The cat was fine yesterday. Today he lay down by the door and commenced dying. We had no idea what was wrong with him. He had no snakebite. He didn't look like he had been hit by a car. He was just very, very sick.

I noticed he was lying on hot concrete. He appeared to have a fever, and I wondered if he suffered from chilling. It crossed my mind as I watched him that it was a pity Robert Rooster couldn't give the cat a warm cuddle. I thought that would have soothed the cat more than we could.

Is it possible to be insane and not know it? As I thought of how badly the cat needed a cuddle from Robert Rooster, as I mourned Robert again, a hen walked over to the cat. She looked at the cat intently for a moment and then flopped down on the hot concrete beside him. She cuddled up to him just as Robert used to do. None of the chickens have ever done that before. Other hens gathered around these two and stood quietly, doing nothing. With my own eyes, I saw this.

We took the cat to the vet. The vet told us what the illness was within a couple of minutes. The cat has a rare, tick-borne illness that has a 100% mortality rate. There is a faint possibility that a second variant has emerged in this area, since he was able to save two -- exactly two -- other cats with this illness.

The vet asked for the precise location of our farm on this planet. I knew what had happened to Git regarding animal control, but the vet seemed so urgent about it that I told him the exact truth. My thoughts were on how we could hide all our animals and 67 tons of mule poop before the JBT's got there. The vet said that this is not a public health issue. Only cats get this. The vets in the area are trying to determine the exact line where the ticks begin to carry this disease so that people living nearby can be warned. There is no cure. The only prevention is the absolute absence of a tick bite on a cat.

In over forty years, no cat has ever lived on this farm longer than two years. Many were killed by animals or by cars, but many others simply disappeared. I wonder if this disease has been living in the woods here all along?

The vet's intense interest in the research aspect of this disease worried me. As we were leaving, I told that I didn't want the cat to suffer if it looked like he was going to die anyway. I asked the vet to put the cat down the minute he was certain the case was hopeless. His affirmative was so quick and so strong that I believe I was merely confirming a decision he had already made.

We won't know anything else until Monday.

-- helen (w@it.ing), June 16, 2001

Answers

Helen,

I am so sorry to hear that. We had one of our cats die just last week, for no obvious reason. It's pretty hard to get rid of ticks. I understand that guinea fowl consider ticks their favorite treat. I had five of those things ordered, but they flew the coop before they even got to me.

Maybe I should try to order some more. Perhaps they would be a good addition to your place as well.

I hope the vet will find something else is wrong with your cat. I'm glad the hens gave him a cuddle. People who don't have animals miss a lot.

gene

-- gene (ekbaker@essex1.com), June 17, 2001.

Helen, how sad! I'll keep your cat and you in my prayers today.

-- Tricia the Cancuk (jayles@telusplanet.net), June 17, 2001.

Helen, I am SO sorry to hear about the cat. You are NOT insane, you just have a heart of compassion. If I was there, I would give YOU a big hug. Since I can't, here is a cyber hug. ((((((((((((Helen))))))))))))

At least you know what's going on now, and can maybe find a way to eradicate the problem. I don't think I could have a lot of animals. I get too emotionally attached, and when they die it's very hard for me.

-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), June 17, 2001.

Oh Helen, I am so sorry.... that is so awful for your cat to be suffering... and so nice for the hen and her girlfriends to come and lend some comfort and moral support....

(((((Helen)))))

-- (sis@home.xxx), June 17, 2001.

Thank you all for your support. In this case, letting the cat die is probably the best thing. I have never seen an animal so very ill before. Touching him was like touching an animal already dead, only hot.

This disease concerns me because I think it has been here for decades. The vet regards it as an encroaching disease from outside our area. I have friends who have mentioned finding their cats dead in the morning without showing illness the night before...omigod, one of them lost a little dog that way last year. I'll start telling people out here about it and encourage them to send their dead cats/dogs in for autopsies.

Meanwhile, we wait until tomorrow to get the word.

-- helen (c@t.less), June 17, 2001.

Tiger Cat and Robert Rooster have been reunited.

-- helen (v@b.n), June 18, 2001.

What a sweet way to think about the cat's passing. I'm glad he's no longer in any pain. My sympathy to you, Helen. Hopefully the knowledge of what is going on will help to eventually eliminate the problem. Tiger Cat's death will help to save other's lives.

-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), June 18, 2001.

We went to the vet's office to pay Tiger Cat's bill. The kids wanted to bury him, so I asked for his body. They gave the cat to me in a box taped shut. The box was way too heavy. I carried that cat into that office, and I was certain the box they gave me either had more than one cat in it or maybe a dog. It was too, too heavy. I told the kids we were going to bury the cat in the box. I didn't want them to see that we had more than one cat or maybe a dog in there.

We can't dig large holes out here easily. It took so long so get only a few inches into the ground that I knew we couldn't bury the box. I put the kids down for a nap and decided to open the box and see what was really in there.

It was just Tiger Cat's body and nothing else. I guess hope had made him easier to carry while he was still alive.

He's buried under his favorite tree. The little hen who cuddled him has been named Florence, for the nurse.

-- helen (dirty@hand.s), June 18, 2001.

I am sorry to hear this sad ending to the story. My sympathies to you and your family, Helen. (Does anyone else ever wonder how silly we must sound to "normal" people?)

-- gene (ekbaker@essex1.com), June 18, 2001.

Everything is ok. You guys are sweet friends.

-- helen (c@t.less), June 18, 2001.

Perhaps your Tiger cat and Robert the Rooster will have the good fortune to meet up with a cat called "Dawg". They would make a perfect trio to roam the land of Eternity together.

I still miss Dawg just as surely as your family misses your friends.

You do have my sympathy.

-- S.O.B. (buffgun@hotmail.com), June 19, 2001.

S.O.B., it is my profound hope that animals have the same chance at eternal life as we hope for humans -- and they deserve it more, being unable to do anything morally wrong. Maybe you'll get to see Dawg again and be able to talk.

-- helen (c@t.less), June 19, 2001.

"I guess hope had made him easier to carry while he was still alive. "

That thought richoched around my mind like a little kid lighting candles in a dark room. How many burdens are we able to carry because hope or love or simple compassion makes them lighter?

I've tried to think about this for awhile, but the threads of life, love, hope and burden are too intertwined; threads we are given to weave the tapestry of our lives.

Thanks for sharing this with us, helen. Your heart has touched ours today.

----------------------------------------------------------------

-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), June 19, 2001.

((((( Helen )))))

-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), June 19, 2001.

Helen, did you ever hear the story about S.O.B.'s 'Dawg'? It's a humorous, touching story he shared with us a long time ago. He is quite a writer, too! I thought you might enjoy it, especially now. (S.O.B., I hope you don't mind me sharing it again.)

The Tale of the Tiger

When the cat adopted us I was less than enthused about it. He just showed up at our new house one day and kind of let it be known that we were his people and that there would be no appeals entertained, as the issue was settled.

He would tolerate us being on his land, but only if we treated him with the respect due him as the ruler of the realm. He was a rather large cat, 12 pounds of mixed breed mischief. He had more than a few of the characteristics of a bobcat in him.

Shorter in the front legs than in the rear, giving a wedge shaped slope to him, a head that was at least two sizes too big, the classic telltale ears of the bobcat complete with tufts, and he walked like a light gray grizzly bear, sort of ambling along any given course. He had, however, a dead giveaway that he wasn't pure anything in that he sported dark stripes on his sides and his tail was quite long and had the shape of a question mark whenever he was running.

He bore the marks and scars of several battles past, and one ear had really been chewed up at some far distant point in time and hadn't healed very well at all, giving him a rather woebegone look, yet the look of a true rascal as well.

Sort of like the dude with the eye patch. You just know that he is a scalawag. Right?

I wanted to invite him to leave but my youngest daughter, then 5 years old and full of love for all things, promptly ran up to him, sat down in the dirt, grabbed a double armful of cat, and squeezed him in that little girl bear hug known to every parent around the world. I da*n near had a heart attack.

The cat just flowed through her arms and stepped aside, sat down in the pose of the glass figurine cat, and just looked at her from about 2 feet away.

He sat gazing at her for a good 2 minutes. Staring at her, barely moving his head, tipping it slightly side to side as though weighing her in a balance.

She in turn sat there in the dirt looking back at him. I still don't know just what they "said" to each other, but something passed between them there. The cat then jumped back into her lap, curled himself into a ball and starting his motor running, and from then on she was his favorite people.

They were special friends from that moment on and would go on to remain so for life.

I gave in and allowed as how he could stay, as though I really had any choice in the matter.

She named him "Tiger", a name which he never once answered to, nor even let on that it referred to him in any way, but he would do just about anything for her. He was putty in her hands, and, after she started school, his biggest delight became waiting at the end of the road for the school bus and then walking her home.

He would ride in the car with my wife on those days when it was raining. Cats just don't like water.

I found out later that he was a cat of many colors in that he "lived" at the 2 farmhouses around our area, in addition to our house, and that he spent his time fairly equally amongst us all. He would have nothing whatsoever to do with the other 3 houses in the area though. Since he had been there first, I guess, in a way, we really were trespassing on his land after all.

The 2 farmers said that he was just another farm cat to them, and that he came and went as he pleased.

Tiger, in the way of most outside Toms, would go off into the weeds of the surrounding fields to earn his living, bringing the occasional trophy home for show and tell, and letting us know that he was keeping us safe from all of the killer rabbits, the mice, a few snakes, all of the usual mixture of the lunch on the run crowd, accepting the softly scratched ears and quiet murmurs of "good cat, good kitty", from whomever was there at the time and had received the gift.

He would then expect a saucer of cream, not milk, sort of as though he had earned a special reward and that it was his due.

He would take the occasional meal with us, but for the most part he ate out, so to speak. He grew to be a full 22 pounds and it was all muscle.

Normal cat type story and who really cares? And just what does this have to do with "Murphy" and his bath. Right?

Well, now, on with the rest of the story. I'll get there eventually.

One day, about 3 or so months later, after yelling my lungs out for about 30 minutes or so, calling "here Tiger, here kitty kitty" etc, in frustration I yelled "Hey Dawg, Dinnertime". Lo and behold, from out in the field, about 200 yards or so from home, I could see that question mark tail pop up from the weeds and start heading for home at a rapid pace.

That da*n cat would answer to the name of "Dawg" and would come running in from wherever he was. If he could hear me calling, he came running home. The neighbors thought that I was kind of insane though. The sight of a cat coming running home after being called "Dawg". I guess that was a little strange. But he didn't know that he was a cat, and he certainly didn't know that he wasn't a dog, so all was right in the universe.

From then on old Dawg and I became real close buddies too.

I worked from 7:30 am to 4:00 pm Monday through Friday at a major industrial plant about 20 miles from my home, so I had to get up early in the morning to get to work on time. I would usually sit out on the front porch and drink a cup of coffee before leaving for work. Just sort of relaxing and enjoying the world type of thing before I had to face the people again.

When it was our "time" to have him, Dawg would sit out there with me. He liked his coffee with cream and sugar. True, he took his from a saucer rather than a cup, and it was more cream with coffee in it than it was coffee, but he drank it all the same, and he loved it. He also would look somewhat miffed if he didn't get his coffee in there too, and don't even dare try to skip that little dab of sugar either. Over the years he would sometimes bring his lady friends over to visit and have a saucer of cream, or a free lunch, but no coffee.

Again, so what. Right? Well, to make a long story even more boring as well:

One of my nearby neighbors had dogs. One day I was sitting on the porch reading a book, and Dawg was out in the yard doing his "I'm sunning myself" act, belly up, laying in the grass with his legs spread, having absolutely no modesty at all.

Then 3 of those dogs must have allowed as how they would just tree old Dawg.

Well, I guess that Dawg just sat up and kind of waited for them to get to him. When I looked up they had him surrounded, and I saw him whirl around and spank 2 of them on the nose in about one millisecond flat using his left hook, and he then landed on the back of the other dog and commenced to critique that poor dog severely about the head and shoulders with his left front paw while clamping rather tightly with the remaining three legs, moving both back legs in a slashing motion as the dog started running.

I jumped off of the porch and was standing between the dog and his house, (duh!), and I could see the sheer terror in his eyes as he was running for his life.

That dog just knew that the "Dog Devil" had got after him and he suddenly developed a real bad need to get home. He couldn't seem to understand just why he was still getting whipped up on when he was running for home as fast as he could go, and I guess that the other 2 weren't trying to tell him what was going on because they had gone running for home just as fast as their legs would carry them too.

So I had 3 dogs yelping, bleeding, and running through my yard with one very large cat riding on one of them. After the whirlwind of animals got past me and I realized what was going on, I lost it! I fell down and ROTGLMAOUIPMP. Tears in the eyes type of laughing.

Dawg rode him clear to the edge of our property and then bailed out and came walking back to the house without so much as a backwards glance to see if they were following him. I have never seen such a look of pure satisfaction on anything's face like old Dawg had that day. He was truly one very happy cat, and it showed!

He got extra cream that day.

I never had any more dogs come into the yard as long as we lived there, and I often wondered if Tiger would go out there trying to bait the dogs into coming in again, as he did patrol the perimeter of the yard quite regularly.

Still, so what? Get it over with already.

He would run hide in the front wheel well of one of my cars whenever it rained, like any sensible cat would. That was his favorite lurking spot when it rained. Perched up on top of the tire, safe and dry. Sense enough to get in out of the rain, but I wondered why not get on the porch? Cave instinct?

More sense than some people show at times. Cats don't like water and that is a natural fact of life.

But you let me drag out the water sprinkler and I had just made his whole day.

Dawg absolutely loved the lawn sprinkler that I used to water the veggie garden. He would spend hours sitting there batting at the water as it rained down in front of him, turning to face it again as it came back from the other direction, flicking his ears down every time the rain would start again, and shaking the water off during the intermissions. He would jump up into the air after what must have been an extra nice looking water drop.

I really believe that the boy wasn't playing with a full deck. I mean, cats just naturally don't like water. You know it, I know it, the lady down the road knows it. Everybody knows it. Even cats know it. It's always been so, and thus it will always be.

Except for old Dawg.

I laid Dawg to rest under his favorite tree out in the front yard. He had been with us for 12 years, and he had been a full sized cat when he got us, the vet had guessed his age as 3, so he had to be at least 15 or so when he went off to Cat Heaven.

He died in his sleep during one of his many daily catnaps.

He was the only cat that my family ever had.

This is the gospel folks.

S.O.B.

-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), June 20, 2001.

Thank you, Gayla and Bob.

-- helen (never@home.anyway), June 20, 2001.

helen: Sorry to hear about your Tiger. It's good that he had the company of Florence and her friends. It makes passing easier.

We, too, had a Tiger. He was the cat who ran the family farm and who tolerated the newest generation of Loretts who came to live with him in 1968. I think he rather enjoyed the packing boxes we threw out in the carport. They must have made a lovely hunting ground for mice as well as a handy storage place for the jackrabbit leftovers we occasionally found. For liquid refreshment Tiger would grace us with his presence at milking time. He knew we'd try our hands at the "spray the cat with milk" game but he showed anyway. Dad would have pity on him and fill a little saucer for him.

We'd see Tiger sitting immobile atop gopher mounds in the front yard; nothing moving but the occasional tail twitch. Then, the pounce, the nab, and lunch was served!

About the time that I left home several years later, Tiger had begun to hang around less frequently. Then he quit coming to the barn. Since we never found him lying dead, my guess is that he still walks the farm keeping the gophers and jackrabbits at bay.

(((helen and family)))Linda

-- LindaMc (jmcintyre1@mmcable.com), June 20, 2001.

Thanks for digging that story up for us, Gayla... SOBob, I enjoyed it as much the second time as the first; a lot!

Linda, for you:

Their claws snag our hearts

And their purring fuzzy warmth

keeps us as their slaves.

-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), June 21, 2001.