RIP Oliver Littlechap AKA Oliver Orange Cat AKA Sad Orange Kitty

I wasn't the biggest Game of Thrones fan, but I was engaged enough to keep up with it and certainly to feel the elation in Arya Stark's great moment as she restated the caveat from her childhood in a final episode.

What do we say to the God of Death?  

"There is only one thing we say to death. Not today."

For the past several months, that's been on my mind as Oliver Littlechap showed signs of decline. 

He was the third of four cats who came into our lives beginning in the late nineties. He arrived in 2005, was hanging out with some other neighborhood cats.  I was on my back porch slipping a treat to a neighbor's cat I had a bit of a relationship with and feared wasn't well cared for. 

When Oliver saw a treat, he wandered my way and looked at me hopefully. My first thought was to shoo him away, but he had a look that later earned him the nickname Sad Orange Kitty, and I'm a softy. Over a period of weeks after that, he worked his way into our lives without trying. He was an outdoor cat a while. Then an indoor-outdoor then...

He became the last feline standing a couple of years ago when Ash aka Ashley passed away following the deaths of our original cats Monty and Daisy. "It's his time to be the only cat," we said. "His time." He'd earned his spot at the center of our attention and our world. 

We'd long battled allergies with Ollie. He was FIV positive and we struggled most to control rhinitis, but when antibiotics did their work, even as recently as January, he'd sprint around the house and bounce from windowsill to furniture. 

More recently, other signs of decline had arisen, most notably weight loss. We'd had discussion. The day will come...

Yet we managed his symptoms and saw great days for him. He climbed into moving boxes and supervised as I prepared for our furniture for a move from Orlando to Williamsburg.

When he joined Christine in our new apartment, he was doing so well she feared he'd draw the ire of neighbors as he strolled through the place caterwauling.

That energy faded a bit, but he remained affectionate and close.

A while back, he climbed onto the sofa with me and I realized his pupils were unnaturally large. I knew from our other cats that meant a blood pressure spike. As with all things of that nature, something's causing it.

But what do we say to the God of Death? 

I took him to the vet and got him started on blood pressure medicine, and we got retinal reattachment that restored a good bit of vision for him in spite of those strained pupils. 

Then there was weight loss. The vet okayed Fancy Feast a couple of months back, and he ate joyously and we fed him freely. 

He also regularly took his place on my desk, my lap or at my side waiting to have his fur brushed, and all in all, he felt good. He slept occasionally on Christine's pillow. 

Last Christmas.

But nature will have its way in spite of all the management you do, and in spite of all the "not today" admonishments.

I went downstairs yesterday to find him lying on his side. He'd sleep that way sometimes, but I sensed something wasn't quite right. He didn't rise to wait at the edge of the kitchen for his breakfast.

At first I thought he wouldn't awake at all, but then I realized he was experiencing some distress, that he was weak. I thought it might be low blood pressure, so I fixed some Fancy Feast and helped him sit up. He devoured it. I remembered with a bit of guilt the time I considered shooing him. At least now, one of the last things I could do for him was give him food, food he enjoyed.

But he couldn't manage to keep himself upright. Christine and I got him on a cushion between us and kept him comfortable. I answered messages and emails, waiting until I could call the vet. Who knew Facebook battles could  be a bromide?

It kept my mind busy and off the inevitable. In a way I didn't want the vet's phones to kick over from the answering service to the receptionist, but the time had to come. I asked to bring him in. They said come on. Back of your mind, you think, maybe there's a shot, an IV drip, a pill.

And eventually the vet--a very sweet lady who'd traded off on his care with his primary veterinarian--eventually the vet--though not in so many words, though not wanting to step in for the God of Death said--Today.

He was fading by then, but she gave us a blanket, and we sat across from a statue of St. Francis of Assisi, the Brother Sun, Sister Moon saint. The Brother Dog, Sister Cat guy. The patron saint of nature and animals and little cats.

We sat with Oliver on both our laps and stroked his fur like we did on a thousand nights as we read or watched TV. 

Then he quietly left us. But we sat for a while.

Stroking his fur. Touching his head, remembering. Feeling sad but also thankful that he had been in our lives and part of lives for such a long, long time.

An early Oliver memory

Wane - a poem

Wane

Leaves take on new beauty:
Harbinger of demise.
Verdant energy fades.
Edges curl.
Ribs show.
Essence crumbles
To brown fragments:
Remains and companions
To the memory of the green,
The love of the whole.

Ollie Dressed Up

We all get ties for Christmas. My cat, Oliver Littlechap, is no exception. 

Oliver Littlechap Right Now

My spry, youngest cat, Oliver Littlechap, has begun receiving subcutaneous fluids for elevated kidney values. He's at least 11 years old and possibly a little older, and it was sad news.

It didn't hit in the devastating fashion Daisy's diagnosis did in 2008 because we've learned a lot about care over the years. She survived seven years and did well most of that time. Lung tumors and not her kidneys caused her death.

Happily, Ollie, who came into our world as Sad Orange Kitty in 2005, is doing well. After a weekend on an IV and now two weeks of Sub Q fluids administered at home, his levels were "perfect" according to the vet.

We're going to try every-other-day Sub Q fluids for him and re-check in a couple of weeks.

He looks sad in the photo from yesterday more because the vet cleaned his ears than because of feeling bad. He just came through for a morning stroll across my keyboard.

I have to be careful not to leave manuscripts open on my desktop or he'll attempt to collaborate, but sometimes I don't like what he does with characterization.

Chat er Cat life

I do weekly, optional chats with students in my horror, mystery and suspense class. Just as he sometimes joins me while I'm writing in the mornings, my cat, Oliver Littlechap, occasionally sits in. Sometimes he walks in front of the camera as well, offering close-up views of his fur.

He seems to have picked up the job from Ash who used to join me for chats but has kind of lost interest.

The Night Oliver Littlechap Spent in Jail

My indoor-outdoor cat, Oliver Littlechap, wandered onto our doorstep five years ago, a thin Oliver Twist for whom we couldn't find an adoptive home. If he wasn't wild, he was close to it.

He lived on our patio for a while and was eventually granted inside privileges around the time Hurricane Rita's inland bluster reached our neighborhood.

Domestic dispute
Oliver's domesticity has always been a little in question. For ages he's liked to prowl the wooded area behind our house and has on occasion been given to staying out all night.

Cats are just not that into doing what they're told.

He disappeared once around 8 p.m., didn't return the next morning and remained missing until Christine and I stood in the back yard calling him diligently in the early afternoon. The vocals finally disturbed him, and he came staggering, blinking and half-asleep, out of a flower bed.

With a little effort, Christine's curtailed some of his roaming, letting him out at night before mealtime. Usually he's been back in an hour, though more recently he's taken to going out the front door when we get home in the evenings.

Bolts out actually, allowing no time for greeting or discourse.

Tuesday was no different when we came home from the gym. An orange streak shot past us, and we went inside to shower and fix dinner.

The front mat remained empty a while later when I looked out. Usually Ollie plops down there after his rounds, waiting to be let in for dinner. Or perhaps for him its supper, the later meal, usually enjoyed after The Theater.

Call back
When he still hadn't shown up in another little while, I called for him. Front first. Then back yard. Nothing. I waited a few minutes and called again.

Still no sign. Shaking the Pounce bag didn't do any good either. Reluctantly, I went to bed without Ollie inside, though I took consolation in remembering he'd done this sort of thing before.

The next morning he still wasn't on the stoop. Christine and I walked up the street calling until we had to go to work, and we toured the neighborhood by car before driving in.

I was worried, but I kept consoling myself that he'd be OK. Maybe he had wandered into the woods again.

After a couple of hours at work, I realized I wasn't concentrating and decided to make a quick swing home.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw Ollie in one of those cat huddles on the front lawn. He'd finally decided to come home.

We pause now for a message from our jailer
But when I got out of my car, I noticed something on his collar. It's murder to keep a collar on Ollie. He's lost two dozen in five years. We had one of those chips implanted so that if he ever wandered too far there'd be a chance of getting called, but recently I found one I could keep on him without being too constricting.

I went over to him and rubbed his head, thinking, "My god has someone had him tied up?"

It wasn't a cord but a note secured by a twist tie.

"Your cat spent the night in my armadillo trap," an anonymous neighbor had written. Threats began after that. If he--though the note writer said she--returned to his/her property Ollie would be turned over to animal control.

Neighborly.

Five years I've worried about him, but Ollie's done fine in our quiet little cul-de-sac, 'till what I suspect is a newish neighbor with a landscaping fetish shows up.

It took Ollie a day to get back to being himself. His nose was red and his face seemed a little swollen, probably from trying to push the trap door open to free himself. Luckily it was chilly but not that cold the other night.

He's adapting to being indoor only fairly well so far, though there have been a few requests for a word with the management this a.m.


More Ollie

• Cat's on the Baker's Rack
• A visit to the Cat Condo

Song Title? Cat's On the Baker's Rack

My cat, Oliver Littlechap, makes himself at home on the baker's rack just off our kitchen.

The Adventures of Oliver

The other night, after we'd had Miss Daisy at the vet because of her kidney condition, Christine brought her home while I went back to work and then to work out.

Oliver, our indoor outdoor cat, was inside when she got home, but he insisted he be allowed to go out.

Christine obliged, her attentions focused more on Miss Daisy, and Oliver went bounding out into the back yard.

A few minutes later, after offering Miss Daisy some food and heaving a sigh, Christine looked out the back window to see Ollie pawing at something.

"Oh no, she thought. He has a rabbit cornered." When that happens, we try to grab him and let the rabbits make a break for it.

Christine went out, planning to help out any hapless cottontail, only to find it was no rabbit Oliver was battling.

Now the serpent was more subtle
It was a snake. Not the same one that poked its head through the French doors a while back but a larger one. It was twisting about and generally flicking its tongue and doing its share of snake posturing.

"For the love of God, Oliver," she cried and when she was sure the serpent wasn't about to lunge, she snatched Ollie up and hauled him back indoors.

I came home about then to find her checking his legs and coat for signs of viper fangs. He didn't see to bothered and didn't seem to have signs of swelling, but he was yawning a lot. She was not sure what kind of snake it was, not having taken time to get his business card.

"I can't believe we're going to have to go back to the vet and tell him Oliver got a snake bite," Christine said. "He'll think we're terrible pet owners."

I wasn't looking forward to sucking out the poison on my own, but there is an emergency vet. Fortunately we decided Oliver was OK, but it was a little scary.

And Jabez prayed please enlarge my territory
His position was that the snake was in his territory. Cats are all about territory as you probably know.

And that is as true an accurate account of his latest ramble as I can type, with him sitting on my lap.

Daisy is napping in the other room, having taken to a new Hill's kidney diet dry cat food and having endured a subcutaneous treatment from Dr. Sid. In her mind that's a little like being in a Mad Scientist's Lair.

Merry Christmas to the Family

At holiday time it's nice to get the whole family together. Herding cats can be a challenge, however.

I snapped this just before Oliver, the cat on the far right, hopped off the sofa. I thought I had a little time because I woke him up to put him there but he had other plans.

Anyway - Merry Christmas from the whole gang, Daisy, Monty, Ash and, of course, Oliver.

Oliver's rambles

Oliver nee Sad Orange Kitty was missing his collar Monday morning. He slides under our fence and into the wooded area behind our house so I thought he must have lost it there. I walked around the yard and along the fence line looking for it but didn't have any luck, so I put a second collar on him with a name tag I had in reserve.

Last night I got a call from a woman who'd found his collar in her garden. I figured when I called her back I'd find out she lived a few houses down.

"I can probably just walk down," I told Christine.

She didn't live a couple of houses down, she lived a neighborhood away. Not far as the crow flies--which is probably what he was chasing--but I had to get in my car.

That prompted a discussion with Christine about whether he should join us inside.

She doesn't really want another inside pet, but I worry about his safety.

Yeah, I needed more anxiety in my life.

Naming Rights

I sent Christine a list of possible names that might be right for our outside visitor, Sad Orange Kitty, who is becoming more of a permanent resident. They ranged from the visually appropriate Cheeto to the origin appropriate Rory, which means red warrior.

I arrived at these names from a careful perusal of name meanings. Other contenders included:

• Rojo
• Dante
• Flynn
• Clancy (red warrior apparently)
• Blaze
• Cedric
• Winston
• Leo
• Fagan - he did wander up from the street but it means fiery and small
• Tango
• Tang
• Tigre
• Jabber - he talks a lot
• Shannon - means small wise one

There were others, but those give a sample of the flavor.

"Those are good, but Oliver would be good too," Christine responded almost immediately. We were doing this by e-mail.

More names
I didn't want to cave to Oliver although it seemed OK. I countered with Chester--kind of makes me think of Cheshire and is tied to Cheeto.

"That's not bad, but I still like Oliver," Christine responded. "We could call him Oliver."

"What about Rory, I wrote back. The origins are kind of cool."

"Do you want to be calling for Rory?" she wrote back. "That's kind of hard to say. But you can name him."

Back to the webI went Bow Wow.com and poured over more name origins, seeking a perfect name. Leo kind of emerged again because he struck me as being a little lion.

I polled co-workers who liked that one and took it back to Christine.

"Isn't that a little too much like Cleo?" she asked, producing in my head one of those gameshow sound effects that says "You lose." Sadly she was right. Cleo was a little cat we had who was hit by a car.

I mulled it over a few more days and searched more sites, and contemplated names while he sat on my lap on the patio.

I'd been given naming rights, I wanted to name him. I pitched a few more which Christine shot down.

"He's little and fiery, come up with something that fits him."

"Blaze was on the list," I reminded.

"I said something that fits him, not the name of a stripper," Christine retorted.

I wasn't ready to give up. I pitched a few more names, and we agreed we actually wanted him to have a human name, something dignified since cats are dignified when they're not falling asleep on top of the television and rolling off. Or trying to lie down for the third time on top of a flat panel monitor.

The struggle continues
Sad Orange Kitty got fixed and came back from the vet - they called him Tom Cat for reference purposes.

Still no name. I tried more--Caleb, Calvin, Caesar, Dash, Fritz. Christine vetoed them although had a bit of a soft spot for Calvin. But I had to agree they weren't perfect.

More web searches, more contemplation, more investigation into European name origins especially Celtic since he's a redhead and thus makes me think he's Irish like I am descended from. Nothing seemed to work or at least get past Christine.

Of course, as it all wore on I realized I didn't really have naming rights. It was all a ploy, some clever spin on reverse psychology on Christne's part.

Oliver is starting to adjust quite well to his feeding time and his collar. I call him Ollie when he sits on my lap.

Early morning visitor

We have frequent cat guests in our back yard. I call our patio the cat cafe because I keep a bowl of water in the shade for passing felines. Two of our neighbors have cats that drift over now and then. I've become friends with B.B. from up the street, a coal black fellow with golden eyes. Once I had to get a ladder and get him off the roof because however he found his way up, there didn't seem to be a ready avenue for him to get down.

My cat, Miss Daisy, feuds with my next door neighbor's cat, who we call Gray Kitty. She's a younger, trimmer female so it seems reasonable Miss Daisy who's a tad on the fluffy side doesn't really like her around.

Sad Orange Kitty
Of late we've been seeing a little orange cat. He's thinner than the time he first passed through the yard, so I've decided he must be abandoned. I fed him all the cat food my co-worker gave me after her cats made it clear they would starve rather than eat it.

Then I started him on a diet of my cats' food. They've been turning their noses up on it since a stay at the vet introduced them to finer cuisine.

Sad Orange Kitty has decided he doesn't have to polish off everything I give him in one sitting now. He was devouring it in a starved gobble. I guess not knowing where your next meal is coming from prompts that, even if it's food other cats would rather starve than eat.

Different fur
This morning when I got up to brew the java of the gods, I noticed something furry on the patio, but it was darker fur than Sad Orange Kitty's. My first thought was that B.B. had made a long night of it.

Then I realized the hind legs I was looking at weren't quite catlike, especially as they began to extend a little.

A few seconds later a raccoon was staring into my kitchen. He decided to flee as soon as our eyes met, and I found it a little freaky. Christine, who was still dozing, said my exact words were: "Jesus Christ, Christine, there's a raccoon on the patio."

Previous guests
A raccoon shouldn't have come as much of a surprise, we have frequent rabbits, and periodically an opossum used to show up to sample some bird trail mix Christine put out, and there are crows who sail over as well.

I guess all of them had the run of the place before developers carved our neighborhood out of the forest.

Perhaps my early morning visitor feels I encroached on his back yard more than he has encroached on mine. I hold the deed, but he's a native on this land, and to him I'm sure Sad Orange Kitty's leftovers were very tasty.