Toby

The summer of 1998 found me living alone in my first own house with two little kittens.  Growing up, we'd always had cats and for years I'd wanted my own, but I was living the life of a young person: moving regularly for college, working abroad, and renting apartments.  I felt it wasn't a stable enough life to bring little ones into (and trust me, by that I mean the feline - not human - kind).  Months after buying the house, litter mates Dodger and Daphne joined me.  My home was complete. And then one month later, I bought the wrong box of cereal and it changed all our lives. 

Actually, the box of cereal I bought was the one I wanted, it's just that the wrong cereal was inside the box, and it was the kind I didn't like.  No, I'd never had this happen before either, not in cereal or canned fruit or anything for that matter, and to top it off - it had dried dates in it which I didn't like as they annoyed me by getting stuck in my teeth.  Miffed, I decided to exchange the box at the grocery store on my way home from work that evening.

I was working as a riding instructor in those days and it was common to head home from the barn about 9 pm after the last student left and the horses were cared for and put away.  Cereal box night was no exception.  Being the Pacific Northwest in summer, even that late it was still light out.  Walking through the store's automatic doors, I noticed a teenage girl sitting near the entrance with a box on her lap.  I don't recall if she called out to me, or was talking to someone else, but somehow I heard the word "kittens" and turned on my heels - just to have a look.  Inside the box were two teenie kittens: one black and gray tabby with a white nose and tuxedo and an even tinier white one with gray patches.  They were each smaller than my hand.  She explained that they belonged to her neighbor who had already drowned their mother in a bucket and was planning to do the same with the kittens. The girl saved them from this vile man and took them to the grocery store to hopefully find them homes.  But now it was after 9 pm, she had to get home and there were two left. Her parents forbade her from keeping them.  I explained that I already had two little kittens and I certainly couldn't keep four.  Thankfully she was persistent and convinced me that if I just took them that night, tomorrow I could take them to a pet store where she was sure they'd be happy to have free kittens to sell, but she just couldn't bring them back anywhere near that horrible neighbor.  

I think you know what happened.  Minutes later with a new box of cereal in hand, I took the box o' kittens and drove home.  

Toby and brother Froggy soon after we met.

Not knowing if they were sick or how Dodger and Daphne would react to the newcomers, I set them up in a spare bedroom for the night.  I estimated they were about one month younger than my two, but they seemed to be eating and drinking on their own just fine. 

The next morning I began to call local pet stores who let me know politely, but firmly, that it just doesn't work that way.  They'd be over run with kittens if they simply took in litters that people couldn't give away.  Call a shelter. Or hey, adopt them out yourself.  
Knowing they were still too young to be separated, I decided to foster them until I could find them proper homes.  With a schedule full of riding students - there had to be someone who would take one or two darling kittens.  I can't remember how long it took me to name them, but the little white and gray became Froggy because he was kind of bullfrog shaped with itty-bitty bowed legs and a bigger body. The fluffy tuxedo with his anime eyes became Toby as he was so sweet and I'd had fond memories of two horses I'd known over the years named Toby.  But anyway, they were just a placeholder names until their new families were found.  It only took about a week to see they weren't sick, and the little two were incorporated into the pride and instantly accepted by the "big cats." 

Shortly thereafter, I found a future home for Toby.  The grandmotherly baby sitter of two of my riding students decided she'd adopt him when he was just a bit bigger and I agreed to keep him a few more weeks. She said he'd be called Sylvester and I was happy to know that the little girls I'd see each week in lesson would also be with him each day and be able to give me reports. 

Just try to tell me that's not the cutest kitten you've ever seen. I dare you.

Then suddenly Froggy went from frisky and boldly exploring the garden with the others, to puny and not eating.  I took him to the vet who told me he couldn't even draw blood from him because at his size - it would have been too great a loss to his little system.  In a very short time, and despite our desperate efforts to save him, he died on his own.  The vet simply said that some kittens were "poor doers" and there was nothing that could have been done.  It was crushing to lose the little guy after he had been doing so well. I buried him in the garden under the plum tree in a pretty little box and decided right then that there was no way I was losing Toby, too.  I told the babysitter lady that I was afraid she'd have to find another Sylvester and Toby became a permanent member of the family. 

His personality grew along with his unusually large paws and his luxurious coat.  Soon, there was no size difference between the three of them and they got along marvelously.  Toby's penchant for sleeping in what I called "kitty porn" poses resulted in a series of centerfold photos spanning his whole life:

Toby the Kitten Pin-up Boy

Have some shame man, really!

Teen Toby and his magnificent stripey belly

Even as a geriatric kitty - he couldn't resist.

Although he was shy and headed under the nearest bed when company came, with family he was all about the on-contact purr as he melted into a boneless bundle in my arms or on our laps. 

Post-Thanksgiving dinner? I don't remember him quite this... fluffy.

Let me tell ya' 'bout my best friend...

As each of the other Tabbies did, Toby also collected a list of nicknames. For a while he was "Tub-pee" for self-explanatory reasons. My husband figured if he was going to "think outside the box," the tub was the best place to do it and we just rinsed out the shower before stepping in.  Later he was Tobias T. Cat, Toblerone, Hoss or Big Beef (because of his big boots), Buddy and T-Bone after a particular Seinfeld episode. Over the years, he and Dodger became the best of buddies.  In fact, the whole clan got along famously; Daphne mothering the boys and each one taking turns cleaning the others' hard to reach spots. 

The three of them were already 13 years old when we signed up for a Foreign Service life and packed them off first to FSI (just the boys with me, and Daphne stayed behind with my husband for six months), then to Bogota, FSI again, Juarez, FSI again and finally Bucharest.  By their teen years they were no longer shy, no more hiding under beds when company came and while I can't say they liked it - they traveled very well and adapted to their new environments quite quickly.

But last Christmas, around the same time we lost Dodger, Toby's health changed.  It started with occasional incontinence, then regular incontinence.  We removed the apartment rugs and invested a king's ransom in doggy pee pads, paper towels and Nature's Miracle.  In June, around his 19th birthday, my husband gave Toby his last nickname -  Captain Underpants - and he became a true Pampered elderly gentleman.

Captain Underpants in his de-luxe bed. 

Diapers? Why not! Toby never ever complained and just pulled his rabbit-thumper paws up to his ears when it was diaper-changing time. 

 It was about this time, as our Romanian adventure was winding down, that he was also diagnosed with mesenteric cancer. There was a mass in his abdomen, perhaps in his bladder and lymph nodes. Even with this diagnosis, outwardly he looked great: maintaining his usual personality and strong appetite.  At his age, full exploration to treat the cancer was simply not something we wanted to put him through. My husband and I decided that he'd have palliative care for any symptoms that came along and we'd just love and nurse him at home, as he'd known all his life.  

Late this summer, the cancer progressed and he began exhibiting visible signs of the disease.  Despite a strong appetite, underneath his still-luxurious coat his muscles were wasting away.  Then the seizures started.  My husband was home with him for each one and comforted him through the fits and the single yowl that punctuated each episode. We tried anti-seizure medications, but they made him too groggy and wobbly to walk well and unwilling to eat, so we stopped them.  Two Fridays ago and sleeping in our bedroom, he had three seizures in the course of one night.  By morning, my husband and I knew that it was time.  

Two buddies hanging out on the balcony, October 2017. 

We'd been referred to a service called Lap of Love that has veterinarians who will come to patients' homes to help pets through their last moments.  We made an appointment for 3:00 that afternoon and spent the day with him.  It was a perfect fall day so we took him out to the grass on the grounds of our apartment building and let him sniff around, feeling the sunny breeze in his fur.  He plunked down on his side and just hung out with us instead. After a bit, we gathered him back up and returned to the apartment for his appointment. The vet was delayed 15 minutes, and at 3:00 exactly, Toby had one last, bad seizure which erased any lingering doubt we may have harbored as to whether or not this was the right time.  Dr. Stephanie was exceptionally kind and patient, and talked us through the peaceful procedure as Toby stretched out on the couch between my husband and me.  We pet him and talked to him until his last breath.  The vet let us take our time in saying goodbye, then wrapped him sweetly in a blanket, put him in a basket and took him to be cremated.  His ashes arrived a week later. 

Toby's last day on my lap, as relaxed and beautiful as ever. 

The pain of having to put a beloved fur-family member to sleep has two sharp edges: the grief of their loss from our lives and the horrible second-guessing, guilt and doubt that comes with wondering if we made the right decision that he wouldn't be with us anymore.  With all three Tabbies, the sharp deterioration in their health helped ease this second part as we saw how their lives had become more about the disease than life.  (However, having said that, I still feel a stabbing "what if" about Daphne and guilt that her last week was spent at the vet instead of home with us.)  With the last one gone, what remains is the emptiness of not having their little furry selves at home.  For the first time in 19 years, I woke up the next morning, walked into the living room and kitchen, and simply didn't know what to do with myself.  There was nobody to feed, nobody to greet me entering the room, nothing to scoop or wipe up, no one to scoop into my arms and step onto the balcony to greet the day - nothing; it was just our furniture and a stack of unpacked cardboard boxes.  I walked aimlessly from room to room a bit, put the kettle on, and took a shower. That was it. 19 years as the Cats' Mother was over. 

So much of my adult identity had revolved around these three - heck, look at the name of this blog. I've always been that cat lover. Picking a cat-themed gift for me has been a sure bet for two decades. I still hear myself saying, "Oh, we have cats, too!" in conversations, and at home catch movement out of the corner of my eye when it's actually just slippers. 

I do know that we gave them the best lives they could have had in terms of love, care and attention. I am proud of that. And I know we'll have cats again; I can guarantee that.  
But not now. Not for a while.  My husband and I need time to just be able to walk out the door, get in the car and go away for the night without planning for their care and fretting over how they're doing the whole time we're away.  I feel a little sad for the next kitties that come into our lives, frankly.  They'll have huge shoes to fill and I can't imagine they'll ever be as funny, sweet, loving, cuddleable as Dodger, Daphne and Toby.  

As for the title of the blog? We remain Tabbies in Tow; these three will never leave us. 

Dodger

Just days before Christmas, we lost our Dodger. 

He was 18.5 years old and a member of the family since I brought him (and his nearly identical sister Daphne) home in a basket at six weeks old.  In re-reading my post from last year (read here) when Daphne died, I see that I can't explain any differently the pain of such a loss nor the additional difficulty of having it happen while living abroad. Therefore I'd simply like to write about my buddy. 

Dodger and I had grown very close over the past few years. Partly due to his age and partly because since joining the State Department, he settled into the life of an indoor cat with far less independent time outside. I've seen him successfully through radioactive iodine treatment for hyperthyroidism, kidney disease, and in Bogota five years ago, during a routine vet visit, he had an anaphylactic reaction to an injection and I watched what I feared were his last yowl and gasp for breath. Clearly they weren't, thanks to the fast actions of my vet and a veterinary ICU hospital just minutes away. (Trust me, I still relive those "what-if" horrors in my mind.)  Then last September he suffered a blood clot that reduced his control over his hindquarters greatly. Fortunately, he was able to re-gain a lot of strength and mobility over time and moved around the apartment as "Wobbles the Cat," even getting up onto the bed and couch, first with help of steps and then a ramp of cushions. However, he began to depend on us more and more. 

On Halloween, he had another set-back, reducing his mobility even more. Finally, on December 23rd, I came into the living room in the morning to feed the boys and start the day only to find Dodgy on his couch crying and crying.  He was unable to sit or stand on his own and for the first time - he seemed to be in pain. The vet came into the clinic an hour before opening hours to see him and after her exam, gave us various options for tests, possible MRIs or ultrasounds of his heart, and various medications we could try to keep him going through Christmas. Only when pushed to be brutally honest did she acknowledge that the very best result we could hope for would be that he returned to how he was the night before. And that chance was slim. Her best guess was that he had a stroke, perhaps caused by another clot. 

I remembered a time about seven or eight years ago when my beautiful black mare "Babe" was worsening with a chronic disease.  I'd be caring for her through her decline for over two years and in a conversation with my husband about when it might be "time" for her, I defended her by noting that she still had a few good days each week.  When my husband asked me if I wanted to wait until she only had bad days, I realized that she would never become a new blossom again. I was only watering a brown plant. She was never going to GET BETTER, and instead of preserving her life, I was only prolonging her inevitable death out of my own reluctance to say goodbye, out of guilt, and out of fear of my own pain and sadness.  These weren't the right reasons.

So instead of exploring all the options and their accompanying false hopes - I remembered Babe's lesson. The vet gave Dodger a pain reliever and sedative to help him feel more comfortable, told us to take him home and just be with him and then come back mid-day with our decision.  He spent his last hours on our bed with us and with Toby, the sun streaming through the window from a blue-sky winter day to warm his fur and old bones. I talked to him, we looked each other straight in the eyes and I just petted him and petted him and petted him. He was relaxed and breathing easily, but the pain reliever had only slightly muted his cries. With that, we knew our decision.

It seemed impossible to know when to stand up, when to put him in his carrier, when to point the car back towards the clinic. It just seemed easier to sit there and stroke him for one last minute. But eventually we did move. My husband and step-daughter were there with me as the vet talked us through the procedure. When he took his last breath, he was already in a deep sleep and felt nothing. The people he knew, loved and trusted were right with him until the end, which is the most any of us can hope for. For the second time in just over a year, I said goodbye and asked for the forgiveness from someone I loved as much as any human family member.  

I will leave you with pictures spanning nearly two decades of memories. He was our Dodger, Dodgy, D-Man, Dodger-Gee (after we watched "Slumdog Millionaire"), Heavy-D, and briefly for an unexplained reason after watching the History Channel, Robert E. Lee. The man in the gray striped pajamas. 
Our friend. 

With Nutmeg in his favorite spot.

Always the mom-cat of the family, Daphne seeing to Dodger's hard to reach spots.

Dodger (left) and Daphne learning how to heat the house.

The only kind of mouse he ever caught. 

Cool-cat at Christmas years ago with his luxurious ruff. 

Spring time under our blooming plum tree. We sprinkled Daphne's ashes in this garden this summer.  

After a good BBQ, the grill-licking and napping commenced. 

All an old guy needs is a basket and a sunny spot in Mexico. 

I never thought Toby would be the last one standing. The tiny kitten adopted from a teenage girl with a box in front of the grocery store late one night on the way home from work. The one I was "Just going to foster until I find the right owner because, well, I already have two kittens."  

Toby

Signing off for now,

Tabby in Tow

Loss and Difficult Times in a Foreign Service Life

Every life, no matter where it is lived, will have its truly difficult and painful times. I'm talking about the big ones: health crises and death.  Foreign Service life obviously is no different in that respect, and some could even argue that it's riskier for both. However, when living abroad there is the additional factor of distance from home, family and familiarity - where we usually turn for solace in these times - that makes such bleak periods all the bleaker. There is also a separate layer, a lens or filter perhaps, that often alters the way we view these events.  It is the guilt that perhaps something could have been different were it not for the fact that we were living wherever we were living when said event took place. 

"But what if we hadn't been here, would this still have happened? What if we were living closer to "home"? What if we didn't have the stress of the move? What if there were better health care here? What if..." 

This is not a healthy internal loop, but it is an inevitable one. Unfortunately, I'm speaking from experience instead of conjecture this time. In my last post, I wrote about the stresses of moving and starting a new assignment.  I wasn't ready yet to discuss what was also going on during that move, but now it's time.  

Daphne in Bucharest on her easy chair.

I mentioned in my last post that Daphne, our only she-Tabby, had suddenly stopped eating about four days before our move. Even after multiple vet visits, they weren't sure what was wrong and the vet gave me basically a bag full of different medications that I could use to help get her to Bucharest comfortably where she could then seek longer-term treatment. The vet knew she wasn't contagious (i.e. a health risk to others to travel), but she also knew what we knew: the plane was leaving and we all had to get on it.  There was no family nearby to care for her and no other great option but to do our best and pack her up.  

I syringe-fed her baby food for about five days and she actually managed the trip quite well.  She even did her best to settle into the new house, exploring it as she always did and sleeping on our bed. But she still wouldn't eat.  On our first Saturday, we took her to her first vet visit. And on Sunday we went back. And on Monday, we made the decision to check her in so that she could be monitored and receive treatment during the day while we were at work and learning our new jobs.  Throughout the day, between meetings, between pleasant conversations with new co-workers, between visa interviews, at lunch as I tried to enjoy the lovely summer weather, immediately when I woke up in the morning and as I tried to get to sleep at night - her situation came back to me like a big, wet, black blanket: ... but Daphne's still sick.

I suppose I knew the inevitable, and by our second Saturday here, the vet called as we were in the cab to see her.  She had a "respiratory incident" that morning, her condition was deteriorating and she felt we should now make a decision for her.  This was a change from the report we got the night before, when she said, "No, it's not time yet. She still wants to be petted, she still has a chance to improve."  But now her systems seemed to be shutting down, and for the first time the vet believed her to be uncomfortable. And she still hadn't eaten.  

My husband and I held her on our laps in the lovely courtyard of the vet clinic on that quiet, sunny Saturday morning.  We talked to her and petted her for a long time and I told her everything I wanted to tell her.  She was very calm and seemed relieved to be with us and not in the cage nor on the treatment table hooked to an IV, which was where she'd been each day that week.  But her eyes were not bright as they always are. She was tired and it was time.  

We have her ashes at home now, next to a photo of the Daphne we all knew: in the garden, tail straight up in the air as she was always happy and excited to see the day, her surroundings and us.  I'd like to bring her back to that garden of the house we still own where she spent her first 13 years, but it may take some time for me to say goodbye again.

Our little Daphne memorial

Intellectually, I understand that she was a 17 yr. old cat and this is what eventually happens. But in my heart were all those questions I posed above, and the worse one: What if we didn't have to move while she was sick?  

I wish I could tell you the story ends there and we have had the past month to grieve and begin feeling better.  However, we were given just one week mental respite where we took off on Labor Day Monday and went down to Constanta on the Black Sea shore.  A day of seeing new sights and beginning to look towards the horizon again.  

And then the very next Friday we came home from work and found Dodger (Daphne's full brother) spread out in the hallway on the hardwood floor where he'd usually only stay a moment, and it was clear that he wasn't there by choice.  Off to the vet again, and the next morning to the radiologist and then the cardiologist (yes, the pet cardiologist), each office located in a different part of this sprawling city. 

Dodger had what is called a "saddle thrombus" - basically a blood clot lodged just in front of his hindquarters. Frequently a death sentence for cats, if not now - than sooner or later.  His hind limbs were partially without blood for many hours while we were at work and the damage to the muscles and nerves had been done.  He could still feel them and move them, they were just uncontrollable, rubbery limbs frustratingly attached to a very alert, motivated, active kitty.  He wasn't in pain, he ate, he drank and all that comes after that. That first week was a series of vet visits and treatments nearly every day, each involving cab rides at rush hour, early weekend mornings, bike rides (on the part of my husband) to pharmacies all over town to find blood thinners and special amino acid tonics that aren't stock products in the vet clinics.  

Dodger on his bedroll and favorite horsey pillow. 

We're now at week three.  Dodger is getting stronger as his uncooperative limbs gain strength.  He got to the point where he could go where he needed to go about 80% of the time, even if it meant flopping over every third step.  But then he suffered a set-back last week (I think another smaller clot), and his progress has stalled a bit, but we still have the same bright-eyed, hungry, loving kitty that is not ready to give up.  It just means patience, a lot of attention, and waking up each middle-of-the-night to take him to the litter box.  

Back to my main thesis: if I were in a "regular" job and living situation, I'd be using some of the loads of sick and vacation leave I have saved up to ease this period. I'd be going in my own car, through my own familiar city, to the regular vet.  I'd be doing all this in English (I've been fortunate in that respect here, I must add), and I wouldn't have all this on top of the brand new job/country/language/culture/home pressures and responsibilities. It might not feel quite so difficult. 

On the other, more practical, hand - all of this treatment in the US would have easily cost multiple thousands of dollars.  Perhaps I would have had the sickening experience of choosing between what I could afford vs. what was the right thing to do. Being in Romania has, ironically, been the best of both worlds: a well-educated society that cares for and understands pets with a very affordable cost of living.  All of Daphne's and (to date) Dodger's treatment has barely crested the $500 mark.  Just the initial cardiologist appointment we had when we were in the diagnosis period would have been $600 in Virginia, and would certainly NOT have come with a follow-up ultrasound scan wherein the vet said, "No charge; it was a nice conversation."

Obviously all that I've described also happens with human family. And when it does, the real-world difficulty of traveling half-way around the world to be at someone's bedside, or the associated guilt and anxiety of leaving others to care for aging parents, is not to be underestimated.  The fact is that life, with all its beauty and ugliness, happiness and sorrow, moves on regardless of where we are.  I don't have an answer or suggestion for how to best handle these hard times and decisions. It's simply a fact that when we choose a life that takes us far away, we will eventually face situations where the bad stuff happens while we're nowhere near home. And it's a lot harder. 

Next time: Something cheerier, I hope. 

Home Leave 101

 After nearly four years in the Foreign Service, we're now enjoying our first home leave.

So first, a definition:

Per the Foreign Affairs Manual (FAM) 3430: 

The purpose of home leave is to ensure that employees who live abroad for an extended period undergo reorientation and re-exposure in the United States on a regular basis.  

You can read the entire description, definition and all sorts of regulations and exceptions in the link above, but the gist is that after coming from a posting abroad (yes, being five miles from the Texas border is still considered being abroad), we're mandated to take a minimum of 20 business days on U.S. soil. "U.S. soil" includes all 50 states plus Commonwealths (Puerto Rico and the Northern Marianas), Possessions, and Territories (Guam, American Samoa and the U.S. Virgin Islands), but please don't ask me what the difference is between these last three categories.  When you're hired, you choose a home leave address of record, which can really be wherever you like from that list. Uncle Sam will generously pay to send you from your posting abroad to your listed home leave location. If you choose to go somewhere else, say to spend this month re-Americanizing yourself in the U.S. Virgin Islands instead, some fancy calculation is done to compare the cost of getting you (and family) to your island paradise vs. to your parents' house in Hoboken, NJ (for example).  You are then responsible for paying any overage between the two costs. This is called a "cost construct."

Seattle, WA is our home leave address, but as we've had a stable renter in our house there whom we don't want to evict for just one month, plus our home leave will take place in late January and February - not generally considered the best months in the Pacific Northwest - we opted to go to Florida and cost construct instead. 

Nearly one year ago, with our departure date from Juarez fixed, and the starting date of Romanian training known, we did heaps of research and finally chose to rent a house in northern Florida's Gulf Coast, thereby joining thousands of retired Canadian and Great Lakes residents as part of the great snow bird migration.  Coming off-season as we did, is not only less expensive, but also less crowded and finding a house available for the entire month was not too difficult. 

So here we are, and I gotta' say it's pretty cool.  

First of all, when was the last time you had one calendar month in which nothing more was expected of you other than remaining in the U.S.?  I think I was 15. Truly, other than basic personal hygiene, not crossing an international border is our only responsibility. Home leave is different from vacation because of the luxurious lack of expectations or lingering responsibilities.  When you go on vacation, that pile of stuff on the kitchen table will still be there to greet you when you return. Your inbox will continue to accept messages which will require your attention and action at some point, and you will still have to weed the garden, deal with that tiresome coworker and fight that horrible traffic wherever you live when the rosy glow of your vacation has worn off.  

In contrast, home leave, by definition taking place at the END of an assignment, comes without that mental baggage.  I have no further responsibilities to my job nor our house - loved them as I did - in Juarez. I have no expectations from my assignment in Bucharest yet either, and unlike in AP English in 11th grade - there is no required summer reading list for Romanian language training.  Oh I suppose I could try to be a real go-getter and find some language tapes to get a head start, but it's not at all expected and frankly would be just a bit more than annoying to come to class on the first day all full of little phrases I learned to (mis)pronounce during home leave. Yeah, instead I'm just going to unplug and let my brain rest this entire month. 

We've now been on home leave (which does not include the three travel days it took to get us and the Tabbies to Florida in the car - more on that later) for just over a week.  We're getting acquainted with the new environment and have already chosen our favorite grocery store and have located the PetSmart (I'm already on the second box of cat litter). We've walked on the beach each day, even if that meant we were wearing sweaters and hoods a few of those days.  We've completed a very complex 1000 piece puzzle; have had my husband's brother and sister-in-law visit for four days; have dug into new books and crossword puzzles; and have begun to catch up on a bunch of bad TV and too many morning news shows.  Really, all the stuff you WOULD do if you had the time - which is all we have now.  

Coming from a border posting, we're fortunate to have our car with us already.  But the great majority of folks coming back for home leave will do so in a plane, and therefore will not only have no home, but also no car.  This is why many of us refer to it as "homeless leave," that month of couch-surfing and relying on the kindness of friends and family.  Some of my younger coworkers have told me that returning to their parents' home, sometimes even to their childhood bedrooms, can be fun for the first week, but just awkward thereafter.  Because we're allowed to drive our cars to and from post, many leaving border assignments choose to do lengthy road trips and have filled their Facebook pages with pictures from National Parks throughout the American west. As we have the Tabbies to tow, spending more time on the road did NOT sound like a viable nor enjoyable option.  So we're staying in one place and letting friends, family and adventure come to us instead. 

Besides being the dead of winter and not wanting to spend our month stuck inside to escape the drear, we chose Florida as we're also "trying out" the region to see if some day we may want to live here. Next home leave will be during summer and so we may be renting a house in Oregon or along a lake somewhere.  But that's just our decision, and in my free time I've been thinking of other things that people could do on home leave. Here are a few ideas:

• Rent an apartment or house in that region of the U.S. that has always intrigued you.
• Schedule the minor surgery or dental work you've been putting off.
• Rent a cabin in the woods and finally get started on the Great American Novel.
• Take a course in something you've always wanted to learn, like French cooking, watercolor painting, Tai-Chi or playing the harmonica.
• Use the time to buy a house or to remodel one you already own. 
• Put all the bureaucracy of life in order: Wills; Insurance policies; Documents in your safe deposit box.
• Hike all/part of the Appalachian or Pacific Crest trails. 
• Work on your tennis, golf or poker game obsessively. 
• Binge re-watch entire seasons of your favorite TV shows or Cary Grant's life work.
• Actually put together your wedding photo album before your 15th anniversary comes around.
• Staying in DC? Try to visit a different Smithsonian museum each day.
• Buy a box of books from the Goodwill and see how many you can get through.

The Tabbies have continued to adjust to our mobile lifestyle and took to three days on the road exceptionally well.  Naturally, they prefer being settled now and are especially liking that we're home all day (i.e. available to tend to their needs). Toby spends a lot of time watching the neighborhood go by outside his screen door and sniffing the new smell of salt air.  My husband has kitted himself out with a fishing license and tackle and is determined to pull something out of the water.  I discovered Ancestry.com and have gotten back to the late 1700s on one side of the family. And we've barely cracked Week Two.

Once again, I will leave you with a few pictures of our move east and where we've landed:

Daphne in the crow's nest perch. 

 

Dodger watches west Texas slip from view. 

 

Toby found my lap in San Antonio and didn't give it up until we hit northern Florida.

Toby didn't take well to leaving the hotel rooms each morning. "No really, it's small, but it's cozy! We'll be fine here; we don't need to leave!"

But once we got to the new house - well, he got pretty comfy. 

Finally here!

We've been getting to know the locals...

fighting the crowds...

and generally just finding a good spot to rest for a bit.

Los Animalitos

One of the things I find charming about the Spanish language is the tendency to call things in their diminutive form. When someone has to wait for you, it's only for a momentito; your friend quickly becomes Juancito; if he's short, he's a chaparrito; and even farmers in the interview window tell me they have animalitos on the ranch that turn out not to be herds of hamsters, but cattle, pigs or sheep. 

I'd like to dedicate this posting to our own animalitos, or as they're known now that we live in Mexico, Los Tigres del Norte. As you may already know, our own tigritos are senior kitties. Except for their time in our Bogota apartment (at 64 degrees and partly cloudy every day) and another year with all four seasons (hurricanes to snow to 97% humidity as appreciated from their small balcony in Virginia), the gatitos have lived in the mild and generally overcast Pacific Northwest all their life. So the past seven months in their little walled and lawned slice of the Chihuahua desert have been just what the veterinarian ordered for their furry selves. I'm fairly sure they think we've finally taken their suggestions and have retired to Arizona. After all, they can't see over the wall outside the neighborhood to the sandy, barren and tumbleweed-strewn lot across the street. They simply know the life of daily blue skies, a row of flowering bushes to lounge under, grass to chew on and then barf up on the rug, and two big umbrella trees for shade. They soak the sunny warmth deep into their bones and relish the cooler evenings when they can stay outside comfortably for more than ten minutes at a time. Even Toby, wearing what I think is a thick Norwegian Forest Cat coat, likes to stay out in the heat of the day until his black fur is hot to the touch. Too hot? Just come inside and stretch out on the cool, tile floors. Even Daphne's arthritic limp that has kept her off of a lot of furniture in recent years has seemed to have diminished.

Our garden also provides a steady stream of avian entertainment for them. In the mornings the ring-necked doves swoop down to peck at the lawn, and all day and evening at least four hummingbirds fight for dominance over our two feeders. They zip between our house and our neighbors' like Jedi fighters, squawking and buzzing, determined to keep each other away the sugar water feeders. They hover over the lounging cats, sometimes only feet from them, assessing the risk from all angles. There is no risk, trust me, and the little picaflores figure this out quickly and now pay them no mind. The cats were at first intrigued, no doubt driven by some long-lost hunting instinct, but promptly realized that there wasn't the slightest chance of catching one and now don't bother to even flick an ear their way. 

Hummingbird in action 

Having to stay off the table doesn't count when it's patio furniture

Daphne's evening lounge

Each morning after breakfast, they line up by the screen door asking to go out. (Side note: this whole screen door thing is a wonderful addition to our life that I'd like to share with my FS friends who live in places where screens aren't common, but bugs and iron-bar security doors are. Just buy a roll of screen fabric, you could probably order it online and have it sent to wherever you're posted. We just went to Lowe's - ah, border life. Then use your glue gun to attach it across the inside of your iron-bar security door. If the housing inspection folks don't like it when you move off to your next post, you can just peel it off. But really, who doesn't love a screen door? Let me answer this question: the cats don't like it. They loved the security gate because it was truly just one big built-in cat door they could pop through at will, and now they have to ask permission. And I should acknowledge the bumped noses and confused looks in the days after it was installed.) 

Yeah, they could hardly see the new screen either

Anyway, they go outside each morning to read the news of the neighborhood. Walking the perimeter, they each sniff out exactly which neighborhood cat had visited THEIR yard overnight. These interlopers skinny down the trees from the cats-only interstate system that is the grid of stone walls between each house. Unfortunately, there is an orange tabby male who brazenly sprayed directly onto our french doors, probably in full view of the Tabbies, one night. Daphne chased him up the tree once, so this was surely retaliation. One such visitor is not so unwelcome, however. There is a female fluffy tabby, we call her Stray Cat (imaginations are wonderful things), who Toby took a shine to. For a week after he first saw her, he waited under the tree each evening for her hopeful reappearance. Like a pre-teen with his first crush, he sat for hours with his neck craned to the top of the stone wall, head flicking left then right. "Did you hear that? I think someone's coming! Was that shadow moving? Is it her?" It was embarrassing. But like most crushes, it faded after a few weeks and now I think he's just not that into her. 

Nearly seven months into our life here and we still haven't seen a scorpion in the yard or the house (sound of knocking wood in background). The neighbors have seen them; our friends in neighborhoods nearby have had lots of them, but so far, we've been spared. I have a suspicion that Cats On Patrol have been keeping these arachnids from being attracted to our yard, but that notion in still just a theory. After all, if the scorpions saw how the Tabbies have treated the dozen or so large roaches that have meandered through the kitchen, they wouldn't be afraid to come on in either. The cats have taken a very diplomatic, UN-like posture towards the roaches: We are here merely to observe and report. We will simply follow you, observing your advancements, but we will neither harm nor hinder your existence in our house. Thanks guys; way to earn your kibble, eh?

So that's life as they know it for Los Tigritos. I'm sure they like it here (except for the thunder, that still sucks), and I'm also sure they Never Want Another Five Day Roadtrip Again. Flurries of activity in the morning, like when we're running behind and have to get ready for work quickly, or when I pulled out the suitcase last month, still cause instant hiding under the bed. Perhaps in 17 months they will have forgiven and forgotten when we have to pack up again and hit the road. (Yeah, I doubt it too.) But they love and trust us, and eventually they'll settle into their new tiny Roman apartment, or high-ceiling'ed Parisian pied-a-terre, if the assignment gods should bless us in such a way. 

Meanwhile, there is lawn to lounge in and a selection of couches to cover in fur. What more could an animalito want? 

Dodger enjoying desert retirement living

Having a Fur Family in the Foreign Service

It's no surprise given the title of this blog that my three Tabbies are as important to me as any other family member. We've been together since they were six weeks old; two are littermates and one was from a box in front of the grocery store. In the past two years, we've moved them to four new homes on two continents. They've endured a six-day road trip in the back of the car with a different hotel room at the end of each long day. All this, and they will each turn 15 in the coming months. 

Is this an ideal life for cats, or for pets in general? No, it's not. Cats prefer routine and a consistent environment. Many don't do well with change and often their stress isn't outwardly apparent. The stop eating, stop drinking, stop using the litter box or go where they oughtn't. They can become prone to anxieties, infections or illness.  Given all this, can they still thrive in such a lifestyle? Yes.

So if we love our pets so much, why would we subject them to all the moving and the trauma of travel? Because for animals that are long-time family members, I believe they love us equally, and would prefer to be with us, their trusted caregivers, than left behind. Having said that, there are some cats and dogs whose personalities are simply not a match for the FS life, and it is kinder to leave them in the US with a new "forever home" where they will transition only once instead of every two years. I'm mostly speaking of cats who are accustomed to having outside time and get very anxious/angry being kept inside. Or high-energy dogs who would make themselves and everyone around them miserable living in a high-rise apartment in Shanghai, or while their owners spend 10 months in a one-bedroom apartment while learning Arabic at FSI. Or perhaps very elderly pets whose  health has become frail and the stress of travel could potentially put them over the edge. In cases such as these, family, friends or rescue shelters would be the better option, as hard as that could be at first for all involved. 

A new FSO I know recently shared this photo of their family's older dog and their young son. He captioned the picture, "This is why we stuck you in a box under the airplane and carried you half-way around the world." The family gave me permission to use this picture, which to me encapsulates exactly why we bring our animals to the places we do instead of leaving them behind. 

The love in the boy's eyes for his dog, and in her eyes for him is not just anthropomorphic nonsense; it's real. Our animals are capable of the same attachments and bonds as we are to each other, and while the travel and adjustment time is certainly not ideal for them, in the end - I'd never trade their presence in our ever-changing lives. 

Our Tabbies have done a remarkable job at adjusting, especially given their age and the fact that we haven't had a full two years in one spot yet. The first move was the hardest adjustment, especially since they'd lived in our same house since I brought them home as kittens. The Oakwood apartment had no yard, no familiar smells and that lady with the cat grinding machine came in once a week unannounced to clean up the place. There were many days spent under the bed, with me coaxing them out only for meals, or me just giving up and sliding the bowl in front of the hidden noses. By the second time they arrived at Oakwood, they recognized the building, the apartment layout, the balcony, and there was no under-the-bed silliness. Arriving in Juarez after the long drive, they explored the new house eagerly, claimed the best sunny spots immediately and within a few days were wanting to explore our enclosed back yard. 

Daphne decides which guest room she prefers

Favorite beds were claimed instantly

But we're not just relying on their good natures and luck to make these moves successful, I also spend a LOT of time and energy attending to their health and comfort. To summarize this:

• Pay attention to their small behavior changes, such as how much they're eating, drinking and using the litter box. During our trip, they each ate and drank fine, but the latter category was often neglected, and I feared they'd become uncomfortably constipated (sorry, but it's true) or start bladder infections for not urinating enough. To solve this, we kept their own familiar litter box and type of litter available 24/7. I bought a small can of unflavored pumpkin puree and added a teaspoon to their food each day to get things moving, shall we say. They also got their favorite food flavors, and I added what I refer to as the "special sauce" to the top of their wet food each meal to entice them. It's a powdered probiotic called FortiFlora that looks and smells like beef bouillon and makes their food dee-lish, apparently. Or, for reluctant eaters, some tuna or just tuna water on their food can help (but I don't suggest tuna as their main meal - use sparingly). On day five of our trip, at a lunch stop, I noticed that for the first time, someone had used the in-car litter box while the car was in motion. I was so happy and proud, you'd have thought they each had little caps and gowns and diplomas in paw! But by keeping their systems as regular as possible, you can help eliminate the possible health problems that stressful moves can cause.
• Find a way to get high quality food wherever you're posted! This may mean allotting a big chunk of your consumables allowance weight to kibble and cans, or researching what you can buy online in Tajikistan, Tanzania or Turkey. Even as close as we are here in Mexico, quality pet food (and litter!) is surprisingly scarce, so I dutifully cross over to Texas each week to hit PetSmart. In Bogota, I used Amazon or Pet Food Direct, and took advantage of the free shipping that is often offered and the kitties never went without their favorite food. It takes planning, but it's definitely worth it. Oh, and carrying cases of cans and 30 lb bags of kibble home in the van from the Embassy mail room is just an added bonus! 
• Plan for your arrival to be well-stocked. Leaving for a new post is a complicated affair, but be sure to think about what you'll need when you arrive in your new digs from the airport, with carriers in hand. Three times now, I've sent a box of supplies to myself in advance, to be received by my social sponsor. The box always contains at least a week's worth of food, a small bag of litter and a disposable cardboard litter box and scooper. I usually throw in a few favorite toys, a favorite used and hairy cat bed, a brush and cat nip, so that when we unpack our own bags, the cats also get their familiar things to help them settle in. I have to go to work in the morning, but the pets will be in the apartment alone for the first time. 
• Locate the best vet and emergency clinic you can in your new city. Unfortunately, I've had to take advantage of this already, and am thankful that we were living in a modern city of 8 million residents with a state-of-the-art veterinary facility for when Dodger suddenly went into anaphylactic shock after an injection one day. Naturally, having this type of place ten minutes away isn't always going to be the case, so I recommend finding what resources are available and even carrying a pet emergency kit and some type of instruction book. Should we be sent to deepest, darkest somewhere - I want to know how to treat a scorpion sting, a snake bite, give an injection, or treat dehydration etc... to help them out if needed. 
• Keep their routine as regular as possible in the new surroundings. The Tabbies have regular mealtimes and the same dishes. Their water is replaced and the bowl cleaned every morning. They have scratchers so they don't destroy embassy furniture and I keep their claws trimmed. 

In the end, it is worth it to have our pets with us. If we had young children, as my friend in the first picture does, I'm certain that the pets would help the kids feel at home in their new place, too. While the parent(s) go off to work, the kids still have their companions and vice-versa. As I write this, I have the original laptop, Toby, vying for his rightful spot on my thighs, and Dodger is on the table at my elbow. (Cats are so helpful with typing!) They have their new yard, the back of a new sofa to lounge across, stairs for the fist time to help them keep active and all sorts of new birds to watch. For as long as they're healthy and able, the Tabbies will always be our EFMs (Eligible Furry Members).