play on the other side of the room. Seeing that Sam is safely occupied, Hannah lowers her face to the bowl and crunches on one kibble at a time.

Hannah and Sam wait for me to come home after a long residency day.

During the residency, I became impatient with the timeframe of this method, but I took note of Hannah’s mindful eating, an approach that created great calm for her. She reminded me of the importance of slowing down, to digest one thing at a time.

– TLS

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Out With the Old, In With The…

When I last blogged, Hannah and Sam had come together. Unfortunately, in the days that followed, all that went to pieces. Sam began to get aggressive with Hannah several times a day, and they started fighting a lot, so that I actually consulted with an animal behavioral expert at the Animal Rescue League of Boston where I volunteer. Although I help answer calls that come in to the behavioral helpline, now I was the one in need of advice.

And I got some great instructions on separation and rewards, which I put into place. But what turned out to be the real culprit was a physical issue: feline constipation. For the past year or so, Hannah has been the one with that notorious problem so it took me a long while, through a process of elimination (pun not intended but it does seem to apply here!), to figure out that it wasn’t Hannah but Sam, who, quite the contrary, has always had a reputation for stink-bombing the garret with his litter box deposits.

I began to notice Sam crying intermittently before using the litter box, but it wasn’t unusual for him to cry for attention when I wasn’t in the same room, so at first I’d passed it off as nothing. But the tiny slivers of stool continued to diminish in size and got lost in the piles of litter amidst the regular-sized Metamucil-induced poop, so I began to give Sam a dose of Hannah’s daily teaspoon of fiber, then discontinued his portion after a couple of days, in order to track whose poop was whose. And it turned out to be Sam. At times I question my own anxiety due to having PTSD; I ask myself “is this a real problem, or am I making a big deal out of nothing?” But still I worried about Sam.

It wasn’t nothing. In fact, it may be a medical issue – when I talked with the vet (oh the joys of discussing the size, shape and consistency of feline poop at length, along with the signs and symptoms of feline penile blockage), he said it’s unusual for a two year old cat to have constipation, so I’m giving Sam a half teaspoon of Metamucil daily for the next two weeks. If the situation doesn’t clear up, I’ll need to bring him in for an exam, a trip I know Sam desperately wants to avoid. For now, however, the Metamucil seems to be doing some good. There is more poop in the litter box, and more in the garret than ever. I’ve been finding poop in the hallway and on the carpet. At least Hannah and Sam have been getting along better.

On an altogether different note, Wordpress has sent me this blog’s “Year in Review,” in part: ”600 people reached the top of Mt. Everest in 2012. This blog got about 2,100 views in 2012. If every person who reached the top of Mt. Everest viewed this blog, it would have taken 4 years to get that many views.” For whatever that’s worth….

In 2012, readers viewed this blog from 44 countries. The most popular post was (embarrassingly for me) “Cats & My Coccyx“!

Wishing you all a happy and healthy 2013, and thanks for your continued readership throughout the year!

– TLS

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Come Together

Looking at this recent photo of Hannah with her little brother Sam, one might not realize that Hannah came to me traumatized, at the age of three, after living in an abusive home. When we first met, just a couple of years after I was diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), she was, like me, very fearful of closeness: she’d let me pet her but only in her kitty bed in the far corner of my apartment. She hid from visitors. Eating with her back turned was dangerous. I’d never allow her on my bed. Safety, in both our eyes, was never a given.

When I adopted Sam, he taught Hannah about companionship. Hannah wasn’t all for it at the time. She expressed such hateful guttural sounds, noises I’d never before heard from her; her reaction caused adrenaline to rush through me, triggered my PTSD. This was the difficult path to recovering from traumatic experiences of the past.

It’s been nine years since I was first diagnosed with PTSD. In that time, I’ve gone through a great deal of therapy and recovery. Hannah has, in many ways, reflected the changes I’ve undergone in healing.

A couple of months ago, I caught Hannah and Sam sleeping on my bed, their bodies comfortably touching. Hannah had never allowed Sam to be that close. I convinced myself she was doing it not for love but for warmth, survival: the weather had turned cold and the garret heat was not on.

When I showed a friend a photograph I’d taken of Hannah and Sam together on my bed, he pointed to the cat who was opening herself up with her extended paw: he thought that cat was Sam. I had to remind him that the calico was Hannah.

One night, after I’d come home from a long day of teaching, Hannah climbed up beside me on the garret chaise. She sat up tall for several minutes, gazing at me until I began to feel self-conscious. When I looked back at her, she stretched her front paws onto the rim of the chaise, stood, and lifted her forehead to mine, pushing at me affectionately. Then she sat down, curled up against my leg, and placed her paws on top of my fingers. There she stayed, purring for an hour.

At first, I thought something must be wrong, that she was sick. Was her autoimmune disease flaring up with a vengeance? Perhaps, I thought, she knew she was dying. No. She was simply being her true self, an inherent self I’d never seen behaving so openly and expressively, seeking and enjoying connection.

Once emotionally shutdown and timid, Hannah now displays a full range of behaviors. She is, I think, finally living a fulfilling, whole feline life. Curling up beside me on the chaise has become an evening ritual. So has play-fighting with Sam around the portable radiator she once put as a barrier between her and her brother (the “fighting” then progresses to a “cat-and-mouse” chase, or Hannah tackling Sam in a wrestling match). A few minutes later, they’re sleeping. In the past, I’d have run from this beautiful, sweet life playing out in front of me. Not anymore.

– TLS

{Writer’s note: I’m very honored and happy to announce that my memoir Notes on Proper Usage, has been selected for the Barbara Deming Memorial Fund Literary Award. Notes on Proper Usage is a memoir about my relationship with my late writer-editor mother, in which Hannah and Sam have cameo appearances.}

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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!

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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.

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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.

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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

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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

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