Straight From The Hart
By Joan Rowden Hart
A Short Life Well Lived
Life started out hard for Mr. Grayson. Born in the fall of 2006 to a
feral momma cat who had hung around our yard for several years, he was
the the only one of her many litters ever to survive the dangers of
kitten-hood and become an adult cat. She was killed on the street
after he was weaned that year.
But Mr. Grayson was a survivor, and he continued to roam around the
outskirts of our yard on the corner, scrapping for every morsel of
food he could find.
Milan would see him run to hide every time he went out to get the mail
because the timid skinny cat was afraid of everything and everybody.
We can only imagine how many rocks or sticks had been thrown at him to chase him
away from other houses. He was mauled by the larger feral
tomcats in the neighborhood, but he always survived to forage another day.
Milan has a soft heart for any living creature who is wounded and
hurting, so he tried to make friends with this beautiful cat with the
soft grey coat outlining patches of snow white fur which was always
spotless no matter how dirty his living environment was.
Mr. Grayson's mother had also been afraid and taught her babies in the
ways of feral cat life how to run and hide, and we were never able to
catch her or any of her babies.
My granddaughters came to visit one day and seeing the momma cat in
the yard, decided to
name her Gracie for her charcoal grey markings, so Grayson seemed an
appropriate name for her survivor son, and he carried himself with
such a regal bearing that Milan said he would be known as Mister
Grayson, and so he was.
As that fall came on, Milan kept trying to make friends with him,
leaving food outside the rock garden where he was knew Mr. Grayson was
hiding in the shadows watching for him. Then Milan would step around
the corner and watch to make
sure Grayson could eat in safety from the ‘possums and other feral
cats who seemed
intent on stealing his food.
In time Mr. Grayson would let Milan pet him briefly but then he
would run away. He would never let me get close to him although I was
able to catch a glimpse of him sometimes.
On February night in 2007, the icy rain began to fall in Lebanon. Milan went
outside and somehow managed to grab Mr. Grayson by the scruff of the
neck and carry him in to our basement. We could only imagine how
scared he was, but he was safe and dry and warm for the first time in
his young life.
It was a long time before we would ever actually see him. Our
unfinished basement was cluttered with lots of hiding
places, but the food Milan took down every morning was always gone in
the evening, and the litter box we provided for him was definitely used
on a daily basis.
Gradually, he did come out of hiding and let Milan pet him briefly.
He had to be aware there was another feline occupant of our house who
made her presence known quite loudly through the day, and we wondered
what would happen when the two of them actually met face to face.
When Mr. Grayson had been an outside cat he often came to the deck of
our house where Annie would be sitting on the inside at the screen
door and he would try to
reach through the screen and touch her as she sat there.
So we let Annie go down to the basement and they became friends, and
eventually Mr. Grayson had enough courage to come upstairs, but it
was still a long time before he would let me pet him at all.
One Monday morning Milan was able to catch him and pick him up
and put him into the cat carrier where he was taken, under great and
loud protests, out to Dr. Margaret Snyder for the necessary operation
and his feline shots.
He was always Milan's cat. Their special time together was in the
morning when Milan would feed him and pet him as he got ready for work.
Everyone who came to our house said Mr. Grayson was the most beautiful
cat they had ever seen, even those who had cats of their own. He was
large and muscular, with a perfectly shaped head and body, all wrapped
in that beautiful chinchilla colored grey and white coat.
Mr. Grayson was always the gentleman. If I wanted to sleep late, it was Annie
who would push the bedroom door open wide enough she could get in and
jump up on the bed and tell me it was time to get up. Mr. Grayson
would never have done that, but he would always sit right outside the
open bedroom door and wait for me to get up so he could speak to me.
The only time he would ever come into our bedroom was when there was a
thunder storm. He was terrified of thunder, and he would
flatten himself down on the floor until he looked like a big gray and
white rug, and try to move to safety by scooting slowly on his stomach
through the house to wherever we were.
Several weeks ago we noticed the beautiful fur coat was not as carefully
groomed as it always had been, and he wasn't eating. This time he was
too weak to protest when Milan put him in the carrier and took him out to Dr.
Snyder, where he was diagnosed with an incurable feline disease.
There was nothing we could do for him, she said, but take him home and
love him, and feed him anything he wanted to eat. She couldn't give us a
time frame, saying some cats succumbed pretty quickly and others lasted a little
longer, depending on how much food they would consume. He didn't
appear to be in pain, but just seemed to want to be left alone.
We didn't let him down into the basement any more because the stairs were too
difficult for him to handle, but our house is large and cluttered and
he had plenty of hiding places.
He would get up every morning when he heard Milan up and around for
their time together but he would no longer wait outside the bedroom
door for me. After Milan went to work he would go to one of his
hiding places and stay until he heard Milan’s voice when he came home
at night. Then he would come out and Milan would put out some food
and try to coax him into eating a few bites. Afterward he would climb up
on the arm of Milan’s chair to have his back rubbed a few minutes
before getting down again and slipping away.
He wanted Milan’s full attention so he would look into his eyes, and
if Milan took his glance away for even a second, Mr. Grayson would
lift one paw and softly touch Milan’s arm to have him look at him again and
talk to him.
It had been over two weeks since he had had anything to eat or drink,
but his eyes were bright and clear and he didn’t seem to be in any
pain, until this past Sunday, and we knew it was time.
Milan got up early Monday morning and dug a grave for him, then came
into the house and lovingly picked him up and wrapped him in a clean
soft rug and tucked him inside the cat carrier for his final trip to
see the vet. This time there was no protest at all.
Dr. Snyder is always so patient and kind when she has to administer
this final rite to a dying animal. This was not the first time for us
because we‘ve always had cats, and certainly not the first time for
her.
When the thunder storms moved through our area Monday night, I
realized that for the first time in his life Mr. Grayson had peace and
would no longer have to cower from the thunder. It seemed a fitting
end to a very sad day.
By Joan Rowden Hart
A Short Life Well Lived
Life started out hard for Mr. Grayson. Born in the fall of 2006 to a
feral momma cat who had hung around our yard for several years, he was
the the only one of her many litters ever to survive the dangers of
kitten-hood and become an adult cat. She was killed on the street
after he was weaned that year.
But Mr. Grayson was a survivor, and he continued to roam around the
outskirts of our yard on the corner, scrapping for every morsel of
food he could find.
Milan would see him run to hide every time he went out to get the mail
because the timid skinny cat was afraid of everything and everybody.
We can only imagine how many rocks or sticks had been thrown at him to chase him
away from other houses. He was mauled by the larger feral
tomcats in the neighborhood, but he always survived to forage another day.
Milan has a soft heart for any living creature who is wounded and
hurting, so he tried to make friends with this beautiful cat with the
soft grey coat outlining patches of snow white fur which was always
spotless no matter how dirty his living environment was.
Mr. Grayson's mother had also been afraid and taught her babies in the
ways of feral cat life how to run and hide, and we were never able to
catch her or any of her babies.
My granddaughters came to visit one day and seeing the momma cat in
the yard, decided to
name her Gracie for her charcoal grey markings, so Grayson seemed an
appropriate name for her survivor son, and he carried himself with
such a regal bearing that Milan said he would be known as Mister
Grayson, and so he was.
As that fall came on, Milan kept trying to make friends with him,
leaving food outside the rock garden where he was knew Mr. Grayson was
hiding in the shadows watching for him. Then Milan would step around
the corner and watch to make
sure Grayson could eat in safety from the ‘possums and other feral
cats who seemed
intent on stealing his food.
In time Mr. Grayson would let Milan pet him briefly but then he
would run away. He would never let me get close to him although I was
able to catch a glimpse of him sometimes.
On February night in 2007, the icy rain began to fall in Lebanon. Milan went
outside and somehow managed to grab Mr. Grayson by the scruff of the
neck and carry him in to our basement. We could only imagine how
scared he was, but he was safe and dry and warm for the first time in
his young life.
It was a long time before we would ever actually see him. Our
unfinished basement was cluttered with lots of hiding
places, but the food Milan took down every morning was always gone in
the evening, and the litter box we provided for him was definitely used
on a daily basis.
Gradually, he did come out of hiding and let Milan pet him briefly.
He had to be aware there was another feline occupant of our house who
made her presence known quite loudly through the day, and we wondered
what would happen when the two of them actually met face to face.
When Mr. Grayson had been an outside cat he often came to the deck of
our house where Annie would be sitting on the inside at the screen
door and he would try to
reach through the screen and touch her as she sat there.
So we let Annie go down to the basement and they became friends, and
eventually Mr. Grayson had enough courage to come upstairs, but it
was still a long time before he would let me pet him at all.
One Monday morning Milan was able to catch him and pick him up
and put him into the cat carrier where he was taken, under great and
loud protests, out to Dr. Margaret Snyder for the necessary operation
and his feline shots.
He was always Milan's cat. Their special time together was in the
morning when Milan would feed him and pet him as he got ready for work.
Everyone who came to our house said Mr. Grayson was the most beautiful
cat they had ever seen, even those who had cats of their own. He was
large and muscular, with a perfectly shaped head and body, all wrapped
in that beautiful chinchilla colored grey and white coat.
Mr. Grayson was always the gentleman. If I wanted to sleep late, it was Annie
who would push the bedroom door open wide enough she could get in and
jump up on the bed and tell me it was time to get up. Mr. Grayson
would never have done that, but he would always sit right outside the
open bedroom door and wait for me to get up so he could speak to me.
The only time he would ever come into our bedroom was when there was a
thunder storm. He was terrified of thunder, and he would
flatten himself down on the floor until he looked like a big gray and
white rug, and try to move to safety by scooting slowly on his stomach
through the house to wherever we were.
Several weeks ago we noticed the beautiful fur coat was not as carefully
groomed as it always had been, and he wasn't eating. This time he was
too weak to protest when Milan put him in the carrier and took him out to Dr.
Snyder, where he was diagnosed with an incurable feline disease.
There was nothing we could do for him, she said, but take him home and
love him, and feed him anything he wanted to eat. She couldn't give us a
time frame, saying some cats succumbed pretty quickly and others lasted a little
longer, depending on how much food they would consume. He didn't
appear to be in pain, but just seemed to want to be left alone.
We didn't let him down into the basement any more because the stairs were too
difficult for him to handle, but our house is large and cluttered and
he had plenty of hiding places.
He would get up every morning when he heard Milan up and around for
their time together but he would no longer wait outside the bedroom
door for me. After Milan went to work he would go to one of his
hiding places and stay until he heard Milan’s voice when he came home
at night. Then he would come out and Milan would put out some food
and try to coax him into eating a few bites. Afterward he would climb up
on the arm of Milan’s chair to have his back rubbed a few minutes
before getting down again and slipping away.
He wanted Milan’s full attention so he would look into his eyes, and
if Milan took his glance away for even a second, Mr. Grayson would
lift one paw and softly touch Milan’s arm to have him look at him again and
talk to him.
It had been over two weeks since he had had anything to eat or drink,
but his eyes were bright and clear and he didn’t seem to be in any
pain, until this past Sunday, and we knew it was time.
Milan got up early Monday morning and dug a grave for him, then came
into the house and lovingly picked him up and wrapped him in a clean
soft rug and tucked him inside the cat carrier for his final trip to
see the vet. This time there was no protest at all.
Dr. Snyder is always so patient and kind when she has to administer
this final rite to a dying animal. This was not the first time for us
because we‘ve always had cats, and certainly not the first time for
her.
When the thunder storms moved through our area Monday night, I
realized that for the first time in his life Mr. Grayson had peace and
would no longer have to cower from the thunder. It seemed a fitting
end to a very sad day.
Comments