Neko – Here It Is

The Japanese word for ‘cat’ is ‘neko’. In our house it’s Neko – a proper noun. That’s because Neko is the name of our 15 year old male Persian cat. Neko is not in a good way of late.

His health has always been just a little fragile. He’s battled kidney and urinary issues most of his life. In the last year or so, his jet black coat has turned gray. Concurrently, He started spending nearly all his time sleeping. About six months ago, he also started acting extremely anxious. A little anti-depressant medication helped him calm down. Behind the anxiety, said the vet, was a polyp in his throat. Over the last eight weeks or so, we’ve been working with the vet to try to manage this fast-growing throat polyp which increasingly blocks Neko’s esophagus. He’s barely eating – he can’t smell (cats won’t eat what they can’t smell) and he has obvious trouble swallowing. His breathing is labored. Clearly this thing is taking up much of the available space around it.

The vet said surgery to remove the polyp is ‘multiple thousands of dollars’. So, instead, we’ve been using some steroid drugs to try slowing the polyp’s growth. As of this morning, however, Neko can no longer purr or meow. There is a noticeable bump on the side of Neko’s neck, near his larynx.  I would guess that the steroids are not achieving the desired result, that the polyp is not been slowed at all by the medications.

The last time we took Neko to the vet, she agreed to throw everything at this to see if we can make any improvement. If this didn’t work, the vet warned us, our choices were surgery, euthanasia or allowing the polyp to cause natural asphyxiation.

Like I said, today, Neko cannot meow. C just called me from the vet. Neko’s polyp is, in fact, a cancer tumor that started in his nasal passages and broke through into the palate. The tumor’s consumed the bone in the top of his mouth. It’s filling his throat. Given that the tumor started in his sinuses, it’s impossible to diagnose until it breaks through into the throat or palate. By that time, it’s really just too late. The vet says he’s got two or three days, give-or-take, before he asphyxiates naturally. State-of-the-art chemo might buy him eight weeks, at great expense to us.

   ***

There was a day, back in early 1995, when C – then the woman I was dating – asked me to stop by a pet store in Raleigh Hills (next to the Fred Meyer store, now a Starbucks, but what isn’t these days?) to give my take on a black Persian kitten in the store. C already had a cat, she was thinking about adding a kitten to her life in her one-bedroom apartment.

I did as she asked. That Persian kitten seemed so aloof, so disconnected. I held him, petted him, put him back, and told C that I’d pass if it were me.

Well, it wasn’t me. She bought him anyway and named him Neko. He promptly started terrorizing the place, complicating life greatly.

Once, when he was about six months old, he strayed too close to a candle flame with his bushy tail and lit himself on fire. It must have been like like watching Shere Khan at the end of  The Jungle Book… I wasn’t there at the time, but I was on the other end of the phone when it happened. The commotion was on par with Fibber McGee’s Closet.

Whenever I was around,  however, Neko would curl up on me. Not with me, on me. He slept next to my head. He tried to sleep on my face. He licked my hair, giving me a bath. He purred directly into my ear. At 3 in the morning. “Damn tormentor of a  cat!” I’d say. “He loves you” C would counter. We were in disagreement, but we were both right.

Always one to make it more complex than it needed to be, not even getting Neko neutered would be straightforward. The vet could only find one testicle. The vet said that having only one wasn’t that uncommon. “Take him home and see if he’s still got one up inside somewhere” he said. So we did. Everything was fine… for a while.

A couple months later, when C and I combined our lives and everyone lived together full-time, Neko responded to his new family by marking his chosen belongings. I remember once when we’d folded the laundry but stacked it neatly on the floor under the window just before going to bed. The next morning I awoke to the smell of cat spray in our bedroom. Mad, I climbed out of bed an went in search of the source. The source was the freshly-folded laundry. Even more angry, I started sniff-sorting the laundry into ‘smelly’ and ‘clean’. It didn’t take long to realize that the ONLY clothing in the ‘smelly’ pile was MY clothing. That little so-and-so had surgically marked only my clothes.

That same week, he sprayed the inside all  my dress shoes. “Damn tormentor of a cat!” I’d sneer, after threatening to go after his remaining testicle myself, with a spoon in place of a scalpel. “He loves you” C would counter, unphased by my threats.

Ultimately, we took him back to the  vet, who went back in and found the second testicle way up inside. None too soon in my opinion.

The foundation of the relationship was now set: Neko and I were to have a love-hate relationship based on an unconditional respect and affection  for each other while still somehow having an ongoing battle of opposing wills. In many cases, the activity that looked like hatred was, in fact, motivated by love. Oh, that was so hard to see for so long.

Take Neko’s one hunting conquest, for example. Neko never was much of a hunter. In fact, the only prey he ever caught was Max, my pet cockatiel, who was about 13 years old at the time. Max was out of his cage – as he’d lived for all his life with me – when Neko cornered him. In the dark. Neko didn’t even kill Max, just wounded him mortally, leaving Max to die of trauma hours later. I was mad. That cat was so afraid of the real world outdoors that he hid in the woodpile and resorted to  hunting a family member. The outrage! In my eyes, he was a yellow-bellied worm of a cat. It took me months to overcome the urge to kick him every time I saw him.

And yet, I could never completely disown him. We still had a bond. Couldn’t break it.

He avoided the children when they were very little – too fast and unpredictable for him. I’m pleased to report that, as R got older, larger, and moved more carefully around Neko, Neko started sleeping on R’s bed with him. The two became close in the past year or so. M is a bit younger, Neko has started being a little interactive with M.  

   ***

In August, we had to put down Aki. That day, Neko started insisting on sleeping with me instead of R. I don’t know why for sure, but I can guess. I’d go to bed and Neko would appear from out of nowhere, demanding to sleep on TOP of me, purring constantly.

See what I mean? Irritatingly loving. He affected my sleep greatly. Damn tormentor of a cat, once again. Except we’re both 15 years older, and both a bit wiser.  Now? I’m not so much angry as I’m quizzical.  Did he need me as he mourned Aki, or did he think I  needed him? I greeted his efforts with love an acceptance. We found compromises so that we both got what we wanted. After a while, he learned to curl up in the crook of my knee as I slept on my side. That, it turned out, satisfied us both. He continued to sleep with me until he couldn’t make the jump to the bed any longer- until the polyp (nee tumor) had sapped enough strength to make the leap impossible.  Once he couldn’t get on the bed, he turned to sleeping on the floor of the bathroom – something he’s never done before. I tried carrying him to bed with me. He’d opt to hop off and return to the bathroom floor. It’s becoming clear to me that Neko is waiting for something.  I believe, knows full well what’s coming.

Just as we did last August, the family once again stands nose-to-nose with the prospect of  moving on without one of the animal members of the family.

C is scheduling an at-home euthanasia for Neko tomorrow. Afterward, I’ll make t

he trip out to Banks; Neko can go with Aki once again, prowling the farm together in the afterlife, as they did their mortal life. Bounding around together, free of their bodies that simultaneously were fighting cancer together.

   ***

We chose to experience this day back in 1995, when C brought Neko  home to her one bedroom apartment. We didn’t know then how it would play out. Naively, at that time, I don’t think either of us really cared about the end-game of life (have kids, face cancer. You start paying real attention to the end-game). Whether you think about it or not,  that time inevitably comes. And here it is.

You know what? for all the torment and complexity he brought to living, he’s bringing the most amazing wisdom, grace and peace to this particular process.

Neko, you’ve grown. You’ve challenged me to grow, too. I’d like to think that I have indeed grown through your torment. You’ve taught me about unconditional love; about the irritation that goes along with loving living beings. Thank you for the caring, love and presence you’ve been. It has been a gift. 

Aki’s Last Day -

At dinner time, Aki and the whole family took a long, leisurely walk in Laurelhurst Park Monday. The kids were happy and joyful with her. It was clear that she was struggling. Even on double morphines, she could only walk about 100 feet before she needed a 5 minute rest. But she SOOO wanted to be on the walk with us all. We sat in the grass, and watched the clouds go by. Aki sat, as always, with her attention tuned to whatever happened behind our backs, protecting us from anything that might sneak up from behind.

As I walked Aki back to the house, she was really struggling to walk. Trying to do her a kindness, I first tried to cross the street and go immediately into the alley  – the most direct route home. Aki had another idea. See, she always preferred to go home the long way, walking down the tree-lined Oak Street, then approaching the house from the alley on the side opposite the park. Oak Street was her favorite, without a doubt, so it shouldn’t have surprised me when she – realizing my plan – dug in and refused to go anywhere but down Oak Street. It took a second or two to understand what she meant with her behavior. And when I did, there was naturally no other choice but to walk home by way of Oak Street one last time. Even if it meant carrying her the last bit home. I didn’t have to carry her afterall, but it was darned close.

Back at the house, the vet met us in the back yard. As she set up for the procedure, Aki – lying down because she couldn’t stand after the walk - had steak fillet and salmon for dinner, followed by a big bowl of ice cream. Two bowls, actually… we vamped because the vet needed more time to answer all of C's questions.

Then, it was time to get started.

The vet used a two-stage procedure: a big dose of sedative, wait 20 minutes; then an overdose of anesthetic. We gave Aki a THIRD bowl of ice cream for the sedative shot. She licked the bowl clean with eyes drooping, fighting sleep. She got that bowl clean, though. Then she sighed and drifted off to sleep with all four of us gently petting her.

Snoring, softly.

R, being the technical-minded twelve year old boy he is, was fascinated by the process. He was asking questions of the vet and she took the opportunity to talk him through not only each step, but also how each step fit into the entire procedure. She explained each piece of equipment and what it did. When she tied on the tourniquet to raise a vein, she showed him what she was looking for and let him feel it too. He asked her, "if we didn't do anything more after the sedative, would she ever wake up?" The vet answered that she would indeed, but that it would take almost 24 hours.

When the time came for the anesthetic, she asked, kindly, "we can proceed whenever you feel ready enough." R spoke first, saying "I'm NEVER going to be ready, but we need to do this. Me being ready isn't the point. I vote 'now'" And do we did we all. And with quiet tears from me, C and M - but fascination with the IV from R - the vet gave Aki the anesthetic.

Aki's soft snoring breathing just.....stopped. No rattling breaths, no flinches or twitches to startle the kids, just a gentle cessation. It took a full minute or two for the kids to really realize she'd gone. Nothing had happened. Nothing dramatic, anyway. Only peacefulness.

After the vet confirmed that she had passed, w picked her up and put her in the minivan for the trip to Banks. The kids opted not to go on the trip to bury her; they stayed with friends close by to home while we finished the task.

Once we got to the farm, C and I were met by my sister who stayed up late to help us. We placed Aki in a grove of trees where about a half-dozen other family dogs have been buried. We placed her with a toy, and three bouquets of flowers, on top of one of her favorite blankets. Then we planted a Galaxy bush  to mark her spot. Aki had been to the farm a number of times while alive; she liked it there.

On Tuesday morning, M said that she was glad she was brave enough to stay for the whole thing. She said it wasn't scary at all. It was sad, but not scary. Aki got to go on with dignity, surrounded by her family. Having had to put a cat in extreme duress down in a veterinary office with no advanced warning, C and I knew what the alternative can be like. We were heartened to hear M's perspective. That, afterall, was what we wanted to achieve in honoring and aiding Aki's passing.

M's cell phone now carries a new charm -- the heart-shaped dog license from Aki's collar.

Tonight, a week later, I came home from work and was startled to find that there was no dog blocking my path, greeting me. I stepped around her presence anyway, confident that her spirit was both here, and amongst the trees in Banks, all at the same time.

Camping – Troop 22 Family Camp

This year’s Troop 22 Family Camp was this last weekend. We missed it last year, because we were in Disneyland. So this was the Typhoon’s first chance to go on a Family Camp. And given that we currently on a sort of hospice for our aging Akita, Akiko, we made sure to take her along for what is perhaps our last campout with the family dog.

Paulina Lake, inside the Newberry Crater, is a gorgeous alpine lake nestled into a collapsed volcanic caldera south of Bend, Oregon. Full of interesting geologic features, gorgeous views and a thriving trout population, it was a great choice for a family campout.

Last Fall, we picked up an expedition tent from Next Adventure. Not one of those classic heavy, canvas expeditions, this one (pictured below) is nylon, utilizing a tent/rainfly construction and based on four huge poles that create a cavernous barrel-shaped interior. From end-to-end, this tent is over twenty feet long and divided into two sections. The smaller front section is called a ‘porch’. Lots of windows and a panorama view would make for a great place to hang out bug-free. The larger, more private section has room to sleep all four of us, plus the dog.

So, its a nice tent for comfortable car camping. Ideal for Badasht and for the family camp.  Sharp-eyed readers will notice that the rain fly does not completely shade the ends of the tent. Not a problem for summer showers and the like, but a design weakness for prolonged rain.

Now, central Oregon in June is predictably pleasant. Campers can expect sunny weather interrupted maybe by a thundershower. So the irony should be evident that it came to pass that we experienced a series of thundershowers, followed by a weather front that rained about an inch on us between Friday dinner and early Sunday morning. The rain wasn’t constant, but it did indeed rain more than not.

Saturday morning, while it rained a bit, R had the first Board of Review of his scouting career. For those who don’t know, a Board of Review (BoR) is the last step to achieving a new rank in scouting. Three adults hold an interview with the scout, verify not only that he both accomplished each requirement, but also to test his understanding of what he did, and his overall poise. Pass the BoR, and the scout advances in rank. Fail the BoR, and the scout must wait a short period of time and try again. R went into his first BoR with a rank of Scout (lowest). His BoR simultaneously passed him on Tenderfoot and Second Class ranks….two ranks in one sitting. Nice!

So the Typhoon was in high spirits mid-day, when the weather broke enough for the troop to hike one-mile from the campground to an impressive lava flow chock-full of Obsidian. This photo gives a lay of the land.

Paulina Lake is on the extreme left of the photo; with East lake in the background. Our campsite would be on the closest edge of Paulina Lake, just at the edge of the photo. The lava flow is the gray region throughout the center.

About the time we got back to the campsite, it started raining again, with that steady pelt-pelt of a rainstorm that doesn’t plan to end any time soon. So we had made good use of the break in the weather for the side trip.

Afternoon play activities did NOT stop for the rain. There was just no sensible way to keep those boys and their siblings cooped up in their respective tents while it rained. A pack of 25 rain-soaked kids was a foregone conclusion. No big deal as long as there’s one dry set of clothing and a dry tent to return to…

Saturday night’s social activity was a troop wide chili cook-off. We all had a lot of fun with that, and the chili all turned out wonderfully. Lots of good team-building and bonding took place. Of course part of the bonding was because we all had to huddle under the cooking fly shelters to escape the heavy rain from the weather front that settled over us.

Everyone ate, everyone got wet, some were soaked. Typhoon children were among the soaked. I was somewhere in the middle of helping with kitchen cleanup, when C let me know that her after-dinner tent inspection showed significant leaks from the zippers and seams on both ends of our tent. While we didn’t have water running through our tent area (drainage rivulets had started to appear all over camp by now), there was definitely a steady drip-drip-drip onto the floor. The rainfly was doing its job; the leaks were only from the uncovered ends of the tent. So that was a good news / bad news situation. Seam sealer would fix the leaks, but we’d have to get through tonight without it.

Except that C’s inspection found that an unspecified child in the family had unzipped some of the covers over the porch screens, opening the windows and letting the rain come in unabated, soaking the dry change of clothes, sleeping pads and the feet of the childrens’ sleeping bags.

Ugh.

So it came as no surprise that, at this very moment, both children appeared, overwhelmed suddenly by the cold wet condition of their clothes, near tears, begging for us parents to suddenly make them warm, dry and happy again.

There is just no good way to break the news to two soaked, shivering children that they’d been a bit negligent with the tent and, as a result, the dry and warm belongings they were depending upon were now wet and cold. It wasn’t a pretty exchange. There was some discussion of breaking camp right then. I said a firm ‘no’. We weren’t the only family having that talk at about that time. One family did leave then; their backpacking-style tents were leaking significantly and all their belongings were dripping-wet soaked.

The mitigation process took some coordinated teamwork . C directed the re-arranging of the tent’s insides, while I stood in the rain, protected by my Gore-tex rain coat, holding shoes and clothes up to the fire until the drying process reached an equilibrium with the rain still falling on the wet items. When we’d finished, we had four functional sleeping bags, two kids in dry pajamas inside those bags, and a merely damp dog lying on her dog bed covered by a dry car blanket.

For most of her life, the idea of putting a blanket over Aki was just plain impractical. That night, however, it was different. The moment I put that blanket over Aki, she gave me a look of appreciation like none I’ve ever seen before. Normally she moves around overnight, finding a couple places to sleep besides on her dog bed. This time, she stayed put. Seven hours later, the blanket was still in place with just her muzzle poking out. Just as I left her; she didn’t move a muscle.

Once we finally got everyont tucked into bed, it was M who was the first to fall asleep. C and I spent an hour or so with R, the new Second Class scout, listening to the rain outside, debriefing everything that went on during the day. It turned out that he was the one who left the tent windows open. He felt terrible about it. We talked about learning lessons the hard way. Both C and I had camping-in-the-rain stories to tell that out-did R’s lessons of the day. It made him feel better to know that we didn’t judge him harshly for his mistakes, and it helped him better understand that the guidance we give him on how to be successful is based upon our own personal experience. He’s increasingly learning that listening to experienced elders will save him the discomfort of learning the painful lesson for himself.

Everyone slept okay. Nobody was uncomfortably cold overnight. The rain stopped sometime after midnight, leaving us a damp, misty Sunday morning with raindrops still dripping from the trees overhead. At 7am revile, half the camp was already packed up. Everyone was uncomfortable and ready to get warm. Not a single person seemed inclined to linger longer than needed. The big-event Sunday breakfast was cancelled and by 8:30am, we were on the road. We had a soaked tent, a 30 gallon trashbag full of soaked clothes, a damp dog, and two cold kids as we rolled out, heater going full blast. As quickly as we got packed up and on the road, we weren’t the first family out. Others skedaddled like they were running from a forest fire.

Half an hour of drying time in the car, and everyone’s spirits were on the rise. We stopped for a big hot breakfast at the Black Bear Diner in Madras. Full stomachs finished off the recovery.

By 2pm, we were home and unpacking the car.

By 4PM, sleeping bags were already fluffed dry. The tent was set up in the backyard, ready for seam sealer.

By dinner time Sunday, the sun had dried the tent, and R and I had applied five tubes worth of seam sealer to the miles of stitches in our massive cathedral of a tent.  It’s going to be dry in the future, I can tell you that.

So it was quite a trip. A lot of lessons learned. I’m glad we went.

One Little Monkey, Sitting In a Tree....

I try to keep the news on this blog up-beat. This is our "feel-good" space, after all. We all have good news and bad news in our lives, I just concentrate on the good-ness here; bad-ness has its venue elsewhere. Way elsewhere.

Most of the time.

Sometimes, a bittersweet thing happens that deserves mention here. Today I have one of those items.

At my work, the Marketing team is comprised of three marketing managers: loyalty marketing; internet marketing; and me - CAD/EDA Marketing. This week, both of the other managers have tendered their resignations. Independent of each other, they're both moving on to self-employment opportunities. One still in the industry, one outside the industry. This turn of events leaves me the only manager-level member of the marketing team for the time being. We're now officially down four positions. One of the four positions has been open for 14 months. ugh.

While my boss tells me I won't be expected to dramatically shift my priorities, its inevitable that we won't just let three of our key sales channels sit unguarded while we look for new staff. Someone will have to fill the gaps day-to-day. Some of that may be me; some of that may be other people across functions in the company. This will probably end up being a good thing in a year or so. Right now, though, it's emotionally painful and despair-inducing.

And that's just about all I have can say without sliding into a rant or a complaint.