Tag Archives: cat

#fmsphotoaday Day 11 #fms_tiny

I spent most of the day writing “May 10th 2016” on everything so you are lucky that I’m not repeating the travel prompt.  There are days I wonder if I was to get on the Bullet Journal bandwagon, could I save my last remaining brain cells.

No.  No, I think my brain cells are near extinction.  It’s not all their fault really.

Day 11 was the photo prompt tiny.

#fmsphotoaday Day 11 #fms_tiny #kittens #ohnoyoukitten

A post shared by Melanie Jo Moore (@melanie_jo_moore) on


There are two kittens in this photo.  These orphans were on death’s doorstep yesterday.  They are better today, but I wouldn’t say completely out of the woods.  They are one thing for sure though, tiny.

Kittens are super cute and I do think the world is a better place because of them.  Us humans have to get better at controlling their population.  These little guys are so malnourished and I’m sure in every town right has litters and litters of kittens just like these.  Some will get homes but many of them will continue the feral cycle.  If you have stray cats in your neighborhood, you can give an amazing gift of having them spayed or neutered.  There are low cost spay/neuter clinics for feral cats providing the surgery and a rabies vaccine.  There are way too many homeless kittens and the only way to fix this is contributing to a better outcome for these wayward felines.

Tomorrow’s photo prompt:  Text



Get Low Jones Moore, Remembered


Some days, I miss Get Low more than others.  It’s been two years and as time has passed, I don’t think of him every day.  Spring has sprung though, and I was able to bring life back to his memorial garden.  Cody and Presleigh watch me, fascinated by the meticulous poking and prodding of plants and soil, the positioning of the statue just right, cleaning of the stone with his name.  Neither of them knew Get Low, but they know that there is some sort of odd obsession between me and this spot in the yard.

“I’m going to get you some more flowers in a few weeks, thought this was a good starting point.”

A cat inside the house knew Get Low and loved him, though she may never admit it.  If you’ve ever seen a cat give a scowling look because somebody in the room is an idiot, then you’ve seen the look she’d frequently give Get Low.  Shamooki being the hell cat that she is, who loves no one, needs no one, and everyone is a moron compared to her genius, has always had a hard time letting her feelings show.  Dogs didn’t deserve her attention.

And then, Get Low’s health problems became worse.


Suddenly, Shamooki became that constant for Get Low.  She was there to comfort him when I was at work.  She could always sense subtle changes in how he felt.  If she was suddenly inseparable from him only allowing herself trips to the litterbox, water bowl or food bowl, he was about to have an episode of some sort.


When I found Get Low, he was a seven month old puppy.  I was taking trash to the dumpster when out of nowhere I recieved a goosing.  He wore a red collar and looked to be in good body weight.  Surely, someone was missing their crazy dog.  I put up flyers, I called radio stations, but there was nothing.  After a few days, I did the right thing.  I got him vaccinated and took him to the pound where I was confident his parents would be looking for him.  My dog at the time, Elvis, sighed with relief.  Thank goodness that character was out of our life!  Fourteen days later, I called on ‘the day’ to make sure his rightful owners had claimed him.  The voice on the phone said, ‘No, he’s still here.  And we are really full.’  I knew darn well what they were hinting to me.  I asked for them to hold on to him until I could get there to pick him up.  Elvis sighed again, not of relief this time.  He knew he’d spend the rest of his days watching this dog tear up everything he could get his mouth around.  He knew that he would be tormented by this youngster who lacked manners and any means of self control.


*From left to right, Get Low, Tucker (the lunatic cousin) and Elvis, sporting his usual ‘Dear God get me away from these damn dogs’ look.

Five years later, Shamooki came into our lives.  At five months old she was already a sass pot that wasn’t getting any better when it came to the subject of behavior.  She belonged to a coworker who had took Shamooki in when she was a wee little weak orphan.  No one could have seen what was coming next, that helpless little ball of fur was a killing machine.  As adults, we can take certain evil actions, but when the cat starts treating the children like prey … decisions have to be made.  Shamooki came to stay with me in my childless world.  (Five bucks says, Toot is reading this now saying ‘I am so sorry you got that evil cat, Mel!)


When Elvis died, Get Low and I were the sorriest sites you could have ever seen.  He refused to leave the front door.  He slept there all day long, waiting for the return of his brother.  He didn’t eat for days.  I cried my eyes out on the couch, hugging Elvis’ urn and watching depressing movies.  Sometimes, Get Low and I would  get in the truck and take Elvis’ ashes for a ride.  We were obviously disturbed.  That cat never blinked an eye.  She would sit in the living room and stare at us like we were the scum of the Earth.  She never did seem to mourn his loss, but she stepped up to the plate (literally) and helped Get Low.  Get Low finally started eating when I placed Shamooki’s food bowl beside his.  He didn’t know how to eat his meals without sharing it with a furry friend.  We slowly healed and moved on, except for Shamooki who just never missed a beat in the first place.


Elvis May 1993 – April 2004

Get Low was never a stranger to disorders, dysfunctions and diseases.  He had slightly deformed front feet which could barely handle his energetic personality and they gave him grief from time to time.  By the age of six, he had developed spondylosis which caused him pain and then later down the road neurological deficits to his hind limbs.  At age nine, he was diagnosed with Inflammatory Bowel Disease which kept him on a strict diet and medications to prevent and treat stomach and intestinal upset.  He now also had arthritis in most of his joints.  Next was lupus on his nose.  Before his tenth birthday, we discovered that Get Low had mast cell tumors.  He underwent an aggressive surgery which allowed for wide margins around the tumors, hoping we could get it all.  He spent his Christmas doped up on pain meds and on restricted activity for fear that every stitch could barely hold what we had stretched back together.  The biopsy reports came back, some were clean margins, others weren’t.  I was not going to put him through another surgery.  Not long after that, he developed melanoma in one of his eyes and became incontinent.


I knew making it to his eleventh birthday was nothing short of a miracle, but I also knew our time was winding down.  Every night, he would wake me up because he had an accident.  I would change his diaper, change the sheets on his bed and get him tucked back in.  Generally, all this midnight excitement was usually enough to make him blow chunks, vomit which now was most of the time bloody.  If he ate, he only held it down half of the time.  I carried him up and down the porch steps.  I expressed his bladder when we were outside because he had no idea if his bladder was full or not.

One night, we were sitting on the couch.  “Get Low, let’s just say you can talk.  You know I wouldn’t tell anyone that you did, right?”  He looked at me with serious eyes.  “It’s okay to talk.  Not going to, huh?  I just want you to tell me when you are done fighting.  I could probably go on forever doing this if you tell me you want to keep going.  I just wish you could talk.”

Get Low never did speak that night, but days later he started to refuse his medications.  Four times a day, he would spit them out and walk away.  Get Low may have not formed words, but he had spoken.

My mom came to pick us up that Saturday morning.  He had not moved from the couch since the night before, but when she got there he suddenly had a burst of energy and brought her a squeaky toy.  She looked at me and said, “Really?”  What can I say, Get Low always loved showing off for his Grandma, even in that final hour.


I tried to corral Shamooki into saying goodbye to him before we left.  In her typical reluctant cat fashion, she just ran off to the bedroom.  That was it, she never seem to give it another thought after that.  He was gone, and there was nothing either of us could do about it.  Maybe Shamooki knows more than me.  Is she confident there’s an afterlife, a rainbow bridge?  Does she just accept life is fleeting and holding on does nothing but hold you back?  I’d like to think that’s what it is, she’s just the more rational of the two of us.  All these years, I’ve been learning things from the dogs, maybe it’s really the cat that should be teaching me.


Get Low wins first place for Muttliest Mutt… sadly did not place in Obedience.


Get Low dressed up as a pony (his long flowing ponytail is blowing behind him) and placed 2nd!


Get Low placed fourth the year he dressed up in a nightgown and sported a wig with curlers and a face mask made of vanilla frosting.  His competitors thought the face mask was delicious.


Get Low placed 3rd in his last year of costume competition in this simple skunk outfit.


Get Low was a true testament that a wonderful pet doesn’t need to come with a pedigree, a price tag, or even when they are 8 weeks old. Please remember that some of the most amazing creatures are mutts, homeless, and no longer a youngster. You will honor his memory by keeping this in mind anytime you feel an empty spot in your home.

There will never be another one like him. Get Low Jones Moore 1998 – 2011.

Murder on a Saturday

I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t notice it when I first got home.  It had been a busy morning at the office and all I had on my mind was getting home to some lunch.  I came straight through the door and headed to the refrigerator.  I did note that the house was unusually quiet.  I should have known that there was guilt in the air.

After eating lunch, I made my way through the rest of the house.  I was organizing a plan on the afternoon’s activities.  Should I clean house?  Walk the dogs?  Write?  All plans were haulted when I noticed the body laying lifelessly on the floor.


“Holy shit!”

I walked over and nudged the corpse.  “Are you really dead?”  Nudge, nudge.  Nudge, nudge.  I felt for a pulse.  Even before I Iocated its absence, I could tell that death had set in with the coldness of the body.  Now, who the hell did it?  Who killed this little field mouse.

Shamooki, the geriatric pet of the house, has never been a mouse killer in all of her ten years.  Though that cat loves the taste of human flesh, she simply yawns and grooms herself in the presence of rodents.  Take the time to kill a mouse, yeah right.  When discussing mice, friends have always said, ‘but you have that cat.”  Ha, that cat.  No help in that department.

Ratchet, who is approaching two years old, has never caught a mouse to my knowledge.  I had my hopes though when he moved in late May that he would indeed be in charge of pest control.  He’s young and quick, an expert at catching my hair ties and smuggling them off to a secret location unknown to anyone but him.  As winter progressed though, I never found any evidence of mouse hunting out of this new resident.

I picked up the poor field mouse by his tail and proceeded to the trashcan.  On the way there, I thought that maybe I shouldn’t pass up this opportunity to discuss what had happened with the cats and try to express appreciation for the service that had been provided.  I found both cats lazily napping in the mudroom.  Not the image of a hitman at all.  First, I approached Ratchet.


“Um, Ratchet.  Do you know what happened to this mouse?”  He gave me a smug look of confidence or maybe that of confusion why I was toting around a dead mouse.  “Ratchet, I would like to thank you if you were responsible for this.  You have provided the house with a service it has long needed.  Even though we don’t have a true mouse problem per se, it is good to have someone on the front lines preventing said problem from occurring.”

Smug look continued.  I thanked him again and moved on.


“Shamooki. I know you aren’t much into mouse killing, but I would like to address this situation with you in the event you were responsible for it.  I’m glad that you stepped up to the plate and took on an important chore of the household.  If it was you, of course.  I’m not sure what has changed your mind.  Thank you all the same.”

She curled up in a ball and went back to sleep.

Then a bit off behind me, I heard the shivering of nervous toenails on the wood floor.  Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.  It may have not been the sound of admitted wrong doing but at least the sound of self-condemnation.


“Presleigh, do you know something about this?”

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.  Her head goes down and she studies the cracks on the floor.  Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.  Apparently, I can’t rely on the cats for mouse killing.  I guess when you breed a rat terrier to a chihuahua, you get a mouse terrier.”

I disposed the little body into the trashcan and asked that next lifetime he stayed far away from houses where he was safe or at least could be eaten by a hawk.  The guilty little mouse terrier ran off into the living room and buried herself under her blankets, obviously still sorting out some mixed feelings of the morning’s events.