Daddy of Heaven, I Am A Cat

I come to ask St. Francis to protect us from human wickedness

Bummer was a hobo cat, and one we loved dearly. On this day, five years ago, he slowly unclenched his little paw from my trembling fingers, and purred himself into eternity.

Our vet estimated his age was around eleven or twelve years old.

This friendly, bright-eyed cat came to us as a stray. Like all stray cats he’d lived in a world of people who didn’t believe he deserved to live anywhere.

Although I’m not religious, I am spiritual. I believe St. Francis might have had something to do with how he came to live his best years with us.

One day, back in 2006 I got a phone call from a charming, elderly gentleman who resided in an independent living apartment with his wife and cat, and who spent his time reading, writing, and enjoying his golden years.

At age 85, Sam wrote thought provoking poetry and short witty pieces, which appeared regularly in a few regional publications. He was also an avid reader of my monthly pet column, which was published in one of the same publications he wrote for.

That was where our initial connection was made. Sam called one afternoon to comment on one of my columns and to chat about cats — and to ask my opinion about one particular feline he had nicknamed Hobo.

A young male cat had taken up residence in his apartment community, and had taken a shine to Sam. The little fellow was homeless, so like a hobo he depended upon the kindness of strangers.

Sam was happy to oblige, and so began their routine. Each morning Hobo waited for him outside his back door. It was easy to see where the cat had slept. The slightly mashed back bushes by the door revealed a spot matching the outline of his small but study frame.

Often during the day Hobo could be found napping in that spot, waiting for Sam to bring him a tasty treat, or for their afternoon stroll around the lake.

“Hobo follows me around just like a dog,” Sam chuckled. “He’s very well mannered. When we take our daily walk down to the lake, he doesn’t chase the ducks or taunt dogs. He just lies down right next to where I’m sitting and we enjoy each others company.”

There was, however, a small problem. Sam explained, “Hobo needs a real home. My wife and I have a cat, but our cat doesn’t want a brother.”

He was concerned for the cat’s safety. Any number of things could happen to a young, unneutered stray cat at large, and many of them could be unpleasant.

So, Sam inquired hopefully, did I know anyone who might be willing to adopt a sweet, playful, handsome young cat?

Sadly, and with regret, I told him I knew of no one in the market for another cat. Most of the people we are close to view pet guardianship the same way we do. It can be up to an eighteen to twenty-year commitment of food, vet bills, and pet care.

Our inn was full. We were already taking care of eight rescue felines. And we had run out of friends and acquaintances we could persuade to take in animals needing a home. In fact, we’re convinced some friends didn’t take our calls if they heard from the grapevine we were trying to place yet another abandoned kitten.

So, the answer was no. I gave him phone numbers of some area shelters and rescue groups, although I knew he had a slim chance of getting Hobo into any of them, as most were filled to capacity.

Two weeks later I heard from Sam again. The news wasn’t good.

He’d found Hobo lying on the side of the street on one of the hottest days of the summer. He appeared to have been either attacked by another cat or a raccoon, or possibly struck by a car.

Sam’s voice was shaking as he asked me what to do. As it turned out, he’d gotten the cat to a vet. Medicine was prescribed for infection, and drops for an eye injury.

The old man was distraught. Hobo looked bad, very bad, he said. He was currently resting in a box inside his home, but that was a temporary arrangement. What should he do? The best thing, he reasoned aloud, was to take the cat back to the vet for euthanasia.

I felt a pang of guilt. If only I’d been able to help him earlier it wouldn’t have come to this.

The elderly man’s tears tore at my heart. I told Sam to give me a minute and let me think. I would call him back. Within thirty minutes Michael and I were heading out with a cat carrier, wondering what in the world we’d gotten ourselves into. Again.

When we arrived, there was Sam standing in the drive motioning us to a parking space. Within minutes Hobo was transferred into our carrier. He was small and inert, but just as handsome as Sam had described.

He peered at us mournfully, his fate in our hands. Michael took one look at him and suggested he’d be good as new within a few days. After an emotional departure, we eased out of the driveway with the image of Sam weeping into his hands as we turned the corner.

As we drove home we discussed our strategy. We would nurse this cat back to health, get him neutered, and somehow we would find him a new home.

A month passed, and we continued our search for a new home. Meanwhile, we changed his name from Hobo to Bummer. It just seemed like a better fit.

During that time we also discovered Bummer had ringworm. It spread like wildfire throughout the cat family. Nine had been transported back and forth to our amazed vet, and all were now being pilled twice daily and medicated with a cream for the infection.

Soon afterward, when the itching began, we discovered that we too had ringworm. I, on my right hand, and Michael on his left forearm. We also began a regime of pills and cream. The vet and doctor bills were eye-popping.

But other than ringworm, Michael was correct in his prediction about Bummer. Although he was banged up pretty good he was almost totally healed within a few weeks. Before long he doubled in size.

Although my husband steadfastly denied it, I knew this hobo, or bum, had reached the end of the line. That is to say, he found his forever home. For a while Michael kept saying,“This little guy is really gonna make someone a great pet!” I just nodded and said, “Yeah, he really will!”

Several years passed, and then Bernie came into our lives. He was a tiny, rollicking four-month old kitten I rescued one rainy afternoon during a shopping excursion at Big Lots.

Bernie brought youth and symmetry to our resident cats. Their ages ranged from four to twelve years — most being at the mid to higher end. Bummer was next to the youngest, and was more tolerant of Bernie’s antics than the elders.

When he arrived, Bernie’s eyes were still blue and his fur tangerine orange. His weight was measured in ounces, and he was so small we had to be careful not to accidentally step on him. Bummer quickly grew to be his friend and St. Francis-like protector.

Soon the tiny kitten turned into a silly youngster, and then a rambunctious teen who reminded us of a kid on a skateboard dipping and diving throughout the house, running into the older cats and thumbing his nose at them as he whisked by. Sometimes Bummer grew weary of his energy.

The backyard Cat Garden received its first guest when Willie Morris passed away in 2012 at age fourteen. Slowly over time, the Garden grew. Two were planted in 2013, two more in 2014, and then nineteen-year-old Yellow Man broke our hearts and joined his friends. Yellow Man, the patriarch.

In December we noticed a distressful, rapid change in Spot, our sixteen-year-old calico. Her twin sister Flash had died earlier of kidney disease. Our vet told us Spot also had kidney disease, as well as tumors around her abdomen.

With heavy hearts we managed to make it through Christmas, but soon we were back at the vet’s office. He drained fluids from Spot’s abdomen, and then showed Michael how to administer fresh fluids intravenously.

My upstairs office turned into a mini MASH unit.

Administering the IV was a two-person operation. Michael expertly inserted the needles while I monitored the bag, making sure Spot received enough but not too much. Bummer and Bernie sat on the sidelines, taking notes and monitoring the progress.

Having been a prissy, persnickety cat, I was saddened by how compliant Spot became. After several days she continued to lose ground. On January 2nd we took her back for her final visit.

Incredibly, only four days later Bummer, who was just around ten or eleven years old, stopped eating and abruptly quit playing with Bernie.

To our horror, Bummer’s decline was instantaneous. Although he’d lost no weight and showed no signs of illness or discomfort, we knew something was terribly wrong. His was an aggressive kidney cancer and his off-the-charts white blood cell count indicated it was spreading rapidly, and he would not survive long.

Three days later Bummer joined seven others in the Cat Garden.

Our vet was very moved by Bummer’s death. We spoke again and again of how unusual it was to have two cats to pass away so quickly, within days of each other. It was as if none of us could understand what had just happened.

Bummer and Spot were close buddies. And Bummer had just become good friends with Bernie. It just made no sense. Why was this happening?

Although Bum had shown no outward signs of grief about Spot’s passing, our vet explained that cats, like humans, have stress hormones called cortisol.

Spot’s death would have unleashed an unhealthy blast of cortisol throughout Bummer’s body, and that possibly triggered a reaction, activating the spread of his cancerous white blood cells.

Spot and Bummer’s deaths occurred a week after the movie star Debbie Reynolds died. Debbie had been one of my childhood heroines, and her films were ones I loved to watch over and over.

Debbie passed one day after the death of her beloved daughter, Carrie Fisher. The similarity, in my mind, was impossible to ignore. Animals, like humans, can die of broken hearts. In Bummer’s case, it wasn’t his actual heart, but his emotions — that sparked a physiological reaction, leading to his hasty demise.

Today we remember our sweet Bummer … as well as the others who populate our Cat Garden.

Does St. Francis watch over them? I don’t know. Does St. Francis protect all cats and all animals from human wickedness? I would like to think so.

Sam died a few years ago, midway into his nineties. My fondest fantasy is that he and Bummer (AKA Hobo) are strolling around a heavenly pond somewhere together, anticipating the day that we too might join them and have a good laugh about ringworm and “finding him a good home.”