It’s been a tough week in New Orleans. Paul Drake’s unexpected death has taken a toll on his people. Shorter Adrastos: Since this is the second time this has happened in 14 months, I don’t feel like writing today.
I would, however, like to thank everyone for the kind words here and on social media. It means the world to Dr. A and me.
What’s a cat post without a picture or two?
Here’s a previously unpublished picture of the krewe of cats named for Perry Mason characters: PD and Della Street. We miss them both.
The last word goes to Sam and Dave and Paul Rodgers:
2020 has been a terrible year for everyone: death has been depressingly commonplace. I have another passing to report. After a brief illness, Paul Drake has left the building. I use the old Elvis concert phrase because PD was an internet rock star. He deserves a star send-off.
It started last Friday. One minute, he was a normal cat then I left the room. When I returned 10 minutes later, he couldn’t stand up and started dragging himself across the floor. Initially, I thought he had a broken leg.
We raced off to the emergency veterinary hospital. It turned out to be much more serious than a fracture. PD was diagnosed with saddle thrombosis. It’s a malady whose most sinister symptom is clotting in the legs. His hind legs were paralyzed, which was the source of enormous frustration for such a vigorous and hitherto healthy cat.
We followed the course of treatment recommended by the vets. We knew survival was a long shot but, despite the pain meds, he was still present and fighting for his life. Yesterday when we arrived for a visit, he started purring the minute he saw us. It was a tough visit, but we left hoping Paul Drake could beat the odds. They were too long.
Late last night, the vet called to tell us that he had another blood clot. She asked for instructions. We decided to let the poor dear go.
It was sudden, shocking, and sad: taking only 51-some hours from start to finish. We were dazed all weekend. It’s an unfortunately common problem and is nearly always fatal. PD is a special cat, so I hoped he’d be one of the survivors, but it was not to be.
Some of you have met Paul Drake, others have followed his antics here and on social media since his gotcha day, Twelfth Night, 2018. He was a happy and gregarious boy. When we had Carnival parade parties, he didn’t hide under the bed like a sensible cat, he assumed the party was in his honor. He was certainly the life of the party.
I knew we were in for a bumpy ride when he stopped eating. We took some shredded cheese to the clinic yesterday, but he was not interested. This from a cat who came running every time the refrigerator opened. He seemed to think it was a magic food box full of wonders. I laughed every time it happened.
A word of thanks to Doctor Margaret and her wonderful staff at Avenue Animal Wellness and Emergency in Uptown New Orleans. We had such a bad experience with our former vet’s staff during Della Street’s final illness that we “divorced” after 30+ years. I was nervous about leaving her pesky kid brother in the hands of strangers during the pandemic, but they were magnificent: kind, competent, and transparent. Like everyone else, they were smitten with the charming Mr. Drake. Thanks again, y’all.
The house is quiet without PD’s thunderous footsteps and zany bag-play. I’ll even miss yelling at him for jumping on the counter hoping to steal our supper. He always looked at you as if to say, “I know you’ll forgive me, but I’ll get off anyway.” That’s a confident cat.
I sometimes kvetch about the Tweeter Tube in this space. Not this time. I was overwhelmed by a flood of kind words and best wishes as I updated his status. Thanks again, y’all.
I feel somewhat awkward about going on about my cat’s passing when there is even more suffering in the world than usual. But Paul Drake was special, dammit. He was not just my cat or Dr. A’s cat; he was your cat too. I’m glad I was able to share him with our readers.
The last word goes to Al Green with one of the saddest and loveliest songs I know:
Every morning Slade comes over to the breakfast table and flops like this, and then if we fail to IMMEDIATELY notice how stunningly cute he is, he’ll start chirping and “mrawp!” at us until he gets the pets he deserves.
I get a kick out of posting pictures of my friends’ cats in this space. I saw this excellent picture on my friend Sue’s FB feed and realized that I had never featured any of her cats here before. Woe is me, bop.
Dory is a 12-year-old tuxedo Maine coon cat. Like all tuxedos, she knows from dirty looks. The late, great Della Street would have been impressed with the haughty expression on Dory’s face. I’m impressed that her human’s desk is almost as messy as mine.
One of the odder things Dr. A and I do is cast our cats in various teevee roles. (Another time, I’ll tell you about how we cast Cheers.) It’s one reason that we ended up with cats named Della Street and Paul Drake.
I recently got a deal on the complete Rockford Files on DVD. Quite naturally, PD was immediately cast as charming rascal Jim Rockford:
I rarely participate in “you can all join in” type things on twitter. I broke down last night because someone asked the world to post a picture of “your pet and what it’s named for.”
I tried to cut and paste the original tweet but the end result was too damn long so here are the Paul Drakes:
The last word goes to Traffic with a Dave Mason song:
I’ve been feeling a bit maudlin this week. At first, I assumed it was because of the state of the world, which is shitty. Then I realized that the queen of dirty looks, Della Street, died suddenly last June 14th.
This is one of my favorite pictures of our much missed mouthy tuxedo cat:
Paul Drake loves that chicken bag from Popeye’s so much that I’ve begun to wonder if he’s Al Copeland reincarnated. I’ll let you know if he becomes obsessed with Christmas lights…
Little Buddy is a repeat offender. I’d like to introduce his canine brother, Louie. They appear to be giving their human, Kyle, the evil eye. He’s a drummer so he probably had it coming.
I have come to the conclusion that Slade is not fat. He’s SOLID. He is SUBSTANTIAL. He is made of muscle covered with fluff, and when I pick him up he’s less like a pillow than a rock.
Ada disapproves. She disapproves of us being home. She disapproves when we leave. She disapproves of us cleaning, but will also chase us around the house yowling when her litterbox is not pristine and her water bowl not refreshed. She viscerally loathes dust bunnies and will try to bite them when they appear. She screams for food, only to back away and let bro-lo el gordito eat it all. She wants to lay on top of me when I’m reading, but then paws me in the face. This look of vague contempt follows us from one room to the next all over the house:
The one thing she does that is not disapproving is to be a consistent alarm system. She once warned us the basement was flooding, and yesterday when her big dumb lard of a brother didn’t come racing up the stairs for breakfast, she yelled the whole house down until we found him trapped in a drawer full of towels he had somehow managed to PUT HIMSELF IN AND THEN CLOSE. Despite her obvious mental superiority she does NOT disapprove of him, and will occasionally deign to let him sleep near, but not next to, her.
We all love her so much and she is just the worst.
I know what you’re thinking: Cats don’t do tricks. But they do like looking in the mirror. You’ve met this week’s guest kitties before. Whiskers and Milo room with my friend Stephanie’s family. Milo is in the background looking befuddled by the critters in the mirror. The picture was taken by Stephanie’s daughter, Catie. Thanks, kiddo.
Adrastos said I should do this so here you go, here is our dumbass, here is the biggest lard on earth, all he does is flop around and whine for pets and playtime like a fucken dog. Like I am eating breakfast and he drags the half-dismembered feather stick toy over and drops it on my feet and nudges my knee and then puts his paws up on my lap and then if I STILL don’t pay attention BECAUSE I’M EATING BREAKFAST YOU DUMB HAMBONE he starts to meow.
He almost never meows. His sister screams at us from dawn til dusk but he is quiet unless he’s very angry (growling) or very needy (playtime while I’m TRYING TO DRINK MY GODDAMN COFFEE IN PEACE).
If’en I wanted a damn dog I would have got a dog. I got some cats because they would ignore me most of the time, not because I needed two more things in my house that would pester me for attention.
I give up and throw his stupid stick for him to fetch every time, though, because look at his dumb lard face. Every night around 9:30 he comes over to the couch and flops himself on me like he’s just had a hard day at work and needs a beer, and he purrs and purrs and purrs.
