Banshee's Story

If any cat has nine lives, it would be Banshee. Banshee's first life, before I met her, landed her at the pound, abandoned and skinny—yet still feisty and full of life. My 13-year-old son and I were totally charmed by this little black kitty with the white spot on her chest who rubbed against the bars of her cage, mewing vigorously in her high-pitched kitten voice, demanding to be noticed. We brought her home, along with her mama— a blue-eyed Siamese we called Koko.

The feisty black kitten and her mellow Siamese mama were a study in contrast from day one. While Koko hid under the bed in an upstairs room, Banshee explored every corner of our home—scampering around the house, pouncing at everything from my 13-year old son's pen, as he worked on his homework, to my husband Greg's bathrobe belt trailing on the floor, to her mama's tail. She especially loved the cat toy we got her—the mouse filled with cat nip that hung from the doorway by an elastic cord. She would pounce on that mouse and bite it, then let go. Released, it bungeed up into the air. Just as fast, she jumped several feet off the ground, grabbing it again in mid-air.

While Koko chose to be a mainly indoor cat, Banshee delighted in the great outdoors. Early one morning, Banshee stalked a deer-—many times her size—who was grazing in our wooded front yard. I saw through the window that little Banshee was lying in wait—flicking her tail, creeping up to the deer. He stared at her not knowing what to make of this spunky little creature. Then I saw her quiver and rush forward again, a little closer. The deer made a snorting sound and pawed the ground. But Banshee did not back down. I worried that she was in danger, —so I quickly ended her hunt by opening the door, clapping my hands and shouting that deer away.

One day, in an urgent effort to get back inside after being let in and out and in and out God- knows-how-many-times, Banshee got her paw stuck in the crack between the metal sheet covering the bottom of the screen door and the door frame. Her little body twisted as she howled in pain. Greg gently extracted her. Her poor front claw dangled uselessly. A piece of her toe was gone, and her leg stuck out at a scarily distorted angle. I rushed her to the vet immediately. After stitches, anti-biotics, pain medicine, a splint, and a big green bandage—Banshee was home again. She who could jump so high was hobbling around helplessly--evoking pity from us instead of amusement. But within days, Banshee was doing much better. Contrary to the vet's initial predictions, she recovered full use of her leg and her paw. Only one very observant guest has ever noticed that she is missing one toe on her left front paw.

Banshee and Koko have now lived with me in three houses—first, with Greg at our suburban family home—then, when our marriage ended—in two very different places. I knew when I moved out that I could never live in a condo with this wild thing—who was used to the woods, used to spending time outside. Banshee definitely influenced my choice of housing—and I was fortunate to find a little cabin in the woods by a pond—where she delighted in stalking birds through the sliding glass door—making strange strangling sounds in the back of her throat. Occasionally the neighbor's chickens would wander our way too—and Banshee sat and watched them from under a chair on the back patio, as they pecked up fallen birdseed. At night, the bullfrogs sang us to sleep with their deep throated “chugs” in combination with the rhythmic higher pitched “preeps” of the smaller frogs. It was an idyllic atmosphere for a newly single woman, her teenage son, and two cats. Yet when the opportunity to own my own house in Hillsborough basically fell into my lap—I knew I had to take it.

This house, where we still live—is on a fairly busy intersection with a stoplight—but there is enough of a yard for my cats to enjoy. Koko spends most of her time indoors, anyway. Banshee sometimes sits at the top of the driveway watching the cars—but she never crosses the busy street.

Not long after we moved here, Banshee took to napping on a high perch—in the roof rack of my SUV. The roof rack on a Nissan X-Terra is fairly sizable and enclosed on the front. It's a good hiding place for a cat, and a good place to watch birds hop on the branches above.

One day, I got in my car as usual and began the daily drive to the preschool, where I was teaching. A car honked at me—and I couldn't figure out who it was. I waved anyway. As I rounded a curve—I heard a thud, and thought a branch had fallen off the top of my car—not an unusual occurrence when you park under trees. I continued on my way---lost in thoughts for my lesson plan of the day—how to set up for the leaf rubbings and fall collages we were doing.

It wasn't until dinner time that evening that I realized Banshee was missing. Banshee has always been religious about showing up for meals and she was growing quite hefty. No matter where she hid out during the day, she was always around when I called her to come in and chow down on her Purina. All of a sudden, it dawned on me—my brain put two and two together: the honking horn, the falling “stick”. Oh my God, I had driven off to work with my cat on top of my car! The sky was beginning to darken, and I was in a panic.

Immediately, I jumped back in the car to retrace my route to work. Where was it exactly that I had heard that thud? I really couldn't remember... I drove down busy Nash street, around the bend and up Dimmocks Mill towards Orange Grove. I drove slowly with my window open, calling “Banshee... Banshee...” checking closely by the side of the road, where I wasn't sure if I'd find her dead or alive. I retraced my route a couple of times. I stopped and pulled over at some random places near my house, walking around and calling. No Banshee. The sun was setting, and I knew my teenage son Noah would be coming home. I called him on my cell phone and explained what had happened--that I'd driven off with Banshee on the roof of my car, and that I was afraid she was lost. “What?!” He exclaimed “How could you? I can't believe you did that!” I told him I was about to give up, come home—plaster the streets with sad “lost cat” posters. “No! That's not good enough!” he exclaimed, “You HAVE to find her!”

Hearing this from my son spurred me to give this one last try. I walked all around in the empty lot by the railroad tracks calling “Banshee! Banshee!” I got back in the car and drove some more. I prayed. I cried. It was really dark now. Reluctantly, I realized I would have to wait til morning to try again. I turned the car towards home.

As I rounded the final curve that goes under the railroad trestle, a dark shape darted in front of my car. Was it Banshee? I pulled over immediately and called where I had seen the speedy silhouette disappear behind a dumpster. Sure enough, there was my mewing black kitty. This seemed like an answer to prayer. I was so relieved and so grateful. I brought Banshee home and we put her on the living room floor and petted her. She had been a tough stray alley cat for a day, and this might have been the story of the rest of her life. Noah and I marveled at the miraculous story of Banshee surviving the fall from the roof rack in traffic, how she landed uninjured, how she darted out in front of my car, announcing her presence at just the right instant—to ME and not to anyone else.

I had a new appreciation for my cat's vigorous presence. I even loved her commanding meow, that made me a constant doorman. I even loved her rubbing against me demanding food and attention—interrupting my work at the computer. I loved watching her wrestle and play with Koko. I loved how she slept on my pillow with her paws draped over my head.

A big change came to our world, when after a couple of years of feeling settled in our Hillsborough home, I decided to invite a dog into our lives. Suddenly, Banshee was no longer the center of the universe. Bentley bounded through the house with his puppy energy, chasing the cats, licking my face, chewing my shoes, craving walks, needing my time and energy. Banshee did not seem afraid of him. Unlike Koko, she did not hide when Bentley nosed her, but stood her ground-- swatting and hissing at him until he backed away.

I noticed that Banshee was spending more and more time outside. I noticed she was becoming less demanding. I thought these changes were positive. I noticed she was losing weight, which I felt was a good thing. When I bought supplies for the new dog, I switched the cats to a higher protein, less processed brand of cat food. I thought her new sleekness was a consequence of this new healthier diet, and of her becoming more independent and spending more time outside. I occasionally found a dead vole or bird—so I assumed that Banshee was supplementing her occasional nibbling of dry food with prey. I was so focused on the new dog, that it took me awhile before I felt the prominence of her backbone; before it dawned on me that her once vigorous mew had weakened.

“We may be looking at a euthanasia cat here,” said the vet. I was totally shocked. He pointed out how the whites of her eyes had a jaundiced yellowish tinge, as did the inside of her ears. Dr. Mac told me that he'd learned in vet school that “a yellow cat is a dead cat. We have to treat this very seriously,” he said. I was in tears, not believing what I was heard. But then he gave me a sliver of hope.

Dr. Mac said that although she was very sick, there is a newer liver disease—not uncommon now, and not always fatal—called “hepatic lipidosis” or fatty liver syndrome (FLS). It can often be reversed if it's caught soon enough and treated aggressively.

Fatty liver syndrome occurs when an overweight cat stops eating—for whatever reason. The liver no longer has a normal diet to break down, and instead tries to process fat cells. Cats' livers are not designed to do this. Cats are meant to be lean hunters, living in the wild. Their livers are not built to break down the fat accumulated by modern domestic felines. So when the liver tries to process fatty cells, it becomes damaged. This can happen if a fat cat stops eating even for a couple of days.

The only way to know for sure if it is this, and not some other more serious ailment (tumor on the liver or shrunken liver) is to undergo first an ultrasound and then a biopsy. I told Dr. Mac, that for budgetary reasons, we would have to skip the expensive diagnostic tests. He supported my reasoning, saying that if these tests reveal a serious life-threatening liver ailment, there would be almost no hope anyway.

The whole progress of Banshee's illness very much fit his description of hepatic lipidosis. Some online research confirmed that there are many reasons for a cat to stop eating and become anorexic—chief among them are a new housemate and a change of food—both of which my previously fat cat Banshee had just been through. The cure for FLS is simple—feeding, feeding, feeding, trying to get the liver to function normally again, trying to get muscle to build up again, to return and cover her bony backbone. Dr. Mac said that if I could get Banshee to eat-- a LOT—if I can get her to gain some weight back, there may be hope. Food and love would be her treatment-- hope, her prognosis.

As soon as we got home from the vet, I opened a can of food out on the porch, and it was almost as if she had understood the doctor's words. Drawn by the scent of liver, she began to eat right away— and although her bites were small and delicate, it was more than I'd seen her eat in a long time. It was as if to tell me she still had life left, as if to tell me she was going to fight grim fate.

Liver is the one food I can't stand—but now for my darling, sick kitty, I found myself stirring up the wet meaty mass with my index finger, turning the food over, making little piles of it that she could more easily bite and pick up. Otherwise, she just licked at the food. Bentley, my dog, was so jealous. He was drawn by the scent of liver too. I fed Banshee out on the porch while the other animals were inside. But they both knew something was going on. Especially Bentley, with his beagle nose. If the window was open, he went right to it, pressing his nose up against the screen, barking demandingly. I learned to close the windows and the doors to keep his craving nose at bay.

I learned that once cat food has been refrigerated for awhile, the scent isn't as strong. I learned to microwave the food for a few seconds, to warm it up to room temperature so that the aroma is released, instead of contracted up inside the cold lumps that aren't nearly as appetizing to Banshee.

When she walked away from her dish, I picked her up and petted her for awhile, and stroked her bony back-- telling her she needed to eat more so she could grow strong again, telling her that every bite made a difference. I told her I knew she could do it. I set her back down in front of the plate—angled just so—so that the mounds I'd formed were right under her nose. I stroked her head as I talked to her. For some reason, this combination of talking, petting, mounding the food, turning the plate, and angling it just right seemed to be working. I was able to get Banshee to eat—slowly, a few bites here and a few bites there, many times a day. Not wolfing it down hungrily like a normal cat, but eating steadily nonetheless. I had my other cat to keep “normal” in perspective—and was struck by how quickly Koko ate in comparison.

It has been almost a week now since that traumatic visit to the vet, since I began Banshee's intensive feeding treatment. I'm happy to report that she is now eating more heartily on her own. Not requiring the mounding and turning of the plate as much, except occasionally, when she's about to walk away and I'm able to get her to stick with it a bit longer. Her meow is getting louder, and she is purring again as she enjoys her Fancy Feast. She's now eating more flavors—turkey and giblets, chicken in gravy. She's eating cold food pulled straight from the fridge. She squirms more when I hold her. The yellowish tinge which the vet pointed out to me seems to be fading.

As I happily watch her eat more heartily, I remember the little black kitten mewing in her cage at the pound. I remember her quick recovery from totally messing up her paw in the broken screen door. I remember her harrowing near death fall from the top of my car—her getting lost, and her miraculous rescue. I have every hope and every reason to believe that Banshee will pull through this too and come out fine. She is now five years old. She still has several more cat lives left to live.