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The Miracle Review

Where am I???

I should have made this announcement long ago. I'm not on Catster these days. Nothing wrong, I still have a Plus account, but I've essentially moved on after three wonderful years. It happened like this.

The Six-Toed Monster was dying, and Mama would go to his house to sit with him. One day, to distract herself, she dashed off a piece about politicians and sex, which has become a topic of conversation in our house since I ran for President. She showed it to Daddy, who said, "You should post that on Open Salon." (Open Salon is a blog site associated with the news and opinion site, Salon.com.) Mama said, "Yeah, yeah, one of these days," since Mama is very lazy about doing anything technical, even making an account. Plus, she did not expect anyone would want to read her stuff. She's not me, and she realizes it.

Well, Daddy made Mama a page on Open Salon and uploaded her piece. It got a few readers, as new blogs are listed for a few minutes on the top page of the site and a few people will go to your page just out of curiosity. (Humans are curious, too.) Using the same method, Mama went out and randomly visited other people's blogs. She made friends. She got a mentor. More people came to read. One day, Mama's current piece, a ridiculous story about choking on a cough drop, was chosen by the editors to be the featured blog post of the day. That's like getting Diary of the Day.

Well, Mama's ego swelled several times its normal size, almost as big as mine, and since then, I have graciously let her monopolize the computer to write about her puny but racy exploits for other humans. To be honest, I have sometimes longed for a less G-rated venue for my own stuff. If you are interested in Mama's trivial ramblings, pawmail me and I'll send you the link.

To my friends who may be throwing pawties, please invite me! The best way to get an immediate message to me is to leave a rosette, because that triggers an email to Mama and she tells me. I'll check my pawmail once in a while and see if anyone has tried to get hold of me, but I won't be around on a daily basis anymore.

I loved being on Catster and realizing my ambition to become the pope and run for president. Thanks to all my friends for making my dreams come true.

Goodbye to Socks

When I decided to throw my hat in the ring and run for president, folks assumed it was the first time there had been a serious, viable feline candidate for the White House. But I was not the first cat to set his sights on the White House. That cat was Socks, whose handsome tux and debonair mustache charmed the country and whose contributions paved the way for tuxedo cats with political ambitions who came after. Socks, who died at 20 in the home of Betty Currie, was a true trailblazer.

Socks has been my personal inspiration. Like me, he was born feral, and he rose to the highest levels of society. A true tuxedo personality, he managed his humans and ushered in an era of peace and prosperity that, alas, was all too short. Who can blame him for withdrawing from world affairs after the turn the country took when he left office? I understand his post-White House human was an excellent cook. Socks deserved a comfortable retirement.

Let's all send our purrs to Betty Currie and the Clintons, who I'm sure are also mourning Socks. All cats are precious, from Socks to the Six-Toed Monster, and we understand the pain of their leaving. But I believe in celebrating a person's life as part of saying goodbye, and Socks had a good life. Here's a news report with a picture that I particularly like of Socks and Hillary in an embrace, just like me and Mama.

Goodbye, Socks.

Requiem for a Six-Toed Monster

This is Milagrito's mama. Today my friend and I put our beloved Six to sleep. We believe he had feline intestinal leukemia. We did not put him through a lot of medical trauma. He was not a cat to tolerate medical fussing.

I took him away from a bad home in 2004. After a year of living at my house and having to be kept separate from Milagrito and Sirenita, he moved in with my friend. She had four wonderful years with him and I got to be in his life, his other mama. I stayed with him when my friend went out of town, and when I visited her, it was a special "double-mama day"--both of us petting and cooing over him.

When I first began taking care of him in his former home, I heard about how aggressive he was. Several people told me stories of having been bitten by him. He was considered aloof and unfriendly. Except for one friend of his former owner who took care of him for a while, he was largely ignored and neglected. When I began looking for a friend to take him, he bit two prospects. "Way to blow an interview!" I scolded. But one friend, he didn't bite. They liked each other, though she wasn't able to take him for months.

I kept working with him. He soaked up the love. He became less nippy. The first time my sister met him, he was lying stretched out on the sofa. She bent down and stroked him. I gasped, "Watch out!" Six blinked and stretched. My sister looked at me like I was crazy. I explained that he bit people. "No he doesn't," she said. And he didn't. His nipping days were over. He had learned that people could be sweet to him.

Then, for the rest of his life, everyone loved him, and he loved them back. He and my friend were perfectly suited to each other, and her friends and family became attached to him. He loved to play, he loved the yard, he loved sleeping cuddled up to my friend. He was never motivated by food, but when he was loved, he got an appetite. He went from underweight to sleek. He became an important person.

The end was stunningly quick. He started to lose weight six weeks ago. He was a very strong cat and still moved quickly and jumped on things. He still loved being touched, even held. Two weeks ago ago, we found out his white blood cells were high and his intestine was thickened. We agreed to try antibiotics, in case he had an infection, but he continued to lose weight. We ruled out spending a lot of money on tests because they could only tell us what was becoming clear anyway--he had a fatal illness. Friends and family called every day. Some came to say good-bye.

We made an appointment with the mobile vet to put him to sleep at home today. Strangely, though we made the appointment last week, today was the first day that he couldn't make the jump to his bed in the chair. It was hard for him to press his head into our hands. After all the doubt, the agonizing, the days of sympathetic nausea and the sleepless nights, today he clearly let us know he couldn't keep on being a cat. He spent the morning in the front yard in the sun. When he came in, I helped him up to his bed.

The vet was a jewel. He gave Six a sedative that worked slowly, so that we could pet and talk to him until he fell asleep, so that last thing he knew was not a needle. Then the vet put him to sleep, arranged him in the bed and left silently as we wept.

I took him and left my poor friend to try to work. I drove petting him, still feeling his warmth and softness. At home, I hugged Milagrito and Sirenita, so alive. I took Six into the garden, talking to him while I waited for my sister to come. We buried him in the garden, wrapped in his favorite blanket, under a wild iris. My sister, my husband and I sang "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" at his grave, which for some reason sprang into my head as the right hymn for him. Good-bye, my love, my six-toed monster.