By Susan Ho

LONDON, Ontario, Canada -- Charmed by a photo of a cat in an advertisement for a breeder called Jeannie in Phoenix, Arizona, I knew this was the person for me to contact. When I called to ask about kittens, she promised to let me know.

As a motive, I wanted to keep calling out a familiar name. My first cat named Browny, a favorite, suffered from the notorious polycystic kidney disease so common in Persian felines. He was dying, and I couldn’t save him much longer. For five years, I’d hand-fed him so he could survive and enjoy life, but signs had appeared that it was time.

In Big Browny’s last days, my heart sank as I pondered his imminent death. I wanted to take him to the United States for a kidney transplant, but our veterinarian advised otherwise. If Big Browny did receive a kidney, his body might reject it anyway. It sounded like a big gamble, too much for Big Browny to endure just because I longed to keep him alive. So I accepted the natural course and let him rest in peace on January 5, 1996.

Being so attached to me, Big Browny used to follow me everywhere. Like a guard cat, he’d hiss and growl at people or animals if they approached our property. His loveable qualities made me eager to look for a cat reminiscent of him.

Often I cried in grief while caring for Big Browny’s sister, Sheila, a victim of the same disease, who fell ill immediately after his death. I relied on the same strategy, hand-feeding and giving subcutaneous fluids each day.

By April 6, three months after Big Browny departed, Sheila had developed major heart and liver problems. She waited for me at a clinic as the staff gave her oxygen. I rushed there only to watch her breathe the last. She looked at me and only then surrendered. For the longest time, I held her tightly. Remembering still brings tears.

For the first time, I grieved the loss of two beloved cats at the same time. Devastated, I took time off from work to recuperate and keep my other cats company.

A few weeks later, I received a letter from Jeannie about a kitten who sounded ideal, a brown tabby boy! I could pick him up in August.

Immediately, Little Browny took a liking to Smokey, another of my cats. But on a rainy night three years later, a neighbor’s car killed Smokey.

Heartbroken, Little Browny and I went downhill together. He constantly looked for Smokey, developed a urinary problem and began to hide, scared of everything. A vet said he suffered from separation anxiety. A doctor diagnosed me as “depressed”.

Instinct told me to find another Smokey to help Little Browny. Luckily, I spotted a candidate at a cat show. Little Smokey became a birthday gift from my husband.

The strategy worked. Little Browny stopped hiding and made friends with Little Smokey. I felt better for him too.

A year passed. Then Little Browny stopped eating due to a rare gum disease. Antibiotics and anti-inflammatory pills didn’t help. A dental specialist twice tried unsuccessfully to clear the infection by cutting away inflamed gum tissue. With incredibly sore gums, Little Browny munched on minimal dry food and steadily lost weight. The specialist advised removing the cat’s jaw-line or putting him out of his misery.

Unwilling to give up so soon, I wanted a second opinion. Dr Ian Haws, a famous animal dentist to whom I owe much gratitude, agreed with me, but still wanted to perform one more surgery to rule out cancer and remove more of the problematic tissue. Then he put Little Browny on steroids, hoping for the best. By now, counting surgery for a fractured leg at nine months of age, Little Browny had endured four big operations.

Unhappy with results from the steroids, Ian asked me for permission to operate on Little Browny yet again, this time to remove all his teeth. Reluctantly, I consented. Sure enough, his gum problems finally cleared up.

But worse problems loomed. Little Browny developed transient diabetes from long-term steroid use. Admitted to an animal clinic as an emergency case, he soon plunged from 18 pounds to 13. The medical staff put him on a tube-feeding diabetic diet to ensure he received enough nourishment to survive. This meant another surgery.

Then I needed to puree Little Browny’s food and use a large syringe to place it slowly and carefully through a tube into his stomach. A miscue might flood the tiny stomach or cause gastro-enteritis. I also took him for regular blood tests to monitor his sugar level.

The food needed to be administered carefully and punctually, a daunting task. Cleansing the opening (wound) and the tube proved onerous because I received no co-operation from Little Browny. My full-time job caused problems in arranging a routine for this intensive care.

For more than a year, Little Browny couldn’t eat independently. At times, the tube needed replacing surgically after the cat removed it or it fell out. The cat underwent four more surgeries for these mishaps and to remove a large hairball.

Each time, I prayed for him, and Little Browny woke up unperturbed. Invariably, he enjoyed our post-surgery reunions, knowing he could go home again! He showed so much determination to survive.

As Little Browny’s problems eased, so did my depression. Slowly, surely, we both recovered.

Now 10 years old, Little Browny is a big-framed cat living happily and enjoying regular treats. In hindsight, if I’d heeded certain medical advice, I’d have ended the life of a tiny creature so determined to stay alive.

Ultimately, Little Browny isn’t much like Big Browny, not in character, nor appearance. But I earned the privilege of calling out the name “Browny” for another decade and more to come. That’s comforting and satisfying.

Oh, yes. Little Smokey matured into a happy, chubby and lively cat so much like Big Smokey.

ARCHIVES

Big Browny and sister Sheila share a lofty view.


Big Smokey (left) befriends Little Browny.


A mighty will to live carried Little Browny
through one surgery after another.


Probably Little Browny takes time
to consider everything that happened.


Happy and healthy, Little Browny
and Little Smokey relax together.