Tai Chi
A donation was made in memory of Tai Chi on Mar 14, 2009.
Nine Lives
In memory of Tai Chi, my Himalayan best friend
On January 20, 2009, Inauguration Day, you used the last of your nine lives. You had many close calls in the seventeen years we spent together, but lung cancer was the one that took you. It wasn’t an easy way to go, and I appreciate the guidance of Dr. Flory and the staff at the Deschutes Animal Clinic in those difficult last days.
You used your first life when you were a tiny kitten. We had you for about a week when I discovered you thumping in the dryer. Your eyes were dry and you were breathing hard, but a little water in your face and you were fine. The dryer had been turned on for less than a minute. I hate to think what would have happened if I had ignored the thumping.
As a young cat, you found every opportunity to sneak out of the house. One day, we had visitors who were careless about leaving the door open. I drove into the driveway, and you came running toward me. I laid on the horn. You jumped into the air, turned tail, and ran like a white streak to the front door. You clawed at the door until someone let you in. Since then, whenever you heard the sound of a car, you’d find a safe place to hide. I don’t know how many lives you saved by learning to fear automobiles.
Life number three was a serious illness that affected your liver. I don’t remember the name, but the people at the clinic always made decisions about your diet and medication based on the lasting effects of that illness.
In Oregon, we lived in a semi-rural area. One day, you were outside with me in the garden when I saw a red fox coming our way. You were about half way between the fox and me. You saw the fox first. You fluffed your fur and stood your ground. Your eight pounds must have looked like fifty to the fox. He turned and ran the other way. Nice bluff. That was number four.
In 1998, we moved from Oregon to Washington. Although we tried to be careful, the furniture was awkward, the boxes were heavy, and the workmen had big feet. You nearly got stepped on a few times, but we made it through number five.
Number six. The gardener at the apartment complex found you behind a bush he was about to chop with a chain saw. Fortunately, he saw you before he started the saw.
Life number seven was the fault of the bathroom remodeling crew. They had to go under the house and suspected that rats were living down there. They set out sticky rattraps designed to catch the feared animals. When the crew finished working that day, they left an opening in the floor in preparation for new plumbing to be installed the following day. Like any curious cat, you had to investigate. You went through the space, under the house, and onto a trap. You were stuck. Somehow you managed to get your head and front quarters back through the hole. I heard you struggling and came to investigate. Your hindquarters were glued to the trap, and I had to cut you free, one patch of hair at a time. I don’t know how you got back through that hole, but if you hadn’t, you might have gone undiscovered for days, maybe forever.
You disappeared without a trace last June. Because you had never been beyond the fence in the backyard, I was sure you wouldn’t last through the night. I looked everywhere and alerted the neighbors, but after a week, I gave up the search. In my mind, you had met your end. I considered the possibilities: hit by a car, carried off by a wild animal, or some other final event. I cleaned your litter box and put your food away. Eleven days later, June 24, I awoke to bright sunshine coming in through the window. I opened the blinds covering the patio door, and there you were, waiting for me to let you in. You were filthy, two pounds lighter, and very hungry. After giving you a drink of milk and a bath, I packed you up, and took you to the good people at the Deschutes Animal Clinic. Although you were dehydrated, you were strong. I have no idea where you had been, but that didn’t matter. You were home. That was number eight.
Even though you had returned, you had lost two pounds and you had a cough; one you had before the eleven-day hiatus, but now it was worse. You didn’t gain back the weight you lost. In fact, you were loosing more. I took you back to Dr. Flory. He examined you. The results showed good vital signs. We decided that you were getting older and needed a richer diet. Dietary changes didn’t help. I’d look at you and think of people I had known who wasted away with cancer. After an additional few weeks, I took you back to Dr. Flory. Together we decided that we needed X-rays. The pictures told the story. A large growth in your right lung pushed upward against your heart. Dr. Flory had seen it before. “I think it’s cancer,” he said. He gave me the name of a specialist in Portland.
A seventeen-year-old cat would be equal to eighty or more in human years. I couldn’t see putting you through the trips to a strange place far away when it was unlikely that you could be saved. “If we do nothing,” I asked, “ how long will she have.”
“A few weeks to a few months.”
That was in November, just before Thanksgiving. We did all we could to make you comfortable which included hours of holding you while you slept. By January twentieth, you had stopped eating, you rattled when you purred, you weighed less than four pounds, and you had trouble jumping into my lap. It was time.
I wrapped you in a towel and held you while we traveled to the clinic. I waited in the car until the staff was ready for us. It was our last chance to be alone together. You were content as I stroked your fur. In spite of your illness, you felt like silk. I looked into your blue eyes, eyes that understood, eyes that thanked me for making a choice to stop the suffering.
All too soon, the call came to go inside. The examining room, a place where we had found comfort many times before, radiated an ominous chill. Dr Flory administered the injection. You put your head down. The pain had ended. I didn’t move for several seconds, absorbing the meaning of what had just happened. I dared not disturb the finality of the moment. “She’s gone,” I said.
In the last years of your life, you were less than ten feet away, except when children came to the house, and then, you were under the bed. You knew my habits so well that it upset you when I changed my routine. When I overslept, you’d lick my eyelids. You let me know when it was mealtime, especially yours. Your eyes told me when you were pleased. Your lashing tail let me know when you weren’t.
You gave me seventeen years of loving companionship. You were intelligent, you were loyal, and you were beautiful. Most of all, you were eight pounds of pure love. I will never forget you.
Pat S.
In memory of Tai Chi, my Himalayan best friend
On January 20, 2009, Inauguration Day, you used the last of your nine lives. You had many close calls in the seventeen years we spent together, but lung cancer was the one that took you. It wasn’t an easy way to go, and I appreciate the guidance of Dr. Flory and the staff at the Deschutes Animal Clinic in those difficult last days.
You used your first life when you were a tiny kitten. We had you for about a week when I discovered you thumping in the dryer. Your eyes were dry and you were breathing hard, but a little water in your face and you were fine. The dryer had been turned on for less than a minute. I hate to think what would have happened if I had ignored the thumping.
As a young cat, you found every opportunity to sneak out of the house. One day, we had visitors who were careless about leaving the door open. I drove into the driveway, and you came running toward me. I laid on the horn. You jumped into the air, turned tail, and ran like a white streak to the front door. You clawed at the door until someone let you in. Since then, whenever you heard the sound of a car, you’d find a safe place to hide. I don’t know how many lives you saved by learning to fear automobiles.
Life number three was a serious illness that affected your liver. I don’t remember the name, but the people at the clinic always made decisions about your diet and medication based on the lasting effects of that illness.
In Oregon, we lived in a semi-rural area. One day, you were outside with me in the garden when I saw a red fox coming our way. You were about half way between the fox and me. You saw the fox first. You fluffed your fur and stood your ground. Your eight pounds must have looked like fifty to the fox. He turned and ran the other way. Nice bluff. That was number four.
In 1998, we moved from Oregon to Washington. Although we tried to be careful, the furniture was awkward, the boxes were heavy, and the workmen had big feet. You nearly got stepped on a few times, but we made it through number five.
Number six. The gardener at the apartment complex found you behind a bush he was about to chop with a chain saw. Fortunately, he saw you before he started the saw.
Life number seven was the fault of the bathroom remodeling crew. They had to go under the house and suspected that rats were living down there. They set out sticky rattraps designed to catch the feared animals. When the crew finished working that day, they left an opening in the floor in preparation for new plumbing to be installed the following day. Like any curious cat, you had to investigate. You went through the space, under the house, and onto a trap. You were stuck. Somehow you managed to get your head and front quarters back through the hole. I heard you struggling and came to investigate. Your hindquarters were glued to the trap, and I had to cut you free, one patch of hair at a time. I don’t know how you got back through that hole, but if you hadn’t, you might have gone undiscovered for days, maybe forever.
You disappeared without a trace last June. Because you had never been beyond the fence in the backyard, I was sure you wouldn’t last through the night. I looked everywhere and alerted the neighbors, but after a week, I gave up the search. In my mind, you had met your end. I considered the possibilities: hit by a car, carried off by a wild animal, or some other final event. I cleaned your litter box and put your food away. Eleven days later, June 24, I awoke to bright sunshine coming in through the window. I opened the blinds covering the patio door, and there you were, waiting for me to let you in. You were filthy, two pounds lighter, and very hungry. After giving you a drink of milk and a bath, I packed you up, and took you to the good people at the Deschutes Animal Clinic. Although you were dehydrated, you were strong. I have no idea where you had been, but that didn’t matter. You were home. That was number eight.
Even though you had returned, you had lost two pounds and you had a cough; one you had before the eleven-day hiatus, but now it was worse. You didn’t gain back the weight you lost. In fact, you were loosing more. I took you back to Dr. Flory. He examined you. The results showed good vital signs. We decided that you were getting older and needed a richer diet. Dietary changes didn’t help. I’d look at you and think of people I had known who wasted away with cancer. After an additional few weeks, I took you back to Dr. Flory. Together we decided that we needed X-rays. The pictures told the story. A large growth in your right lung pushed upward against your heart. Dr. Flory had seen it before. “I think it’s cancer,” he said. He gave me the name of a specialist in Portland.
A seventeen-year-old cat would be equal to eighty or more in human years. I couldn’t see putting you through the trips to a strange place far away when it was unlikely that you could be saved. “If we do nothing,” I asked, “ how long will she have.”
“A few weeks to a few months.”
That was in November, just before Thanksgiving. We did all we could to make you comfortable which included hours of holding you while you slept. By January twentieth, you had stopped eating, you rattled when you purred, you weighed less than four pounds, and you had trouble jumping into my lap. It was time.
I wrapped you in a towel and held you while we traveled to the clinic. I waited in the car until the staff was ready for us. It was our last chance to be alone together. You were content as I stroked your fur. In spite of your illness, you felt like silk. I looked into your blue eyes, eyes that understood, eyes that thanked me for making a choice to stop the suffering.
All too soon, the call came to go inside. The examining room, a place where we had found comfort many times before, radiated an ominous chill. Dr Flory administered the injection. You put your head down. The pain had ended. I didn’t move for several seconds, absorbing the meaning of what had just happened. I dared not disturb the finality of the moment. “She’s gone,” I said.
In the last years of your life, you were less than ten feet away, except when children came to the house, and then, you were under the bed. You knew my habits so well that it upset you when I changed my routine. When I overslept, you’d lick my eyelids. You let me know when it was mealtime, especially yours. Your eyes told me when you were pleased. Your lashing tail let me know when you weren’t.
You gave me seventeen years of loving companionship. You were intelligent, you were loyal, and you were beautiful. Most of all, you were eight pounds of pure love. I will never forget you.
Pat S.
