Although this item is not about Border Collies, per se, the special bond and teamwork between Ethel Mertz and her hunting buddy, Agnes, was something to behold.  They would set out into the yard together intent on bringing home a small rodent.

The Cat Who Gives Orders to God

The cat who gives orders to God refused to die, again.

This time she was stretched oddly in front of her litter box.  Her eyes were glassy and sunken and her raspy breaths were shallow and irregular.  Her legs were stiff and immobile, like two pretzel sticks hanging from her shoulders.  Her body was cold.  When she was gently lifted, her head flopped to the side and she made no fuss.  Just the week before, such a careless gesture would have launched her into a feline tirade about the indignities an old cat has to suffer.  Today she did not even acknowledge my presence.

As an animal lover, and an owner of many geriatric pets, I’ve been here before and it never ends well.  So I set about the task of preparing the way.  There is a special stash of threadbare towels for lining the final nest.  The warm surround is a retired twin mattress pad.  The polyester loft envelops the patient and the liner and holds her gently in comforting arms.  The entire unit is then nestled between my pillow, the wall and the headboard.  The waterbed mattress provides a soft, radiant heat.

With Ethel tucked out of harm’s way, I set about mixing my magic potion and selecting the proper syringe for delivery.  The magic potion is useful for everything warm-blooded.  (I’ve never tried it on fish or reptiles.)  I keep syringes in sizes to put liquid into the mouths of everything from baby birds to horses.  Ethel could only manage a quarter of a teaspoon at a time.  By bedtime she had taken in just over a tablespoon of magic potion.

As I lay down to sleep, I said my goodbyes to her, again.

Ethel Mertz was born sometime in the early ‘80s on the streets of Denver.  She and her surviving litter mate, Fred, were barely weaned when the first October snowstorm came through.  Fred Mertz immediately saw the inherent wisdom of a move to the warm side of the door.  It took patience, cunning and welding gloves to convince Ethel to become an indoor cat.

It took some time for Ethel to settle in to her new routine.  She made it really clear that she had better ideas about how the house should be run.  The food was never delivered on her schedule.  The thermostat was never at the right temperature.  She would sit on the window ledge and tell God exactly what the weather should be. 

She never kept her opinions to herself.  This had the unfortunate effect of bringing her into conflict with the many strays which roamed the neighborhood.  They thought they had rights to the property which belonged to Ethel.  Size did not matter to Ethel.  She took on everything from squirrels to dogs.  We had shared stories for most of her battle scars, although the one which broke her right upper and lower canines and took a chunk out of her tongue and ear will remain forever her secret.

I fell asleep listening to her labored, raspy breaths. . . . .

I went about my morning chores, dreading what I would find when I pulled the top cover off of Ethel.  When I could delay no longer, I steeled myself and pulled back the towel.  I needed every ounce of my grit.  She opened one eye and gave me a glare like I hadn’t seen since I picked up her mouse pile. 

Since she was still among the living, I got out a bowl of magic potion and heated it to lukewarm.  I set the food in front of her while I went to find a clean syringe.  When I got back she had sauce dripping from her chin and bits of food in the corners of her mouth.  It’s a lot easier on both of us to let her eat on her own, so I left her to eat in peace.

In her prime, Ethel was the best mouser I have ever known.  She couldn’t care less about birds.  She would sit under the bird feeder to catch the mice which came to eat the spilled seeds.  Birds in the yard could be sorted into regulars and visitors.  Ethel would stroll out to the back and sit under the feeder.  A flock of ground birds would fly up, startled, leaving about a dozen of our regular visitors eating happily as she wound her way between them to her mouse-hunting spot under the rhubarb.

When we moved to the farm, Ethel spent hours in the yard and around the chicken houses and granary. 

One warm, sunny day as I was doing yard work there was a distinct aroma I couldn’t account for.  Ethel never brought her “prizes” in to share, so I assumed they were dietary supplements.  Not so, she had caches around the yard, by species, stacked like cordwood, heads on one side of the stack and tails on the other.  Being short the canines on one side of her mouth never seemed to slow her down.

Ethel’s coughing brought me back to the real world.  She had crud building up in her airways and still was barely able to move her head and torso and completely unable to control her legs.  When an animal lays still for too long it is unable to clear its airways properly, so I set about the massage and vibration that is designed to loosen the mucous and open airways.  She called me all sorts of names and made it clear that I was only unscathed because she could not extend her claws!  But she could breathe better.

She slept most of the day, waking only long enough to drink a bit of her mixture.  At the end of the day, she was not only still alive, but she was breathing better and had finished off one quarter cup of her magic potion.  I changed her bed liner, made sure she was propped up for ease of breathing and tucked her in for the night. 

I forgot to say good bye to her, but I really did not expect what I found the next morning.

I awoke to the sound of Ethel letting God know just how unhappy she was with her current situation.  I hurried to get her fresh food and some water. 

She had gotten over onto her side, so I readjusted her position and noticed that she could use a cleaning.  I rounded up the necessary bath supplies and prepared for the adventure.  Anyone who has ever bathed a cat can understand the advantage of the cat being paralyzed!

I don’t know what the conversation was, but my guess is that if Ethel has any influence, Santa won’t be coming to my house any time soon and Saint Peter will have a change of itinerary for me when I shuffle off this mortal coil.  While I was cleaning her back, I found a tiny spot between her shoulder blades the size and shape of a spider bite.  I cleaned and disinfected the area carefully.  The wound oozed a bit as the water softened it, so I did a thorough wound-cleaning.  That did not earn me any credits for good behavior. 

Ethel has never been long on patience.  One of her encounters out here on the prairie was with a particularly large vole.  She and the vole were playing, at least she thought they were playing.  She had not touched it, she was simply moving around it and getting it to move in response.  Emboldened by her apparent lack of aggression, the vole bit onto her collar and held on.  That was it.  Ethel doesn’t play unless she sets the rules.

Ethel was able to change the rules for gophers when our first Border Collie came to live with us.  Gophers used to be able to escape out the back door while Ethel was guarding the front.  Under the new rules, the dog would dig up the front door and Ethel would grab the inhabitant as it ran out the back.

Her bath and blow dry was draining for both of us, so I tucked her into clean bedding and brought her some soft cat food.  I left her to recuperate in peace.

She slept most of the day, waking long enough to eat, drink and complain.  That night she was clearly and loudly feeling better. 

 The next morning I was awakened by claws on my forehead.  Ethel had decided it was time to be waited on, so she had crawled out of her bedding and was letting me know that she needed attention.  Her habit is to tap bare skin with her paw.  Failing a paw being sufficient motivation, she will drop the claws just to the point of engagement.  Unfortunately, at her age the claws are razor sharp and one miscue results in three bleeding stripes.

Ethel has continued to grow stronger.  She has moved from my bed back to her own bed.  Her wound has healed and she is back to full steam.  It is winter, so she perches on her window ledge in the sun.  When she is not asleep, she gives God her orders for the weather, day length and life in general.

Ethel has had the “old cat skinnies” for at least five years.  She stopped hunting when her hunting partner got arthritis.  Last spring and summer she only went outside to nap in the sunshine next to the house.  I know that sometime soon she will not refuse to die.  I am so grateful, however, that this time she refused to come when she was called.