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Posts Tagged ‘rescue’

It has been raining for three days now. The land is wet and soaked, the rivers running fast, and it’s dark sooner than other days. Sometimes the wind blows so hard, the wisps of the trees is shaken and bend.

I cannot go anywhere in the rain like this, so I sit down on my bed and trying to read. I’ve been longing for a time like this for so many times.

Across my bed against my foot, Goldie is wiping herself silently. Next to her Tacos and Nachos, her adoptive kittens curling against each other soundly asleep.

I smile to myself, thinking how fast the time flown. Last year in a rainy night like this, Goldie was still a baby, crying and yelping under the rain with her two siblings, calling for anyone to save them from the pouring water in the freezing night.

baby goldie

Baby Goldie

There were three of them. One male I named Goldwyn (from Metro Goldwyn Meyer), and two female I called Golda (from Golda Meir) and Goldie (from Goldie Hawn). No particular preference, they just happened to be all yellow, and all of those public figures had “gold” as part of their name.

The boy, Goldwyn, was weaker than the other, and so he died two weeks later.  I continue to bottle feed the remaining girls in the hope that they would somehow survived the nasty weather.

It’s nice to know that they are holding on. With works taking more than 8 hours a day, I can only feed them twice daily, to which they always look forward.

I wonder, however, how they would pass the day when I work.

Kaitou Nursing

At one year old, Kaitou is a good big brother

Kaitou took care of them. As the eldest in the gang, he often acted as a benefactor to the younger, and in the case of these two golden girls, he curl up and allow the girls to snuggle on him for warmth.

There’s nothing wrong with that, of course, except the fact that Kaitou is male.

There are more than one occasion when during sleep, the two girls try to breast feed from him, but he never seem to be disturbed by it. He just let them be.

After Golda joined her brother last Christmas during a parvo outbreak, Goldie grow a deep attachment to Kaitou. She look up to him as her own parent, and follow him everywhere. He, in turn, taught her everything he know, from staying safe while jumping from roof to roof, getting to know the neighborhood, to hunting the rats and presenting them on the doormat like first class gourmet.

goldie in a bag

Goldie's favorite hangout (when she's home)

Unfortunately, however, because she is learning from a male cat, she become a tomboy. She is never at home, she is grumpy, she is everything you can imagine in a tomcat. She also spray, by the way. A habit that gave me headaches, although I can be rich if I manage to get her in Ripley’s Believe it or Not. The only thing I haven’t see, and wish not to, is her trying to mate with another girl.

Following the advice of my regular pet supplies store, I went to spay her earlier. Anyway, the vet, not believing what I said that she is a grand tomboy, failed the shock test.

Goldie ran away. She went missing for two whole weeks despite the vet place is only one block away and she used to pass that place every day.
When she is home, at last, she is full of cuts and bruises, dirty, smelly, and hungry.

I truly question if I should have separate her from Kaitou back then.

When I moved to a rented house a few months later, she hasn’t been home for a week, so I decided to go back later at night and wait for her by the door. Though she is a troublemaker, I don’t want to let her go. Funny enough, however, she catches up with us as the pick up drove away, yelling angrily to me as she ran by the car.

In the new house, she is the first to went missing again.This time, she went home pregnant.

As much as I saw her grow into a tomboy, this time I see her grow into a lady. She is home a lot, she is clean, and she diligently browse into every hole for her labor day. She still play with other cats, but she is no longer a rambling rose.

A few months later she went missing again, but I was not surprised. It’s hard to stay put if your blood is boiling with curiosity. Besides, she is girl outside, man inside. But I was wrong. She went home crying, panicking, and tripping me all the time.

At one point I see that she is trying to tell me something, so I followed her.

She lead me to a nearby river, where I later rescued River Phoenix (read her story here: By The River Piedra I sat down and Wept).

River Phoenix, then, followed her everywhere, looking up to her like Goldie is her own mother. She doesn’t mind. Being pregnant herself, she have plenty of time nursing her teen stepdaughter.

Then come that night, when I saw blood coming out of her vagina. She was busy running all over, so I thought she was near labor. I put her in a box filled with used and broken shirts, and try to make it as comfortable as possible.

When the bleeding haven’t stop on the third day, I knew something is wrong. so I contacted the vet, and told her what is going on. I feared that she had a miscarriage, or at least something wrong with her pregnancy. It was August 24, the day when Picassa will finish her last physiotherapy. I apologize to Picassa that she cannot finish it that day, but the vet called and she said, she had talked to her associate in her clinic and arranged so that we can treat both cats.

I borrowed company car and drove them both straight to the emergency door. Goldie was put into surgery room at once, while Picassa have her final therapy.

An hour later, the vet came out and told me what we feared: Goldie had a miscarriage. She had three kids, and all died inside.

Since she was already cut open anyway, she was spayed the same instant.

Though I know Goldie is a tomboy, that is no guarantee that she would be tough. In fact, even the vet didn’t know how she’d handle it. Every cat has their own way. Some mad, some sad, the other depressed, and some other lived on as if nothing happened. We can only hope for the best when she came around.

Fate again twisted the next day when I worked. All of a sudden I decided to take different route to go home, and on my way, I hear a kitten calling.

Literally. Call me crazy, but I swear I hear a calling voice. A familiar meow that I can directly interpret as a call to come over.

There, under the rain, I saw two tabby cats calling for help. Their mother are nowhere to be found, so I am sure someone dump them there. I cannot come into the alley because it’s barred, so I bought a piece of barbecue beef to coax them.

The problem is, I don’t bring a large bag. How am I supposed to carry them under the rain, with a bike?

Earlier that morning a friend of mine had sent me a package of shirts, so it gave me ideas. I sent my apologize to her for this idea, but I have no choice.

I open the package to use the shirts as a carrying bag, but out of my surprise, she wrapped the shirts in a wallmart bag.

God is merciful. He made my friend include the Wallmart bag with her package so I don’t have to use her gift.

At home, Goldie is waiting by the door. She still cannot walk properly due to the C section, but she walk anyway.

And as soon as I put the two kittens down on the floor, she immediately fall to her side and call the kitten to come over.

Oh yes, God is merciful indeed. He does work mysterious way.

I know I cannot open the bandages yet, but again, a crazy idea cross my mind, so I carefully cut holes on the area above Goldie’s nipple, without breaking the bandage, and there they were. Goldie gladly offer her milk, and the two kitten happily accept the benevolent offer.

As I cut more holes to expose more nipples, Goldie generously extend her offer to the other kittens: Nevaeh and Eden.

goldie nursing

Goldie is nursing Eden with bandage on, looking at the camera is Picassa, just spayed

A flash of thunder brought me back to the present. It seems like I wander in my thought long enough. The sky is already dark, and Goldie is already asleep. Beside her, all four of her adoptive kitten peacefully breast feeding.

Who would have thought that Goldie would change so much?

I don’t think so. Goldie hasn’t change. She is paying it forward.


A little note:

Indonesia has a native, exotic cat breed called “kucing mas” (pronounced: koo-ching mah-s). It has short hair, and all part of them are yellowish golden. The breed is now rare, and therefore expensive. Goldie is very similar to Kucing Mas that most people mistaken her for one. The other mistaken her as a Ceylon. I have no idea if she is indeed Kucing Mas, or some Kucing Mas mix, but even if she is, I am not going to commercialize her nor let her fall into the breeder’s hand.  There has been several time that some people approached me to adopt Goldie, but since they all seem to have the same hidden agenda (to breed her) I refused.

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It is probably the ten thousandth time I told the kid next door that animals are not a toy. They are small, harmless, helpless, but that doesn’t mean they are here for heartless fun, as a furry ball, a sitting target for rock throwing, or a plushy object to learn about how gravity works from above a bridge – among a few.

Though animals doesn’t speak our language, they have feelings, they know pain, and yet they quietly endure all sort of misery that we have put them into, especially that particular Sunday when I saw yet the same kid next door kicking around a stray kitten as big as their palm of hand.

I’d warned them again, and prepared my well repeated advices, when I saw one of them take a big rock from an ongoing building site at the other site of our house, struggle to carry it over, and drop it on top of the kitten.

I screamed. I screamed as I ran outside to remove the boulder and hold the kitten as tightly as I could, not bothering to explain what is happening that I yelled on their boys.

When the mother asked her kids what is going on, and why did I rushed inside with a cat in my arm, the two boys innocently reported that they tried to make a chili sauce for their mud cake.

I could care less if they are six years old, but a chili sauce made of a real blood of a kitten certainly raise my question as to how a mother would raise her children.

A mother by any other name is a noble creature. She has a great heart, she is protective, and compassionate to all living, especially to her dear children. But as to left her four children running on the street, playing mud and screaming around the block from the sun rise to the evening is incomprehensible to me.

More incomprehensible when the next day she called me various names and tell me that I should have taken good care of my cats better instead of leaving them running on the streets sans care.

To be frank, I didn’t even bother to answer. If she can be so caring enough as to lecture me about taking good care of my refugees, she should first look at herself on the mirror and see how she raised her wild kids – for the lack of better description. Most of all, if a mother, a creature that suppose to be a role model of compassion can be so ignorant about preserving live, she is probably not human in the first place.

And the kitten is a stray cat.

I haven’t named her, but she is the most beautiful alley cat I ever met. Her fur is golden, and contrary to the usual short hair domestic, she sports a long and luxurious golden hair. She reminds me of Dewey, from the infamous Spencer Library Cat in Iowa, USA.

Unfortunately, in contrary to Dewey’s good looking and luck, she has so far to go before she can claim her right to live.

The boulder left remarkable amount of scars on her face, and her malnutrition-ed body deferred her from her original beauty.

Tanenah

Chin up against ill fate

Tanenah Curling Up

Keeping calm despite painful life

Yet she tried to live. She tried to heal, she tried to play. She tried her best to fit in, and the other refugees accept her at no condition.

Warming welcome

A heartful welcome

Curling up with O Ciibi

And I am honored  to answer her call. I give her the best treatment that I can afford, and I am glad that my previous ChipIn effort goes well enough as to give me a little money to buy her better food and medication.

For the next days, aside from the plaguing complains from my next door neighbor, that lovely mother of four kids who laugh at the idea of Chili Sauce, I nurtured her back to health.

She excels at it. She excels at getting well and catching up and even play ball with the other, though every time the ball hit her face she would run and shiver. She now has a belly, and after some de-worming she even catch up to her deserved health faster.

Last night, I was delighted that for the first time, she has the power to jump on my lap, purred loudly, and sleep there when I fight online for other animals around the world.

When she jumped down a couple of hours later, I was even more delighted, knowing that she had power to hold herself together, and go fetch some milk in the kitchen.

But she never returned.

Hours later when my heart urge me to look around, I found her there, sleeping so peacefully on her favorite towel, never to be awaken again.

It seems like she had taken her wing to fly back home, and race us out and arrive first in her Canaan.

I haven’t even named her. I wanted to share her news and have everyone suggested a name, like a baby shower. I had intended her to become everyone’s mascot of how animal suffering can end in our caring hand, but she couldn’t wait.

She has her schedule and she stay true to it.

Today the same kid exercise his prayers out lout on the street in front of our house. A prayer in Arabic I know so well, a prayer to praise the Lord, and an invitation to all to pray and ask for forgiveness.

He probably never remember about the little kitten he had tried to crush last week, happily go round his daily life without care as a child should be; but I hope God listen to his prayer, and forgive him for what he did. A play that cost the world one innocent life.

I hope God forgiven his mother, because she was vengeful to me for yelling at her kids, and because her love for her children had blinded her from the responsibility to guard other life and teach her kids about the value of a heart beat.

I hope God forgive me for not being able to do better.

I hope God forgive the cruelty that often happen next to us, without us being able to do anything about it, while we all unite to battle all sort of devilish act against animal in another part of the world.

I cannot give anything more to the little angel. I cremated her and spread her ash in the garden, hoping that she would someday come down and play a little while, but if any of the readers would like to suggest a name, you are most welcome. Leave a comment. I feel it’s the least we can do to pay her for a mountainous blessings and honor to save life, though for a very short time.

So that she would be remembered as someone, not just ashes flown by history Not just a forgotten child’s play.

So that we would remember that our road is still long, and animal welfare we all fighting for, is still waiting for us to answer its call.

Rest well, little angel. See you soon.

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By The River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept
by Josie
posted on July 20, 2010

It’s a novel by Paulo Coelho – a Brasilian writer famous for his writing about self conquest: journey into the depth of one soul to find, or re-discover the true meaning of life.

The novel spoke of a young man, long gone from his homeland, and a girl long for a true love, and their journey into their heart to recover their once lost life, and love.

I am long gone from my hometown, and River is a street kitty girl longing for true love, and our fated meeting happen when I heard her cry from under a small bridge where a shallow yet strong current flow.

She was soaked, gulped a lot of water, and still hanging for life as much as she could.

The short suspense was the beginning of our journey.

I called her River –  I think you know why – and Phoenix because she is white and yellow, like flame flicking from a candle, and to honor her resilience. She had already soaked wet from top to toe, swallow gallons of water, and endured a freezing twilight,  yet she yelled as loud as she could, and hang in there with her tiny claws, though the river dragged and throw her into its rocky base like pinball, which filled her body with cuts and bruises.

Most of all: she lives. She curl up motionless inside the that ball of towel and blanket, but she came out of her box in the morning, playing with a ball as if nothing happened, ready to move on.

River Phoenix

River showing her scarry legs one day after arrival.

The scars she got all over her body during her struggle are yet to be cured, but her will of life never broken. There will be months before all those long and thick fur come back, but her strive to stay alive was never scraped.

There will be a long journey before she reaches Canaan, a home, and a family to love her, but the radiance of her endurance will guide her to her deserving happiness.

For her, the tale of her life might be similar to a novel, but By the river piedra she sat down and wept rise back to life.

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by Sensui Sanosuke

When Josie launched this blog, she only have one thing in mind: saving the lives of the strays who counted on her daily visit. Her pocket had been empty for a week, she barely survived all the bills, face yet another challenge from her landlord (I still cannot comprehend what is it with that guy), and have to count on the grace of her regular pet shop, who knows what she is doing and mercifully let her take whatever food she need and pay later.

She faced countless of sneers, rejection, humiliation, harassments, sometimes even physical abuse for doing what she does, but she keeps going. She answer every rejection with courtesy, and explain all of her action with humility, she did get mad sometimes, but above all else, she keeps going.

She never expect that anyone would help. One or two, maybe, but not really much. Internet may have sweet face, but often reveal a stiff heart, yet she keeps going.

Today, after taking her Goldie from the vet to spay/neuter, she found the fence locked. The landlord apparently have someone change the locks that she cannot go in, and when given a call, instead telling her to wait until he’s done with his business (who knows when), making her ended up waiting under the full sun for more than three hours before she rode back to the vet and requested that Goldie can stay there for the rest of the afternoon, and return to the office. If you wanted to know, the fence was opened at five p.m, another four hours after Josie waited wastefully by the gate.

She wasn’t broken.

With some help from a friend, her blog soar high though the World Wide Web, and draw attention of many. Together, angels around the world flocked over to lend her a hand, resulting in some USD 507.01.

Though that amount can only cover half of Renoir and Picassa’s treatment, she never lose hope. “There’s always way” so she said, and therefore she keeps on trying. USD 507.01 is a very good start, though the traffic in her Paypal account alarmed the company, that resulting in her account being frozen because it was deemed “potentially high risk”

Certainly, Paypal never mention that they can just freeze an account because it is suddenly active. They did say that any member can start receiving money in the instant of their account verification, but definitely were shocked enough to see how much people come and lend a hand.

accepting donation is dangerous - paypal said
Instead of being glad that Josie use their service as mean of payment, Paypal froze Josie’s account because the sudden activities in her account is deemed potentially high risk.

The giant also cheated on her, by charging her some fee while converting USD into Indonesian before she withdraw her fund, froze her account, and therefore charge another amount to reverse the money back into US.

That doesn’t include blocking her account from receiving anymore fund for the same reason.

And so another door was closed for her. Until she resolve the dispute with Paypal, she will not be able to withdraw her money.

She keeps going.

She appeal and appeal, while harshly rejected by Paypal, until she called her lawyer friend to explain to Paypal how different is the nature of Indonesian “business” compared to those in US, and that she is Indonesian citizen, and therefore, Paypal cannot override her with US law.

Well, they still freeze the account, so anyone who wants to make donation would have to do it by bank transfer (contact Josie to get the detail).

Reading all the comments that came in, aside from the donation, Josie has never been so shocked in a happy sort of way, but holding her tears she gracefully reply to each and everyone of her supporter. The  word of encouragement sent to her was overwhelming, though not all of the incoming comment was an encouragement.

Some question what she was up to with all her action, some said she should stop now before she broke down due to lack of support from the government itself regarding animal welfare. Some said similar things: that she battled alone amidst raging war, and it will be such unfortunate if she still deny the obvious loss.

The others just tell her to follow the mainstream, that is: go shopping, watch the movie, get laid, follow latest fashion, and be happy. Forget about the cats, unless they can make money for you.

In short, this life is just not visible.

Still, instead of admitting her loss as she’s been told, or trashing the discouraging messages, she replied:

You will laugh to my unusual talent, but I wish to draw you back to the day when Barrack Obama was elected president. This man, a new baby to lawmakers, and a fresh man to politics was awarded the crown for his intelligence and pure intention. His election had brought historical moment not only to your country, but also to the rest of the world.

Drawing all the spotlights and euphoria of this world class dream-come-true drama to my lonesome, private life, I felt that I am compelled to step up to the crown myself. With my various history, and as much intelligence, I should hvae been able to claim the presidency of my own fate.

While the audacity of his hope has already heard, and answered, the impudence of my mind has yet to be known. While the change he seeks has gained the chance, my sheer ideology has yet to seize the day.

But if this man, out of his inner nature can come and take the world, why can’t I? If this man, out of his traits as a detached and loner, can gain the trust of millions, why can’t we?

I have debts to return, bills to pay, and ten lives that its owner entrusted to me, but if I am to try, I will get by, one way or another. I have no laws to back me up, or friends to keep me company, but if I keep going,I’ll meet someone . After all, even  when all hell broke lose on earth, there will be one light that stays in the deepest box of our heart: HOPE, that will keep us going.


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Exotic Picassa

Picassa

It’s a cloudy Sunday after an additional job when I suddenly decided to take different road back home. The small paved road was empty, but recent repair on it left a few rocks left by roadside, and a black thing too dark to be a stone. Frankly, I thought it was a lump of asphalt.

I drove my bike to avoid it, especially because I see a hint of white sedan behind me, when I realize that…. the lump got eyes!

So instead of driving away, I throw myself between the “stone” and the car, that immediately brakes but still hit me on time. I fall down (of course) and meet eye to eye with a black, extremely terrified kitten.

I sacked her up and brought her home, wondering why she didn’t run away from the car. After all, it is an empty road, and the car is slow. Slow enough for her to avoid it, if she wanted to.

The problem is, it wasn’t that the kitten didn’t want to run, but she couldn’t run. She can’t even stand up, because her hind legs were dislocated. Something must have hit her before, hard enough to threw her to the road and dislocated her hind legs, making her unable to run.

Since no vet is open on Sundays, and there’s no animal hospital in the city, I had to do it myself. I relocated her hind legs back to its place by the same principle that I was learning back in PE class.

I called the little kitten “Picassa” due to an abstract “print” on top of her eyes that made her look as if she is wearing a masquerade.

The next day, however, I brought her to the nearest vet.

The vet said I did a great job relocating her hind legs, and said that she has nothing to worry about. I told him that she can’t walk properly, and that her left leg seems to be higher than the right one, so she kind of walking abnormally. He said it was a simple muscle strain, and that her right leg is the one that got a little bit swollen. He gave me a prescription and told me to leave. My heart and mind rejected his statement in choir, but I took the prescription in silence. He is the vet, not me.

Given the prescription twice, Picassa was crying whenever she littered, and I saw blood. The third prescription, more blood. So I stopped the medication and brought her to another vet, the vet that used to handle my other cats. I show her the prescription, and she said “The prescription is to hard for a kitten. It’s acidic to her intestine and the blood is because her gastric and intestine kind of scalded”

My heart sank. This little kitten, away from her mother, alone on the streets, got dislocated leg, cannot walk properly and now has scalded GIT (Gastro Intestinal Tract). Not funny.

The vet told me to treat her GIT first, then we can go and treat her leg, and by the way, it is the left leg that has problem, not the right.

I wish I can go back and give the other vet a good punch.

So Picassa spend weeks drinking gastritis medicine, and eat special gourmet I personally designed: brown rice powder, milk replacer, and multivitamins.

The special recipe cured her GIT, but her leg was damaged forever. Her left hind leg was higher than the right, so Picassa walked with limp as if her left leg is shorter than the right one.

We can have her leg operated, so that she can walk properly, however, the surgery will require a vet to put some metal pen to attach her bone, and such technology is very rare in Indonesia, and that would mean, it’s extremely expensive. Plus, like the vet said, Picassa is 2 months old. Forcing a surgery may crush her bone, so she suggested series of physiotherapy that will help her cope with her physical condition, in the hope that she might grow more or less “normal”

I followed the later advise. So starting the next weekend, Picassa drove with me to have a physiotherapy, and her condition improved as time pass by. She can now walk almost normally, she can run, she can jump, and the multivitamins as well as extra calcium gave her a very healthy appetite. The therapy itself was not cheap, but if that would mean giving a new hope for Picassa to be adopted, I don’t mind spending another IDR 4,000,000.00 (more or less USD 400.00), at least, I will figure out how.

Picassa is two months old,  has gone through a lot of pain, and passed a long journey home. I can at least appreciate her perseverance and faith.

Please consider Chipping In to help Picassa heal. Remember that  1 US dollar will worth 9,000.00 Indonesian Rupiah. It means your support will be multiplied ten thousand fold. There has never been better investing opportunity.

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Whiskers' Syndicate

We're the Whiskers' Syndicate!

We came a long way from all over the world, well, mostly Indonesia, an ever developing (who knows until when) country down between Indian Ocean and the Pacific. If you used to know South East Asia you will come to know us more easily, but if you still need a clue, we have that surfer’s paradise people called Bali.

Nope, we don’t surf, of course, but we roam on the nasty streets with hardy living. Got poisoned, ran over by car, left to die, forced to breed, dumped like trash, caged in zoos, circuses, or perform spectacular jump from a tiny tank in exchange of our vast ocean we called home.

We know no such thing as “freedom” and “life” It’s humans brag o nonsense.

That is, until some weirdo passed by with her bike and while we are ready to accept just another kick or slap (we don’t think we did anything wrong but that happened all the time *sigh*), she instead extend her hand, smile, and said one or two words before scooping us and throw us in her canvas bag, along with… well… pencils, books, shreds of what she called “bills”, and… something that rings some tune once and a while.

Most of our friend got scooped before and never returned, so we thought we’re history, but a few bumps and a couple of times later, she saw us into a small room, with a bed, some clothing, and a lot of other of our kind. Some we know, most not.

If we’re lucky, one of us or two will meet their long-lost siblings.

It’s no heaven, really. We have to share one bed at night, and queue to use the litter box. We can’t play in the green field, what we got is a red, hot (at midday), endless roof just outside her room window, but at least the air is nice, and we can scratch wherever we like or run and play as we please. We got our own plate, yes, but the food is definitely not premium grade. It’s more than certainly edible, though, compared to those we used to pick up from the trash.

And we’ve got a lotta love.

The girl will pick us up, put us on their lap, and wash us clean from those irritable manges. She force us to swallow a pill or some dark liquid that tastes some hint of chicken that will make our stomachs go awful the whole day and drop lousy numbers of worms (yuck), but yeah… we’ll then be as good as new.

Every once and then she’ll ride us to that group of young people who would never let us go before they successfully sting us with their needles, but after some time you can see that some of our sickly neighbors will get better, though some don’t. And when that happened, that weirdo girl will sit silent by the edge of the bed, cradling the fallen in her arm and shed tears (yes, we’re sure she shed tears, not fur).

Occasionally, she’d told us I have always dream of running a shelter, just like grandpa used to have, but I’d never thought that I’d have one now while I am in tight money. Are you guys sure you’re all right living poor way like this? I only have one room though… aah, we don’t answer that, but we just stay there. One room is better than no room, meh.

At the other time she’d company us eat (she eat her own food, those eaten by the rabbits, we eat our own share), and mumbles something like You guys are no different with a band of mafia when you eat…. you practically raid you plate.

Why of course! We’re the Whiskers’ Syndicate!

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