Goodbye, Lyra, goodbye

Lyra was our cat, and yesterday we had to ask the vet to give her a drug that would peacefully kill her. Thanks to morphine, she wasn't in pain, but she was not going to live long, because after a multi-year battle with weak kidneys, she had finally emerged the loser.

Nine years and three months ago, our family journeyed to the pound to adopt a kitten. Lyra seized our hearts--your kittens always choose you--and this tiny ball of gray fur came home with us. The vet said she might be two months old, but she might be younger; my money was on younger. Sarah named her.

Before Lyra was five, it was clear that she was not healthy. She had a heart condition, was prone to infections, and had weak kidneys. We did all we could to keep her alive, and she had almost five more years of life.  She never hit six pounds and was always the thinnest cat I've had.

Lyra was all cat, a creature in charge of the world and with a healthy disdain for most of it. Few people warmed to her, and she warmed to even fewer. Like most such cats, she mellowed with age, but she was never a classic lap cat. Her suspicion was always on high, as you can see in this recent photo, courtesy of Jain.

As always, click on a photo to see a larger version.

Lyra was a smart cat, maybe the smartest I've ever had. For example, after playing with the iPad below for a short time, she moved it to check under it, realized no prey was available, and left it.

More impressively, Lyra was the only cat I've had who played catch. Late at night, when the world was quiet and the mood hit her, she would bring a triangle made of a drinking straw to an ottoman, drop it, and stare at you until you threw it. She'd catch it in the air sometimes, and other times she'd chase after it on the ground. She'd bring it back and play again, over and over. If you grew bored and she was still interested, she'd grab it with her teeth, throw it by whipping her head around, and then chase it.

On occasion, she'd crawl into some of our laps and demand affection.   This didn't happen a lot, but when it did, you were wise to give her what she wanted. 

Despite her small size, Lyra was a great hunter.  No roach or mouse escaped her for long. 

Lyra could be mean and was always demanding, a dollar-steak of a cat, a wild west gunfighter of an animal. 

Lyra was not a simple animal, but of course she wouldn't be; she was, as I said, all cat.  

When you lose a pet, even one as cranky and odd as Lyra, there's a hole in your world, a rip that takes time to heal, an absence you can't help feeling.  I feel it most at night, when Lyra would play, when her shields would slip a little and she would sometimes turn loving.  As hard as she could be to love, Lyra was our cat, we were her people, and we will miss her. 

Goodbye, Lyra. 

Mornings and I

do not get along. It's not my fault, not really. They simply arrive too early. On a typical day, at 4:30 a.m. or so I crawl into bed and read for a while to calm my brain. When I'm ready, which is usually half an hour to an hour later, I turn out the light and fall asleep quickly and easily.

At which point morning sticks its head into my life and ruins a perfectly good sleep. It's downright criminal, I tell you. With only a little consideration morning could hold off until 11:00 a.m. or so, then sneak in on tiny tendrils of light, and I wouldn't mind at all--well, not much.

Morning, of course, remains insensitive to this suggestion.

In fact, morning plans a very early assault tomorrow--rumor has it about 8:00 a.m.--so I will keep entry this short.

While I'm grousing at the universe, I should also mention that though I'm glad to see our cat, Lyra, turning affectionate, I would prefer she not again get one of her claws stuck through my shirt and in my nipple. I don't recommend you try this with your own cat. It's not fun, not fun at all.

Ah, well, enough whining. Off to Overthrowing Heaven go I.

The crazy clock

Every night about 10:00, our dog, Holden, comes into the den, plops onto a pillow, and begins the nightly spaz routine, an always different sequence in which he flips onto his back, wrestles with the pillow, kicks, stretches, moans, and generally turns into a complete loon.

Every night about 2:00 a.m., our cat, Lyra, leaps onto the floor of the den and begins her nightly spaz routine, another constantly varying display of strange behavior, in this case centered on menacing dust molecules, invisible air demons, and so on.

I've come to believe that in each of their cases some built-in crazy clock has sounded the alarm and made insane behavior suddenly normal and desirable.

Once you accept the notion of the crazy clock, you have to ask the obvious question: do people have it? If so, is it okay for them to heed its siren call?

Crazy clocks may well be the source of a lot of the world's strangeness. I certainly wish some folks would learn to find the off switch for theirs.

No doubt the crazy clock gene will appear soon. No doubt.

Rough day

First days back after trips are always rough at work, but today turned bad in other ways.

Rana took our cat, Lyra, to the vet today for an expensive test to check out a potential heart problem. Lyra proved to have a hypertrophic heart and related problems, which means we'll have to put her on a beta blocker and baby aspirin for the rest of her life. With those pills, she should live a normal lifespan.

At about the same time, Jennie learned that her cat, Maggie, had a bum leg. The injury turned out to be a shattered portion of her kneecap, which will require surgery tomorrow.

Then the worst of the bad news hit: on the way home from the vet, Rana was in an automobile accident. A car ran a red light in front of her, and despite her best efforts to avoid the car, she hit it. She was not at fault, and she was not hurt badly, but she was bruised and shaken seriously, and our van is a mess and left on a tow truck. She's going to the doctor tomorrow to make sure she is okay, but we think she'll be fine.

What a day.