A Blue New Year: Coping with Kitty Cancer

If, on the night of a cerulean moon, we close our eyes and sit very still, take in great draughts of air, sigh deeply and open our hearts, we will be able to hear Lady Luna sing the blues. Broken-hearted, She watches down on our out-of-whack world, and She weeps.

And Her pain is our pain.

I read those words in Mama Donna's Huffington Post blog only hours after that bluest of Blue Moons -- the New Year's Eve blue moon, which occurs only once every 19 years -- and shed a whole lot of tears.

Very shortly before, I learned that my dear cat Chloe may be fatally ill.

The breast cancer (yes, cats can get breast cancer!) which we had treated with radical surgery the year before...



...had returned and would likely be fatal.

OK. Yeah. She's just a cat.

But I can't help bristling at the cavalier words of those who think indifferently of animal lives, who see furry companions as little more than animated furniture -- delightful, but ultimately expendable, replaceable.

"C'est la vie," said a well-meaning friend with a shuddering hug.

And that's true -- I believe strongly in quality of life, and have respect for a dignified, comfortable death.

But I am still very sad.

I love all of my three cats, and would be devastated to lose any of them.

But Chloe, who is the eldest and the first I adopted, shares a connection with me that has transformed both of us.

Perhaps I sensed this in the beginning when I had offered to foster a pregnant cat for my friend Kathryn, who runs what is now the Anjellicle Cats Rescue at Spoiled Brats.

She told me she had already found a foster for prego-puss, but that there was another cat that she "wanted to get out of the cage."

I realized what that meant when I found myself drawn to a small spooky black cat in the center cage. As I put my hand to the mesh, a razor-sharp claw raked through a fingertip.

"Wow!" said Kathryn, shuttling the frantic fuzzball into a carrier, "I see you've already met!"

The poor creature had been found a few weeks before around Fordham University and was wild to the point of being unadoptable.

But Kathryn had faith in me .... more than I had in myself.

I created a short video describing the events that followed... how, basically, love and steadfast kindness reached Chloe's terrified, traumatized kitty heart, here:



But what I did not describe is how this occurred.

As I say in the video, she was indeed "two little eyes in the back of the closet that occasionally came out to eat, poop and scratch me."

Usually, socialized domestic cats scratch only as a warning, claws not fully extended; but when Chloe scratched -- she meant it.

And she would be unpredictable: Even as she was warming up to human contact, if you touched her the wrong way, came too close or stayed too long, she would let you have it in full feline fury.

She began to like sleeping near my pillow; I wore a face mask because I was afraid she'd lash out an eye in the night. (She has never scratched me during the night, by the way.)

I'd come to work with lacerated, battle-torn hands and arms. I bought New Skin in bulk.

"A cat did that to you??" gaped an astonished co-worker after the spaying episode (described in the video). "And you still have this cat???"

Yes. Though I came close to giving up.

But something about her inspired me to believe she was reachable, and once reached, she would be remarkable.

And that is how she transformed me.

Now.

You can't punish a cat in the knee-jerk ways people punish, say, children.

You can't yell, hit back or be aggressive in any way.

This just terrifies the animal more, and makes it more likely they will injure you when you least expect it.

But somehow I had to let her know that she couldn't do this anymore ... that, most importantly, she didn't have to.

So I did this:

At the moment she'd swat me, I'd grab her -- firmly but gently, taking the razor blows as she dealt them -- until I could sit and hold her between my knees, facing me and tilted back in the "surrender position."

I'd hold her paws folded into her chest and firmly, but calmly, tell her to look at me, directing her head forward with my thumbs.

And I'd say things like: "That hurts mommy when you do that. Your mommy loves you and will never hurt you or let anyone hurt you."

Then I'd feel her body relax just a little, and I'd let her go, pet her and give her some treats.

All was forgiven. Until the next time.

And within a month or two, there were no more "next times."

She stopped scratching altogether.

She became warm, affectionate, trusting and trustworthy. I brought her two siblings (Simon the big-eyed tabby and Julietta the grey-and-white flirt), whom she guards, grooms and sometimes bullies playfully.



She nuzzles my face, purring and affectionate, and sleeps on my head nearly every night -- no face mask necessary.

She is warm and loving to family and guests, but loyally cuddles with her mom, no matter what cushy pal is in the fold-out bed.

She is a unique creature, and my dear, beloved, beautiful friend.

And now I may be losing her.