R.I.P. Kids

I found this shot tonight of our two late furballs Tenner and Sam, cuddling. Jerry seems to think they're doing this right now, in the Summerlands. I hope he's right.

Farewell Captain Surefoot Lickspittle

In happier, more alert days.

It comes as somewhat of a surprise to even me, who sat by while the little guy's heart stopped not too long ago, that we've said goodbye today to another one of our furball kids.

When we first met our cat Tennessee eight or nine years ago, he was the only kitten at the no-kill shelter who didn't have kennel cough. He was feisty, biting and scratching at me through his cage, and I immediately wanted to bring him home. He had three applications already on him, but the staff told me to go ahead and fill one out ... you never know, they said. A few days later, a shelter employee called: "We decided you guys would provide the best home. He's yours." Wow. We felt so great about that. When I picked him up a woman commented on him. "I wanted to adopt him," she said. "But those hips ... he'll have problems with those later." If she only knew his hips would be the least of it ...

He was a typical kitten, at least as typical as you get when you've started life by being thrown from a moving car by someone who's decided your dispensable. He never did seem quite 'right,' but for a couple years, he bounced off walls and tormented our other cat Padre mercilessly, climbed our pants legs with his claws when he wanted to be held, carried miniature cacti around in his mouth with a look that said: "What? You think this hurts me? Ha!" He never walked normal. We called him Tsavo after some bad-ass tigers in Africa because of his high-steppin' front paws and his alley-cat attitude. We adopted a voice for him -- part whiskey drinker, part Cartman from South Park. It fit. He entertained the hell out of us.

Then, not long before we moved to Dallas, he had his first seizure. It would be the first in six more years of them. Sometimes one every few months, sometimes -- at the end -- nearly every day. Sometimes they lasted 10 seconds; sometimes minutes. Sometimes, he was fine after; sometimes, he was out of it for hours. A year or so after they started, they got bad enough that he started taking phenobarbitol. They got better, but he was definitely mellower. We called him Stoner Kitty.

Clearly, the boy had enough personalities to warrant many nicknames.

I'll cut to the chase. The last year hasn't been good for our old guy. The pheno dose had gotten to be so high that it made him sleep a lot. He didn't want to play anymore. There was little spunk left. Then came the diabetes. Then the arthritis. A vet visit damn near every week. Hundreds of dollars. Et cetera yadda yadda. The seizures had been particularly bad lately, probably in part because of the stress of the diabetes, which we had so much trouble managing. Which is why I ended up at the vet with him today, half knowing what I had to do, half not believing it. Believing there was one more pill, one more shot, one more cuddle session that would make a difference.

I still don't know what to do. Every morning, every night, we'd feed him, cajole him into taking his pill, wait until his food was partially digested, give him an insulin shot. It doesn't sound like a lot putting it into words, but it took a pretty big effort, particularly with Wilder in the picture. It meant more stress in lives that already have plenty of it, but, you know, you love the little shit ... you'd do anything to make him feel better.

And, so today. The final "feel better" solution. The vet was gentle, but in his own way told me it was time to let go. I still sat there bawling for a few minutes, unable to fathom that I'd walk out of the vet this time without him. No more joking admonishments for being my "problem child." No more asking, "How many lives you got left cat?"

Apparently, he had no more.

I'd be lying if I said I would miss the twice-daily ritual of caring for a perpetually sick kitty. But, would I bring him back and keep it up if he could climb my pant leg a few more times and chew on spiky plants, meow at me in that way that seemed to say, "Screw you monkey, where's my food?!" and take a few more deep-sleep naps with him? Most definitely.

Goodbye, Little Tenner. You will be sorely, deeply missed.

A Boy's First Trike

WOOT!!!!

St. Pat's Day 2007

Saint Patrick's Day in Dallas is huge. There's the neighborhood parade followed by the neighborhood parties, of which I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say there's at least one on every block. Last year was fun, but Wilder was very wee, so we kept the merriment to a minimum. This year, different story.

For starters, the boy wore a kilt. I'll admit I wasn't wild about the idea at first. I thought he might look more like a little Catholic school girl than a Scot boy, but once we got it in the mail (ordered online), I changed my mind. He was ADORABLE in it. Of course, I'm his mom, so of course I'd think that -- but it was confirmed by all manner of drunken 20-something-year-old girls yesterday, who fawned all over him, took photos (God knows how many pictures of Wilder are floating around Dallas today), etc. It helped that his Pop was wearing his kilt too -- they looked GREAT together.

We started the day off at the parade, which for some reason was attended this year by about 10 times as many people as previous years. A bit of an annoyance in that it was hard to find a place to park (there were nine of us; seven adults, two kids) our cars and find a spot, but once we did, we had a ball. Afterward, the Scotts came home for a nap (Wilder and Kris), our friends the Neals met us here and we were on our merry way again to two house parties a few blocks away.

In short, we had a fantastic day. We were home by around 6, ordered pizza and, at the end of the day, belly full and mind no doubt teeming with images of green-clad women falling all over him, our boy took a hot bath and tumped immediately over in his crib. Pics below:

Wilder in full Scot Boy regalia.



Wilder and his Mum, looking glum but both actually having a great time.




Above left: shirtless and kilt-clad, post nap and ready to party some more; Above: Checking out the parade from his stroller; Left: Screaming his pleasure; Below: hanging with Pop.