Good Luck Cat

by Lissa Warren

  On an average day, we can get almost a full jar of baby food in Ting, but because she’ll only eat a spoonful at a time, and because she’ll only eat in Mom’s bedroom, it means we have to go up and down the stairs at least a dozen times. Because I work, Mom bears the brunt. I came home one night to find that she had bought a little fridge like the one I had in my college dorm room, put it in her bedroom, and stocked it with jars of baby food.

  In addition to being Ting’s waitress, sometimes Mom is Ting’s chef. Ting will eat chicken that Mom bakes for her, so long as she lets it cool completely before cutting it into tiny pieces and serving it to Ting. Ting will eat the chicken off a plate—but not a paper plate (they slide around too much); it has to be a ceramic plate. Still, at least we don’t have to palm it like we do the baby food.

  Ting will also eat Temptations treats—the yellow-fin tuna or free-range chicken kind from their Naturals line, which has no artificial flavors, but does have added minerals like taurine, which is good for the heart muscle.

  And of course, Ting still drinks from a people glass. Because her fluid intake matters now more than ever due to the threat of kidney failure, we often bring the glass over to where she’s sitting and hold it for her while she drinks—even in the middle of the night. Dr. Belden also suggested that we start giving Ting subcutaneous injections of fluid every two or three days, and showed us how to do it. It requires a ridiculous amount of choreography—so much so that I think of it as ballet with needles.

  First, one of us (usually me) has to distract Ting while the other gets out the IV bag. If it’s a new bag, there’s a rubber stopper to be removed from the giving port and a plastic spike to be inserted—carefully, so as not to puncture the bag from the inside. Then one of us (usually Mom) warms the bag in a pot of hot water in the sink so that the fluid’s not cold when we give it to Ting. Once she judges the bag to be warm enough by holding it to her cheek, she attaches a needle to the end of the line and twists off the cap before loosening the pinch clamp and moving the wheel clamp to the open position, to start the fluid flowing. She lets it go for a few seconds so that the fluid in the line is sure to be warm.

  Meanwhile, I’m upstairs with Ting, trying not to let her see me take out the hot-pink bath mat on which we position her to give her the injection—trying not to let her see me tear open a gauze pad and place it on the floor, still in its sterile wrapper, an arm’s length from the mat. We put the mat next to the bedroom door because the light is good there, and because we need to be able to hang the IV bag from a high place so that the fluid flows quickly.

  When I hear Mom’s footsteps, I pick Ting up and set her on the mat while Mom hooks the bag on the sturdy plastic hanger we keep on the door for just that purpose. Mom kneels on the floor behind Ting and I kneel in front of her, stroking her behind the ears while Mom gathers the scruff behind her neck, takes a deep breath, and inserts the needle. Sometimes it goes in easy, and all I have to do is open the wheel clamp full-throttle and let the solution flow right into her for about two minutes. That’s all it takes to give her the full dose. It’s my job to close the clamp when we’re done, remove the needle from Ting while Mom holds her, and apply the gauze pad with a bit of pressure so that there’s no leakage from the injection site. Two or three times I forgot to close the clamp first, and poor little Ting got a bit of a bath.

  If the needle goes in hard, it’s a whole different story. It means the flow will be slow because the needle is up against tissue, and Ting probably won’t stay still long enough to get the full dose. When this happens, we try to distract her with kisses and scratches, but usually end up having to content ourselves with half a dose. We make up for it by giving her the next subQ in two days rather than three.

  Occasionally the needle goes in too easy—right through the other side of the scruff. Because the area is covered in fur, we usually can’t tell until we start the drip and see a little puddle start to form between Ting’s shoulder blades. It means we have to take the needle out and try again. And it means Ting will be upset with us, because what cat likes getting wet? And who wants to be stabbed not once, but twice? I know from all my own needle-play that it’s unpleasant while it’s happening and not unusual to be sore afterward. Still, she needs her injections, just as I need mine.

  Between the hand-delivered water, the subQ injections, and good old Gerber, we manage to get enough fluid into Ting to keep her fully hydrated and feeling good.

  Ting is the only one for whom I buy baby food. I’m forty-two now. I still want to have a child, but I know the percentages are against me and, if I want to get pregnant, it may be something of a science experiment. To further complicate matters, Copaxone is a pregnancy category B medication—meaning while animal studies haven’t shown adverse effects, no formal studies have yet been done with pregnant women. Dr. Weiner said the best course of action would be to conceive, then go right off the Copaxone. Apparently pregnant women don’t get new lesions; the pregnancy offers protection from flares.

  Even though I could potentially carry a child to term, sometimes I think about adopting. When I worry I wouldn’t love a child I adopted as much as one to whom I gave birth, I think of Ting and how much I love her, and I know I could.

  I know, too, that I won’t always have Ting. When I lose her, I will mourn her like I’ve mourned all the other people I’ve lost—like I mourned my grandmother, my grandfather, and my dad; like I mourned Cinnamon, the cat who came before her. I will tell complete strangers all about her, and I won’t stop talking even when they’ve stopped listening. I will not adopt another cat—except, of course, I will.

  My dad’s clothes still hang in his closet. His shoes still line the closet floor. When we need an envelope, we still go to the drawer where he kept them, with his tape dispenser and his magnifying glass. When we need to ready paperwork for filing, we still use his old-fashioned silver stapler. And we still look things up in his Rolodex—the address for the bank where we have a safety deposit box; the phone number for the car repair place where the owner was his friend.

  The thing no one tells you about grief is that it’s permanent. I’ve heard people talk about “picking up the pieces” after someone you love dies, but I see no evidence that it’s possible. You learn to step over the pieces, I suppose. But the pieces are always there.

  My father’s birthday is still the first thing I mark whenever I buy a new calendar. I still think about him every day. The littlest things remind me—filling my car at the gas station where he used to buy lottery tickets; standing next to a man on the subway whose aftershave is a bit like the Aramis that Dad always wore (and that Ting so often smelled like); seeing rugelach in a bakery case; an ad for matzo ball soup, or brisket, or bagels and lox, or hot pastrami. When I get a letter with a pretty stamp—especially a foreign one—I still cut around it and tuck it in his old cigar box, just like I did when he was alive, because he used to collect them. But I can finally fall asleep without the TV on. I’m being called from the dugout. There’s a chance I’ll save the game.

  The good luck cat continues to have good luck. We take Ting to Angell for a pacemaker interrogation—a test to see if it’s functioning properly, and to measure the battery life. As always, Sara comes to the lobby and shows us into the exam room. After she takes Ting’s weight and makes notes on how she’s doing, we have time to chat with her before Dr. Laste arrives. She has news: She’s going to be starting veterinary school. We’ll miss her, but we’re terribly proud of her. We know she’ll help generations of animals.

  When Dr. Laste arrives she gently feels around Ting’s pacemaker. It’s still going strong, but has migrated a bit, probably due to all of the times she has jumped off the bed or the couch. It’s still in the same general area, though, and Ting still seems completely unaware of it. Dr. Laste listens to her heart with a stethoscope, and looks pleased.

  Then she ushers us into the room next door, where we’re soon joined by a representative from the pacemaker company, who has been
part of Ting’s team since the beginning. She places a wand-like object attached to a computer against Ting’s pacemaker while I hold her in my arms. With it, they’re able to determine how often Ting is using the pacemaker, and recalibrate it accordingly so that it fires only when truly necessary, thus saving the battery as much as possible. After some calculation, Dr. Laste turns to us and says Ting is barely using the device.

  I guess her heart just needed time to heal.

  Acknowledgments

  There are no words to express my gratitude to cardiologist Dr. Nancy Laste at Angell Animal Medical Center, and to our longtime vet, Dr. Karen Belden, at Bulger Veterinary Hospital. If it weren’t for the two of you, my family would be smaller. Thank you for saving Ting. May every animal in this world have people like you to help them.

  To my agent, Peter Rubie, at Fine Print Literary Management, and my editor, Keith Wallman: You’ve been good to me for two books now, and I’m grateful for you both. Thanks for your advocacy on my behalf, and for your always-wise counsel.

  To the people I work with at Da Capo Press: Thank you for being such collegial colleagues, and for the support you’ve shown me over the years. It never once occurred to me that I should hide my MS at work. That speaks volumes.

  Even though he’s no longer here to read this, I want, of course, to acknowledge my dad. To quote a song we used to sing together while driving in the car, “The story that I love you, it has no end.”

  To my mom, who fights for me like no other, and who fought for Dad until the end. Thank you for nursing Ting back to health in the way that only a mother could.

  And to Marc, in sickness and in health—regardless of the paperwork.

  About the Author

  Lissa Warren is vice president, senior director of publicity, and acquiring editor at Da Capo Press. The author of The Savvy Author’s Guide to Book Publicity, she holds a BS in English education from Miami University and an MFA in creative writing from Bennington College. Her poetry has appeared in Quarterly West, Oxford Magazine, Black Warrior Review, and Verse, and she serves as a poetry editor for Post Road. She also serves on the advisory council of Southern New Hampshire University’s MFA writing program. Since 2003, she has been an adjunct professor at Boston’s Emerson College, teaching graduate courses in book editing, book publicity, and book publishing as part of its Writing, Literature, and Publishing program. She lives in southern New Hampshire.