Year
2017 Tributes
(Click HERE for Tributes
posted in other years)
For pet names beginning with "H".
Hank aka Hanky
Panky, 02/18/2010 - 08/22/2017 
Our beloved Hank, handsome boy. Twin brother to Cookie and best
friend to Mo. He was always happy, never complained, was easy
going, got along with everyone and was a total Momma's boy. We
will miss his sunrise Golden Gate fields gallop every morning
around the house. He was a good boy and sweet through and through,
we miss him greatly. We love him immensely and are grateful for
the boundless love he brought to all of us. Rest in Peace our
sweet boy, we will see you on the bridge.
Happy, 6/1/2002 - 12/8/16
Happy was pure love and joy. Everyone that saw her said
"awwww, so cute". She slept with me from the time she was 4
months old and learned how to play soccer when she was one.
Our neighbors couldn't believe such a little dog could play with a
full-sized beach ball. It was amazing so see her roll it
around. I miss her so much - my best friend.
Harley,
11/15/2003 - 09/28/2017
Harley,
I hope you're at peace and running around chasing your Kong. You
meant the world to your Mom and I. You were the most unique and
charismatic dog we have ever known, and you will never be
forgotten. Thank you for showing us what unconditional love is. We
are so sorry you were in pain during your last days here, but we
just struggled to say goodbye as we knew how much we would miss
you. I hope you understand and forgive us. We know that you are
with us in spirit and will be waiting for us when it's our time.
See you later, 'ol Spore.
Helen Snowfall,
March 2004 - Nov. 14, 2017
Helen Snowfall (aka “Helen”) was adopted from a Texas farm when
she was a skinny little kitten. She was adopted because she
was totally deaf (pure white with beautiful blue eyes).
James adopted her because he just knew she would be either run
over by a farm truck or become prey for an owl or eagle. Her
hearing put her at a total disadvantage in the outside
world. Her mother tried to teach her to be careful but
mother cats can only do so much. This skinny little kitten
grew into a sweet, chunky adult cat. She didn’t have a mean
bone in her body. Although she was deaf, she was very aware
of her surroundings. Yes, she was strictly an “inside kitty” but
she would swivel her ears at vibrations or air currents.
Because she couldn’t hear the loud motor, she LOVED playing with
the vacuum cleaner suction hose. She enjoyed having her ears
“sucked” by the hose. It was such a game! Helen had the most
beautiful blue eyes – almost a deep purple-blue. And she was
rather short. You would pick her up and she’d just hold her
little back legs straight out, no bend in them whatsoever.
She was quite a jumper, too. Helen loved her adopter (Dad)
the best. She was friendly with everyone but he was her
absolute favorite. She’d watch for him out the glass door or
window and SCREAM at the top of her lungs and rap-rap-rap on the
glass to get his attention. She’d watch for him to return
with eager eyes. We always felt her very loud meow (or
screams) might have been due to the fact that she couldn’t hear
herself and maybe just enjoyed the feel of her vibrating vocal
chords. We’ll never know. Helen’s quiet world came to
a peaceful end on Nov. 14, 2017. Her passing at 13-1/2 years
was marked with sobbing and tears but we knew we had to let her go
for her own well-being and dignity. She will always be loved
and felt in our hearts. Her private world may have been soft
and quiet, but her impact on our lives was HUGE, COMMANDING and
UNDENIABLE. We love you, Helen-Bellen!
- James and Melanie, Texas
Henry, 2005 -
12/25/2017
In August of 2012, I got a terrible diagnosis on one of my beloved
cats, Clide. Oral Squamous Cell Carcinoma. In the
world of feline cancers, this is one of the worst. In
addition to cancer, Clide had always been diabetic, and I had
learned how to treat feline diabetes through the grace of his
patience. We lost Clide on March 5, 2013 after a good
fight. It was time, and we had done everything we could do
for him. He was a little over 16 years old. Many
people had followed Clide’s journey on Facebook, and I believe I
even wrote about him here.
So it was somewhat not surprising to get a phone call from my
friend Harry in May of 2013. Harry was the adoption center
coordinator for a local nonprofit rescue, and managed the center
in a PetSmart in Northern Virginia. It seemed there was this
8 year old cat who had been boarded at PetSmart while his person
was on a cruise who had started showing classic symptoms of feline
diabetes. The boarding manager took him to the Banfield vet
in the PetSmart for a quick blood sugar check, and sure enough, he
was off-the-charts diabetic. His glucose was over 600 (for
the uninitiated, normal glucose in a cat ranges from about 60 to
120). They couldn’t reach the owner, so the boarding manager
brought in insulin (Lantus) he used on his own diabetic dog, made
a call to PetSmart Charities to cover the veterinary care, and
they started the cat’s treatment. When they finally reached
the owner, she told them to just euthanize him. His name was
Henry.
Henry had so charmed the staff at the boarding facility and
Banfield that they did not euthanize him. But the clock was
ticking. They reached out to Harry and asked if he knew
anyone who would foster or adopt a diabetic cat. Because
Harry knew that I had lost my diabetic two months prior, he called
me and asked if I would take Henry. Honestly, I felt like
Clide sent Henry to me — that it was an alignment of my skills and
my love, and one that would ease the pain of the loss I had
experienced. What started was about a 10-day negotiation to
get the owner to sign over Henry to the rescue, and then I
officially adopted him and took him home.
Henry was always a character. He was a big short-haired
Maine Coon mix — his healthy normal weight was between 13.5 and
14.5lbs. The first thing I did was start getting him used to
home testing. Again — for the uninitiated — you can glucose
test a cat with a simple, fast prick to the outer part of the ear
with a lancet, and then use a commonly available (and affordable)
human glucometer to start getting a handle on blood sugar at
home. Lucky for me, Henry was a snap to test. Knowing
that I could monitor his blood sugar, I then set about switching
his diet. Cats generally and diabetics specifically should
be fed a low carb, wet only diet. It is biologically
appropriate for the species, and it’s better for all body systems,
not just natural insulin production. To start, I switched
him to Fancy Feast Classic pates. Each of those are grain
free with a whole protein as the primary ingredient, and all are
5% calories from carbs or lower. He LOVED Fancy Feast (I
refer to it as “crack for cats”), and within two weeks of coming
home with me, he was off insulin entirely and completely
diet-controlled.
The age estimate I was given on him when I adopted him was that he
was 8 years old (ish) when I brought him home. Once he was
off insulin and had put on weight, he went for dental surgery to
have 24 (!!!) of his 30 teeth removed. No need to get his
diabetes under control just to let him languish with bad, painful
teeth amirite?
After these two big things, Henry’s winning, charming personality
really came into full bloom. I mean, it makes sense,
right? He felt better, so he was free to just be
Henry. So here’s what we started seeing:
- Henry LOVES hair ties (ponytail holders). It was a regular
occurrence for me to be sitting and working to have him come up,
spit a hair tie at my feet, look at me and then meow as if to say
“you know what I want. Get on with it.” I’d toss those
hair ties and he would do a feet-high standing vertical leap and
come down with it in his mouth — nothing but net.
- Henry ADORES being brushed. All I would have to do was sit
there and hold the brush and he would rub his face against
it. Bonus points for making the effort to give him a good
skritch under the chin with the Furminator.
- Henry is a foodie. He ate a lot to maintain his weight —
about 11oz. of wet food daily, split into four meals given six
hours apart. Without exception, it took 2-3 minutes flat for
his meal to inhaled.
- Henry is a snuggler. On his own time, Henry would decide
that it was time to snuggle in and he’d get on you or right up
next to you and dig in. The human who received the benefit
of this attention was rewarded with a loud, soul-soothing purr.
- Henry is a dick. And I mean that in the best possible
way. But did you ever see that Eddie Murphy stand-up skit
from (I think) Delirious where he’s going on about someone picking
up knick-knacks, dropping them, and moving to the next all while
saying, “let’s see what we can fuck with next!”? That was
Henry. If there was shit he shouldn’t get into, he’d get
into it. And good luck trying to sleep at night with
Henry. You would be awakened by anything on the top of the
headboard (I have one that has storage with other decorative items
and pictures on top) being unceremoniously dropped onto your
sleeping face. If that didn’t wake you sufficiently to do
whatever it was Henry thought you should be doing outside of
sleeping, he would then take up with meowing (and his meow was
loud; not Siamese-loud, but sleep-interrupting loud nonetheless)
until all hope of sleep was abandoned. But oh — the mid-day
naps. When I could sneak one, right after Henry had lunch at
2pm, it was bliss. He’d snuggle in and we would both drift
off peacefully. Anyone who has ever had a diabetic cat knows
that a) you need a very low carb diet; but b) that the diabetic
cat in question will perpetually be a habitual carb seeker.
One day, I was sitting in the living room and I kept hearing this
plastic crinkling faintly coming from the kitchen. I got up
and went in there — and nothing. No cat, no mayhem, no
worries. But then I kept hearing it more faintly and now
coming from the upstairs. I went up to the master bedroom,
and sure enough, there was Henry. He had gotten up on top of
the refrigerator where we kept our bread, put the bag in his
mouth, stolen off upstairs and was proceeding to try to get into
it to scarf some carby goodness away from where he thought he
would be caught. After that, the bread lived IN the
refrigerator.
So yes — Henry was a dick. But he was our dick, and we loved
him for all of (not in spite of) his endearing, adorable dickish
behaviors. He had quite a following on Facebook, and many
people started just dropping me messages inquiring as to how “HtD”
was doing.
Allow me to digress a bit. I do a lot of rescue, and like
most cat rescuers, you develop a specialty of sorts. Some
people are extremely experienced bottle-feeders for orphaned
kittens. Some have a penchant for blind cats, or for tripod
cats, or for wobbly cats who have cerebellar hypoplasia (a
painless, non-progressive condition caused by in vitro exposure to
distemper affecting fine motor coordination). When people
would ask me where my rescue passion was, I would tell them: “Old,
broken cats.” So basically, my soft spot is for at-risk
older cats who also have one or more chronic but treatable
conditions (most often, diabetes) who are highly unlikely to get
adopted by a “normal” family. I care for them with a passion
and skill I have developed over the last decade. It’s even
grown to where I assist a national nonprofit, Diabetic Cats in
Need, by going out and giving hands-on training to people who
contact them for help on how to home test, what to do about diet,
and how to safely administer insulin to a cat. I’ve learned
to be really observant and focused when it comes to these older
diabetics — I am extremely proactive in their medical care, and
I’m very, very lucky that I have a job that frees me financially
do what I need for them. I’m always grateful for that.
Just keep in your mind as (if) you read on — there’s not much I
won’t do to keep one of my cats healthy and happy, and I’m
proactive about it. Always.
In addition to diabetes and bad teeth, Henry had a bunch of other
intermittent chronic but manageable conditions. He was prone
to unspecified allergies — grass would cause him to break out
around his mouth (I used to walk him on a leash and harness until
that happened). He started showing signs of GI issues back
in 2014, so we switched him to a low carb novel single source
protein. In 2016, he had a mild asthma attack (which we
thought was probably related to his allergies) and treated him
with Flovent and Albuterol inhalers. Nothing was serious on
its own, but it heightened my already borderline-obsessive
tendency to watch him like a hawk health-wise.
So last Sunday, December 17 2017, it was remarkable that Henry did
not immediately eat all of his food. That’s a warning sign
that something is up with him. On observation, it appeared to me
that his respiration was faster than it should be, so I timed
it. Yup. He was about 50 breaths per minute, where
40bpm is high normal. So, we went to the vet first thing
Monday morning, December 18th. But seriously — I wasn’t
concerned anything super bad was going on. Because of his
allergy history and his asthmatic history, I figured it was likely
that he was having another asthmatic event. His vet did
chest xrays, and they didn’t look great, but we were still in the
asthma lane. I took him home and started him back on the
Flovent and Albuterol.
By Tuesday night December 19, however, his breathing hadn’t
improved enough to where it was becoming a serious concern for
me. Of course, it was after hours — but rather than wait for
my regular vet to open the next day, I took him to the ER and had
him admitted for respiratory distress. They put him in an
oxygen cage and he immediately felt better (although his pulse-ox
always showed well-oxygenated blood). We discussed
kick-starting the healing by putting him on a steroid,
prednisolone. Again, for the uninitiated — steroids and
diabetic cats usually don’t go together. But, because I can
handle the increased blood sugar that steroids would drive, we
decided to go that route. he was discharged on Thursday
December 21 and I brought him home.
By Saturday morning, I have to say — I was scared. I told my
husband that there was something else going on with Henry driving
his respiratory issues and that we needed to quickly get to the
bottom of that or else my fear was everything — all of his issues
that were manageable in isolation — would aggregate and then
snowball. I felt like we were standing on a precipice, and
we were either going to get it together and under control or
careen off the edge into oblivion.
So, back to the ER we went. Because the steroids and the
inhalers should have been having an effect on him if an acute
asthma attack was the only thing in play, and they weren’t.
Repeat xrays interpreted by a radiologist yielded a possible
diagnosis that any pet-lover fears: it looked to the radiologist
like it was some kind of neoplastic thing going on in his
lungs. Shorthand of that adds up to cancer.
But even then, I didn’t panic. I discussed with the vets
that I wanted them to treat him and keep him protected and stable
until I could get him to the oncologist on Tuesday morning (today,
December 26). The stupid Christmas holiday — which I HATE in
the best of circumstances — meant that it had to wait until after
the holiday. Henry was kept on oxygen, his steroids were
upped, and they started him on an IV and antibiotics, in addition
to his inhalers. We visited multiple times a day and he was
hanging in there until….
Christmas Eve’s visit, 9pm. Despite the oxygen and steroids,
his breathing was not substantially improving. That said,
after grilling the vet, we determined that he was neither
frightened nor in pain. His demeanor was good, he was
eating for them (though not as much as usual), and was at the
front of his ICU cage looking for attention whenever any random
human was nearby. Henry was good that way — he never got
freaked out in those situations as long as he felt safe and
acceptably ok.
But then, Christmas morning. Cursed, horrible, forever
blighted Christmas morning. We came for a visit, but we
wanted to talk to the vet first. Remember — the goal was to
maintain him to get him to the oncologist the day after
Christmas. Because I mean — he was literally FINE a week and
two days earlier, doing Christmas Henry things and Dickish Henry
things, snuggling in, purring, walking around, fucking with
shit. Status quo Henry stuff. Suspected cancer isn’t a
good thing in anyone’s book, but this isn’t my first rodeo and I
know that some cancers respond very well to treatment, and that
cats tolerate chemotherapy very well. I had first-hand
experience with that fact. But Christmas morning, in our
discussion with the vet, one terrible new thing was
addressed. Somewhere between the time that we left Sunday
night and return 12 hours later on Monday morning, Henry had lost
the ability to blink/close his left eye. Further, the
critical care vet’s examination yielded that the entire left side
of his face was numb and without feeling. She didn’t think
it was a stroke, but more like Bell’s Palsey in
presentation. But the clear implication was that IF they
suspected cancer (they did) and IF that cancer was not a more
treatable cancer that responds well to steroid therapy (it wasn’t)
then it was likely a more aggressive cancer that — wait a second
while I burst into tears here — was likely involving his
brain. The eye and face were neurological symptoms.
Let me tell you a little bit about how I view euthanasia with
pets. I’m for it. When I bring these cats into our
home and family, when I agree to love them completely and do the
very best I can for them, that agreement includes absolutely
sparing them from pain and fear. And this vet — kindly but
firmly — just told me that without being able to be certain, she
had to fear that there was some metastasis or spread of whatever
it was to his brain. I was no more than 24 hours from being
able to get him to an oncologist. As luck would have it (and
as a funny aside), when I had been a client of my oncologist back
in 2012/early 2013, I discovered that he was a raging liberal and
we frequently exchange outraged personal emails about the Trump
administration. So I had emailed him and knew that I could
get Henry in to see him today.
But none of that would come to pass. There was a serious
risk that Henry would have a seizure, a stroke, or an aneurysm or
something else equally as awful. He would be
frightened. He would be in pain. I always had the
power to spare him from that. And in 15 minutes, we made the
decision to help Henry move to the next thing. We spent some
time with him in the “Family Room” (a nicer setting than an exam
room specifically for euthanasia procedures). Before they
brought him in, I told my husband to calm himself and rid himself
of any grief or anxiety, that Henry didn’t know anything other
than that this was a visit, and that we didn’t need to be
telegraphing our grief and fear through our demeanor or body
language or tone of voice. I told Henry I loved him. I
scratched his neck and chin, and I kissed him. I told him what a
joy he was, how grateful and honored I was to have him in my
life. He was still Henry on some level — and that was
hard. It’s hard to let them go when they’re still themselves
to some extent. But what’s the alternative — wait until he’s
so out of it to spare me a hard choice? NO. When we
had given him a lot of love, the doctor came in. He already
had an IV catheter. She gave him a sedative and I felt Henry
relax. I kissed him again, and then she gave him the
euthanasia drug. In seconds, he was gone. It was
peaceful. He was with us. He wasn’t frightened — he
went permanently to sleep.
When they took him out afterward, I let it all out. I had
held it together, as I should have. But I fell to my knees
on the room and released what my husband described as a
soul-wrenching wail. I don’t even remember that.
Yesterday was hard. Today was worse. I’m doing that thing
that anyone who has loved a cat or dog and who has to make that
decision does — I’m second-guessing myself. I’m going back
through pictures I’ve taken of Henry over the years to see if
there’s anything there that I should have noticed, some care I
should have gotten him that I failed to do. I can’t find
anything, really. So that’s good, I guess. But then
I’ve moved onto whether or not he had cancer; whether or not I
should have waited that 24 hours and gotten him to the
oncologist. I mean, seriously — I’ve had hospice cats that
didn’t go downhill as quickly as previously-healthy Henry
did. In less than a week, and really — in about 48 hours
from Saturday morning to Monday morning — he went from basically
ok to near death. I’m conflicted and grief stricken, and
unable to do, well, much of anything. This sucks on a level
that makes everything else I ever thought sucked completely
inconsequential.
So now that I’ve bummed you out, let me tell you something.
Put aside my guild and grief — I’m going to have to reconcile
myself with how this played out, and I’m going to have to get
through my grief by going through my grief. No way around
that. But even with all of this, I feel lucky and grateful
to have had Henry in our lives. I took him because not many
people would have, and because I knew that whatever effort I gave
to him to see him happy and healthy would be returned
exponentially. He was a joy in our lives — truly enriching. That’s
why it’s so shocking and painful that he’s not physically here
with us any longer. Even knowing what I know now about how this
would all play out, I would do it again. I would take Henry
again and love him and baby him and let him know he’s adored all
over again. No regrets — just grief. The residue of a
life cherished.
When not crying, I’ve spent today getting all of the pictures and
video I have of Henry organized into an electronic folder.
There are LOT, and I’m grateful for that. I’ve been able to
go over particularly the videos, some of them very recent — and
reassure myself that there wasn’t something I missed. And
even more than that, to see and remember that every second of this
cat’s waking life he was babied, kissed, scratched, brushed,
cuddled, played with and loved. Truly.
The hole in my heart with his loss is profound, and it’s different
than with the others I’ve lost. With them, I knew what they
had. I pursued treatment, and when treatment wasn’t working,
switched to palliative care and prepared myself for the
loss. With Henry, the fabric of who I am has been torn.
I posted about his passing on Facebook yesterday, and the response
has been overwhelming. So many kind notes, phone calls from
those I know in real life, condolences and reassurances. But
one, from a friend of both my husband and I in real life, stand
out. She gave us a poem that I think perfectly captures the glory
of love and the agony of loss:
The Once Again Prince
We who choose to surround ourselves
with lives even more temporary than our own,
live within a fragile circle;
easily and often breached.
Unable to accept its awful gaps,
we would still live no other way.
We cherish memory
as the only certain immortality,
never fully understanding
the necessary plan....
~Irving Townsend, Separate Lifetimes
Exactly so. I’m deeply grateful to my friend for providing
me with that.
Thanks for reading. I wrote this to honor one of my best
friends, Henry, and to publicly mourn his loss from my life. I
am enriched he was there at all, and eviscerated by his leaving.
Holly, October
9,2009 - August 2,2017
I had a blue quaker named Holly. She was a strong and stubborn
girl. She was our first parrot and we got her after she was just
weaned. After first she would only bond with my husband and I was
jealous of them. Over the 8 years we spent, she slowly became
close to me and appreciated me. We became close and I’ll never
forget her scent that only she has and no others have.
I will always miss her and love her dearly…
Hope, 07/06/2008
- 11/21/17
We rescued Hope (a beautiful Shih Tzu) from a Tennessee puppy mill
in 2008. She came to live with us in her forever home.
After starting out very shy and scared, she blossomed into one of
the best and sweetest dogs we could ever have hoped for. She
was like a child to us. For 9 1/2 years we were blessed to have
her. Unfortunately, her little loving heart gave out on
11/21/17 while she was laying on her favorite couch with her Mom
and Dad at her side. We miss you so much baby girl. We
look forward to the day that we will meet at the Rainbow
Bridge. Until then you are in the loving arms of God.
Love Mom and Dad
Horus Torres-Gonzalez, 02/23/2013 -
04/01/2017
Four Days to Live 6 weeks after you was born, Love and nurturing
won and we watched you grow up to be a handsome furbaby and our
hero. Here we are 4 years later in tears asking why? Love carried
you home to Rainbow Mountain and we know that there is no more
cancer. Run, Jump and be free in this beautiful place. Love
your Daddies, Brother Osiris, Sister Lady Chablis
