A Bit Weird Even for Me

I promise that this will not turn into a sentimental pet site. But today I finished the video tribute for Whimsey’s memorial and ash scattering that will take place Tuesday. I look forward to picking up his ashes tomorrow and begin feeling a sense bringing him home and moving on. Last night I saw a mention in New York magazine that bashed the new dogster.com and catser.com, sort of canine and feline variations on friendster.com. So how weird could it be, I thought, and posted a memorial to Whimsey on it.

Within barely 45 minutes, I received eight e-mails, mostly from people who wanted to know if my dead cat wanted to be friends with their dead cat. It’s a bit disturbing or comforting, I’m not sure yet, that in San Francisco alone there are 896 cat pages posted.

Whimsey August 9, 1989 - September 23, 2006

I made the excruciating decision to have one of my two cats, Whimsey, euthanised this morning. During his dental procedure today, the vet confirmed that he had several inoperable tumors in his jaw. She said I had the options of having the comfort of him around me but suffering in great pain or having her do the procedure now while he was in a peaceful sleep. I wondered several times today if it would have been better have let him come back awake before the procedure was done, but that would have only been for my benefit and not his.

This last shot above was taken yesterday evening at Pets Unlimited while we waited for the vet. Even when he cried out in pain as the vet examined his jaw, he was still purring. I have never known an animal that loved humans so much. Even cat-haters fell for his charm.

It has been sad to see his brother, obviously aware and sad about his absence. The past two days I could sense something different in their relationship, as if they were comforting each other and instinctively aware that their 17 years as brothers would soon end. And, thinking back over the past month, I saw the two of them napping together more often, obviously not for warmth. I know my time with the remaining cat, Bunter, is likely brief as well, and I am intent on giving him as much attention as possible.

At least my last moments with him were positive. Even though he must have been in great pain, he was still an unstoppable purr machine. Perhaps that was the hardest part of making my decision. How could I be the one to end a life that still exuded so much joy and love. Even as the vet or I opened his mouth to examine his bleeding jaw and he howled, he was still purring. I cannot say there was a blessing in this, but I know I made the right decision even if I regret it.

Bunter and Whimsey go to the Doctor

Today I took my 17-year-old cats, Bunter and Whimsey, to the vet at the SPCA for their annual check up. Both had gained a pound and were given a clean bill of health except that Bunter, the more of the two who has gone through a series of health challenges through the years. The doctor determined that he has a heart murmur. So he'll need to go back for blood work to determine what is causing it.

Consider his age, the vet said, this is nothing to be overly concerned about but it could be a sign of several things.

Lost and Found; Sad and Glorious

Poor Flossie, if I see you I'll take you back home. Sniffle, sniffle.
This portrait in the window of Gypsy Honeymoon reminds me of my Whimsey who's been gone almost two years but by no means forgotten. Sniffle, sniffle.

Chez le Jardin de Junk Thief

His Majesty Bunter, assuming his rightful pose as the king of the jungle on York Street. He's an indoor puss, so he's been an absolute purr machine of thanks for having an afternoon playing and reigning in the garden today.

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I am happy to bring back the surprisingly popular feature showing shots from the garden at the back of the JunkPlex.

It is good that I did my jaunt to the Haight and Golden Gate Park yesterday since they were having the 40th anniversary of the Summer of Love concert out there today. I did actually do some deadheading, but it involved rose bushes and geraniums.

Here are some highlights.
According to Salty Sally at Flowercraft (not to be confused with Salty Miss Jill), these flowers are indigenous to Austria and contain all the colors of the Royal Habsburg Court and you will see them in any official portrait of the royals. I usually rely on Sally for tips on appropriate watering, sunlight and soils, and I had no idea that she had such extensive known of 18th century European royals. Though, come to think of it, tweak her husky Imperial Valley twang with a British accent and you've got Marianne Faith Playing Queen Maria Theresa. (By the way, if you follow the link I pasted to Flowercraft's site, that's Sally third from the left. I've no idea if that's here real name, but she's a real sweetie, but I have a hunch that if you try to mess with her you'll be pushin' up petunias in no time.)

A little pruning and adding of the new flowers in the upper center around the Whimsey shrine seemed a fitting ritual as we near the one year anniversary of losing him. (Yes, sniffle, sniffle, but every time the wind chime with the cats on the top makes a noise, we know it's our Whims smiling down on us.)


After seven amazing years, a favorite hearty little bonsai just decided it was time to go, so it was time to go with a different approach in this little black, oval pot on the fire escape.
I have not owned a bird bath since I had my flat on Garfield Place in Park Slope Brooklyn, nearly 15 years ago. I'm telling you I've got me some dirty birds back in that yard that are anxious to get spiffied up.

You can never have too many Japanese cast iron lanterns, and this one was just too hard to pass by this morning at the Alemany Flea Market.

Pretending There Is a Star in Me to Be

Saturday afternoon, I had my short memorial for Bunter, scattering his ashes in the back yard near where his brother's are. Above is the video tribute I made to him.

His passing, after nearly 20 years, was peaceful. I found an incredible vet who made house calls and was a poet/philosopher as much as a vet. I won't indulge my readers in all the details of this farewell, except that in his final moments, Bunter let out loud purr as he wrapped his paws around me with the excitement of when we would share a late afternoon together.

He and his brother came into my life in 1990 barely a year old when their first guardian left them with me for a weekend trial. There was no immediate bond, and I was ready to take them back until I saw them staring at me with pathetic longing and I decided to give it another week. They kept their distance from me for at least the first six months. It was close to a year before I heard the first purr directed towards me.

They became a constant during the next two decades, following me to three different states until we finally settled in their native California. (They were born Smith Ranch.)

The bond grew slowly, and when Bunter's brother Whimsey had to be put down two years ago he seemed to assume I was his feline sibling, never wanting me to leave his side. It followed the loss of both of my parents, my aunt and a few friends over the course of less than two years.

So many memories eventually were embedded into their presence -- as much joy as there was loss, betrayal, anger, regret and fear. Their lack of judgment and unconditional love was something that was slowly earned and unexpected. I've struggled to write more about what these two companions meant to me and have feared appearing to be the wretched, crazy cat person as I rhapsodize them. The words haven't materialized, and I apologize for the sentimentality of the video.

Face the Dog

Yes, there really is a...Dogbook, a parallel Facebook site. Oh, dear. Thanks to the introduction from Joy of I've Got a Crush on...ME! Now her Basil and Guru are at least cyber friends across the continent. Bunter and Whimsey's "In Loving Memory" profiles are still up over at Catster. Perhaps I should look for Gardenster so my agapanthia can make friends with others in New Zealand or something.

An amazing thing, these interwebs. I bet I can already predict Tugboat Dave's reaction to yet another wacky San Francisco-fused trend.

If you've not friended me already, my Facebook profile is here.

Remembering

I'm not sure where this puts me in the ranks of cranks, spinsters, and heirs to Grey Gardens, but today the memorial stone for my cat Whimsey that died last September arrived, nearly six months to the day. It was odd and comforting at the same time to hold the stone that weighed about the same as he did and place it in the garden where his ashes rest and he loved to sun and play.

Even if one were not to get sentimental about the cat himself, it was the fact that he marked a significant chunk of my life, more than a third of it. It has been pleasant today to watch the sun play off the imperfections and subtle highlights of the stone. And, were I ever to move from here, I can take it with me.

Bunter Warhol - Cat About Town

I've not made it all the way through the Ric Burns' Andy Warhol documentary -- about 1/3rd of the way so far -- but it made me recall my Christmas card from around 2002 featuring one of my cats. Calling it "Bunter Warhol, Cat About Town," the card was a fairly popular piece. Today Bunter's brother, Whimsey, had to go back to the vet for what is likely an abscessed tooth. After not having to deal with wet cat food for nearly 18 years, that and paying cat sitters when I am gone, will likely soon be a part of my reality.

Constantly Gardening

That would be me, the designated gardener in my TIC (tenancy in common). It's an informal role that I have assumed since 1998. One Saturday morning, one of the then residents/current landlords was in the garden (which faces my study/den window) pulling down the lattice work and yanking weeds. "Oh, would you like to help me with this?" she asked. Over the course of 30 minutes we worked together. I don't think she ever stepped foot in the place again, but I would go on to radically transform an overgrown jungle to what I now have dreams of emerging into an almost Edenesque vision from Palo Alto from the pages of Sunset magazine. Dare I admit to being a part of the dreaded gentrification of the Mission? At least no one can see it from the street.

Over the past couple of weeks, I've probably lost four to eight pounds, made my hands and arms lead folks to believe I was in a cat fight, and yanked weeds, pulled ivy, cut Papua New Guinea Impatiens to the ground and paid for cutting down one Hollywood Juniper. Today, my new contractor Francisco completed a replacement of our fence. In mid-America or even California suburbia, this would be a no-brainer. But in cluster-fuck co-habilitating San Francisco it's a bit more complex. Nervously I managed to emerge from my Myers-Briggs INTJ to a ENTJ and reached out all four owners in the building and to all three neighbors, coordinated bids and even billed them for their share of the expense.

Though the project cost almost the same as my first spawling bungalow in Oklahoma did in 1988 (maybe a couple of thousand more), I managed to broker it down to a third of the original bid.

I don't think of myself as that great of a salesman (even though I am supposedly a professional fundraiser and have raised a few milliion over the past couple of years), but this was a great chance to push myself outside of my comfort zone. For a couple of days, three yards were joined as one, ivy that had been my bête noire for years was pulled, cut and whacked.

For two days, my poor cats Bunter and Whimsey had to be sequestered in the laundry room. So the cats and I felt a great sense of release and relief yesterday afternoon when I wrote the final check to Francisco and shook his hand complementing him on his work.

Then this morning, just when I was feeling a sense of accomplishment with the completion of this project, I got a call from the upstairs renter who plans to buy into our building. She got her inspection report, and it recommend $30,000 in "minor repairs." Ah, well, at least my share is only 28%. Maybe I'll have to budget that Japense maple later in the year.