Skip to main content

Fur Ball in the Sky

Sweating....
Freezing...
Sweltering...
Arctic...

Rinse, lather, repeat.

We had a death in our four footed family today. Kellogg was an aged orange tabby with little body weight when he was left to us by a neighbor that moved and didn't want to take him along.

"He's an outdoor cat, he'll never come in your house" said the man. When it got cold, I opened the back door and coaxed him inside. How could I not? Although this poor ball of fur had fur, that was about all he had. And he stank. He smelled like death, only worse.

So Old Kellogg became an indoor cat. He had a meow that sounded more like a croak crossed with a hoarse chirp. If I wasn't sure cats don't smoke I'd have pegged old Kellogg for a 3 pack a dayer.

My father alternated between yelling at the orange ball of fur to stop following him and caring for him in a very tender way. You'd have to know my father to understand. Ever since we were little, my father has been the Patron Saint of Lost or Abandoned Animals. We always took in strays--much to my mother's chagrin. Puppies and kittens were always in the house. All stray cats within a 50 mile radius knew to come to here.

Despite Kellogg's poor grooming habits, he sure knew how to eat. For a while that is. There came a time when he could no longer crunch dry food so my father began to buy special tins of wet cat food. He'd place it on a paper plate and put it in front Kellogg. Then there was a problem with that. Kellogg would take a bit, screech like a banshee and start doing a dash through the house. Dash, stop, head flipping back and forth, screech, repeat. Seems he couldn't chew and so it would get stuck and then he'd make his mad dash-thrash-screech. It sounds funny, but let me tell you the first time you see this flying ball of fur, screeching and howling and coming right at you, it gives you pause.

Scared the bajeebers outa me the first time.

So my father began to give Kellogg half a can and he spent time cutting it up and mushing so poor kitty wouldn't have any more eating issues.

Kellogg would follow my father around everywhere he went. We don't know who had Kellogg before our former neighbor, but whoever they were, they declawed the poor thing. THEN made him an outdoor cat. That ought to have meant the end of Kellogg but he survived.

A few days ago Kellogg stopped following my father around. He stopped eating and drinking. He climbed waaay back into a closet to die. Dad moved him out into a softly padded crate and we waited.

Dad dug the grave and readied the show box.

And we waited.

Today Kellogg went to his kitty litter box in the sky.

RIP Kellogg

Sweating....
Freezing...
Sweltering...
Arctic...

Rinse, lather, repeat.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

A Poem to an Abusive Man

I've been doing a bit of research on abuse, domestic violence and how it usually ends. It's not pretty and it's painful and I hurt every time I read another woman's tale of horror.

Did you know that emotional abuse is as detrimental as physical abuse? And that most emotional abusers continue on to become physical abusers? I didn't. I do now. I found a site where formerly abused women, on the path to recovery from their abusers, have written poems. This one below is one that haunted me.

Thank You

You wooed me with poetry
I bit on the hook
Had I only first read
The name of the book

I would have avoided
The very first page
For pages kept turning
Revealing the rage

The ups were a great high
The ride was a bash
But I rode with my eyes closed
To avoid seeing the crash
I knew it would come soon
But I never knew when
The rage and the leaving
And the path to the end

You had to control things
Determined you would
Emotionally destroying me
Every way that you could

Elderly Abuse

I heard a loud thud the other morning around 3:30 a.m. I checked my monitor but he'd once again turned it to the wall so I was unable to see if he was still in bed. I went downstairs right behind my sweet husband and dad was on the living room floor moaning and holding his head. He'd fallen. Hard.


The first picture is the day of the fall. The second is the day after. The black eye keeps blossoming. He has a gash on his head, hidden by his silver hair and he skinned his shoulder/arm. He's a mess.

Was he using his walker? Nope. 85 year old toddlers cannot be told what to do. Or rather, they can be told what to do, they simply won't comply. Ever. In fact they get down right angry and throw fits. It's not pretty.

His physical therapist came to the house the next day and strongly told him to use his walker EACH TIME HE STOOD UP. Has he? Nope. Nyet. He was very angry with me yesterday because I kept asking him to use his walker. Also, I asked him i…

Back

BACK

Back on the horse
Monkey on his back
I see no light
Not even a crack
Back to delusions
Back to the lies
I see through his words
He can't hear my cries

Back into his soul
Back into his veins
The poison he pours
Dark liquid his chains

Backed into a corner
Heartbroken and torn
Back into the needle
The eye of the storm

Back to the wall
Soul bruised torn and broken
Back to my pain
His eyes half open

Back into the horror
Will he ever come back
Back into the nightmare
A needle in a sack

Back into his childhood
I loved him with fury
Looking back on his life
His choices my jury

How did this happen
Back to evil and sin
How can he do this
Lines on his skin

Back to my weeping
Back to my sorrow
My son, my love,
Has no more tomorrows
(all rights reserved)