The Sunshine Cat: A Tribute To Budd, My Best Furry Friend

Last weekend, after eleven years of happy life, we had to put our cat Rodney to sleep. He had advanced kidney disease, and though medications helped him feel better for a little while, eventually his body started to shut down. It was a tough decision, but one that I knew was right. I’ve witnessed too many other pets suffering and as a responsible and compassionate caregiver, it was my final act of love to a cat that was so much more than “just a cat.”

Rodney came into my life in 1999. It was Thanksgiving, and my boyfriend and I were at my parent’s house for dinner. My mother had failed to spay and neuter her 5 cats, and so she had two litters of kittens to find homes for. We were about to move into our first apartment and I knew I wanted animals, so we decided to take two kittens home. There was an argument over which two to choose. There were two black and white kittens and one grey/black and white. My boyfriend thought the grey kitten was ugly (A testament of his character), and wanted to take the two that looked alike. I argued that the grey kitten was beautiful and sweet. I agreed that we would take the first two that came to us, knowing full well that one would be the friendly grey kitten. I named him Rodney, after the guinea pig from Dr. Doolittle, and his brother Rudy, after the football movie.

Rodney proved himself to be the friendliest cat on the planet. He loved people, loved attention and thought nothing of slamming his head against stranger’s legs when they were visiting. Everyone loved him, even friends of mine who hated cats. He even left an impression on the technician who was hooking up our cable. Rodney insisted on helping with the installation, by rubbing on every wire and tool and then jumped in the tech’s lap, purring loudly. The man then said, “I’ve never been much for cats, but this guy is so sweet, I think he’s changing my mind.” He had that affect on people.

Over the years, as I brought more and more animals home, Rodney always welcomed them with a friendly sniff and rub of fur. When my dogs shoved their noses into his side roughly, he would counter with a gentle head butt. When our new kitten wanted to play, Rodney obliged, teaching him how to chase string and catch mice. When my niece would visit and the other cats would run, it was Rodney who stayed, letting her pet and pull his fur. He loved the attention. Rodney was all about love. And every morning I would wake to ten pounds of fur on my chest, whiskers tickling my face and purring rumbling in my ear. It was time for breakfast, and when Rodney was hungry, he let you know.

Rodney was the first to greet you at the door and welcome you into our home. He loved bird watching in the window, stuffing himself into tiny boxes and stretching out in the sunshine that streaked across the floor. He loved bottle caps, balls of tinfoil and shoelaces. He loved French fries, potato chips and tomato sauce. But most of all, he loved me. From the minute I brought him home he was attached to my hip. He followed me everywhere, even the bathroom. He was always by my side. He was there for every up and down of my life and always offered a purr on my lap and an ear to listen. I love all my animals, but Rodney, my Budd, was my special cat.

A few days before he passed, though he had stopped eating, he still had some energy. It was a beautiful, warm spring-like day in February, a very rare occurrence. We had gone grocery shopping. Romeo propped the door open to bring in the bags, and as usual, there was Rodney, curious as ever. I started taking down my winter flag to replace it as he slowly stepped onto the porch. He sniffed the warm air, the plants on the steps that were still brittle from winter and squinted his eyes at the brightness of the sun. I sat down next to him, he pushed his head into my hand and together we enjoyed the sunshine. We sat there for about 40 minutes, until a bee came buzzing over, but that’s just because I was afraid. Rodney gently sniffed the bee and watched it buzz away. He was always friendly, always gentle, always loving.

When we went in, we left the door open so that he could still enjoy the sunshine. First he sat there, perfectly, just staring out the door before stretching out exactly in the beam on the floor. In the days that followed, he became more sluggish, less interested in being near us and I knew it was time.

I’ve been a part of countless euthanasia’s during my time working at shelters and animal hospitals. I can honestly say that there has never been one that didn’t affect me. Whether I knew the pet or not, I was always sad, allowing myself to feel for the life we were about to free. So, of course, I knew what to expect and had prepared myself as much as possible for the inevitable. Still, I had never had to put my own pet to sleep, and this was my “special” cat. It was one of the toughest things I’ve ever had to do, extremely heartbreaking and emotionally painful. But, it was also very peaceful. I knew that he was no longer in pain, no longer suffering and I was so thankful to be there, stroking his fur and telling him I loved him as he passed.


Of course I cried, a lot, and still do every now and then. It’s strange to come home and not have him there greeting me, or to sit down and not have him in my lap. Our other animals feel it too. Ripken has been much more clingy than usual. Perhaps he learned a thing or two from Rodney about how to express love. And, maybe he sent that baby kitten to us to rescue, knowing that we’d take good care of her.

I’m thankful for the warm February day we got to enjoy and for the eleven years that I got to share with a very special soul who brought sunshine to my life every day. When I think of Rodney, I like to imagine that he’s sprawled out in the grass somewhere on a warm spring day, smelling the flowers, making friends with the bugs and other animals, soaking up the sun and making everything around him feel his love.

Why I'm Going To Be A Great Mom

I announced a while back that my husband and I are pursuing surrogacy as a means to become parents. While most people are supportive of this decision, there are still some who disagree with our choice for various reasons. Needless to say, we made this decision after careful thought, consideration and discussion. We have no doubts about our capabilities. Still, I could hear some of the opposing questions in the back of my mind. “Aren’t your lives hard enough already?” “What if your disease takes a turn for the worst?” “Are you physically capable of caring for a child?” Then I came across an article that will hopefully help to put those questions to rest.

The September 5, 2010 issue of Parade magazine included a cover story called Miracle Mom. It tells the story of a woman who has a severe neuromuscular disease, which makes her bones extremely weak and brittle and her lungs prone to infection. She has never walked and her bones have never borne weight. So, obviously when she found out she was pregnant, there was some concern.  There was the possibility that she could pass on her disease to her child, her bones and lungs could have collapsed from the added weight of the baby and the baby could have been born premature, to name a few. Still, she and her husband decided to start a family, and it all turned out all right.

She made it through two pregnancies without incident and credits her husband for their success as parents. Since there are many things that she couldn’t do physically, her husband had to perform double duty, filling in where she could not. They adjusted their schedules and their lives to accommodate the changes and she feels her children are stronger and more independent and compassionate because of her disease.

I decided after reading this article that I would keep it close by as a reminder that we’ve made the right choice. There are many similarities between this woman and myself. I, like her, will not be able to lift my child in and out of the crib, nor will I be able to “run” around with him/her as much as I’d like. But as the article states, that’s not the mark of a good mother. I have a wonderful, devoted husband who has enough energy for both of us and we are blessed with a huge, loving, hands-on family. And, I am, like her, pretty feisty too and choose to live my life on my terms.

Our child is desperately wanted and will have, not only our love, but also the love of our larger than life family, which includes countless cousins to play with, aunts and uncles with hearts of gold, active grandparents, dogs and cats trained to tolerate ear/tail pulling and extended family in every corner of the state. He/she isn’t even close to being born yet and already has love and support beyond what many children receive in their entire lifetime. I’d say that’s a pretty good start.

So, yes, I’m going to be a great mom, regardless of cancer and crappy treatment side effects, with or without hair, in spite of and perhaps because of every obstacle thrown at me – and I can’t wait!

Thirty

There is a day that exists in the not so distant future. It has been fast approaching for some time now. This day and the moments leading up to it are filled with anxiety, excitement, fear, and celebration. It will be a regular day for most of you, but so much more for me. The date is February 9th and it is my 30th birthday. 

Thirty is something my friends fear. I've listened to them complain about getting closer to it with child-like disgust, as if it has cooties. I suppose I would too, if it weren't for my mortality being shoved in my face every second. Then again, I've never been the kind of person who places emphasis on such things. I'd like to think that non-cancer Tracy would float gracefully into thirty, looking forward to a new decade of lessons and wisdom. She wouldn't get caught up in the "I'm getting older, it's the end of the world" mind game. In fact, her life would be so busy with a career and children that she wouldn't even have time to ponder something as insignificant as age. But non-cancer Tracy is fictional and it's cancer Tracy that is turning thirty in twenty-two days. 

The truth is, thirty is a little frightening for me too. But not because I'm worried about the early signs of aging or that I'm afraid of getting old. The numbers three and zero together don't threaten me because I'm entering another decade; they threaten me because it's a decade that, statistically, I shouldn't be entering. Thirty, for me, means wondering how many years are left. Thirty is one year away from the five year mark - the statistical mark that most stage IV women never make it to, and even fewer make it past. Thirty represents a parallel of unyielding happiness and overwhelming fear. 

And so, cancer Tracy will handle this birthday quite differently, because she's had plenty of time to listen to the little voice in the back of her head. The one that's wondered for three and a half years if she'd even make it this far. Cancer sucks in so many ways that I could never use enough horrible words to express it, but cancer is the reason this birthday is so meaningful. Because of cancer, thirty is something I will embrace with open arms. I will clutch it in the deepest trenches of my being. I will savor every sweet moment that thirty has to offer. It isn't a birthday, it's a victory - like reaching the top of a mountain that everyone said you couldn't climb. Thirty is my golden globe and I will display it as such. 

Thirty is also a beginning, a new era if you will. My thirties will be the decade of my dreams coming true and an extension of the things I've already achieved. I decided early on that thirty was a number I had to get out of my head if I planned on getting to forty. And I do plan on getting to forty. Because I believe that if life can change so suddenly and dramatically for the worse, it can also do the same for the better. Hell, I've already defied statistics. Here's to many more years of better.

Happy Birthday to me!