Hello again, Bacon fans!

It’s a busy spring here at Tabby’s Place.  Kitten season is in full swing, and we’re all preparing for our annual Kitten Shower on Saturday, June 22.  In addition, we’ve welcomed several new adult cats, who are being integrated into the various suites.

But one thing remains ever steady, ever unchanging, ever quietly enduring: Bacon.

In Bacon’s world, life has been placid.  His officemate Sally is still undergoing chemotherapy and has struggled to maintain her appetite, and Bacon has noticed she’s lost some weight.  But he’s a gentleman and knows better than to say anything.  Instead, he checks in on her when he’s awake, giving her curious sniffs.  Sally’s illness has made her more affectionate, and she is always happy to greet visitors or to keep Karina from having an empty lap.

And for his part, Bacon has mostly been doing very well.  He did have a rare waking seizure last week – the first of its kind that I’ve seen.  Usually, Bacon’s seizures come on while he sleeps, and he tremors and flinches while laying down.  When he’s awake, he is still jolted with tremors and twitches but also struggles to keep his footing.  It’s hard to resist the urge to grab him and comfort him!  But seizures are best left to run their course, and Bacon strongly dislikes being handled, so instead, we are helpless spectators at such times.

Bacon is a perfect example of the Tabby’s Place mission.  It’s a rare place indeed that would make a home for a cat with such needs as his.  But when he stares at you with his big emerald eyes or chirps hello, you wonder if he’s the lucky one or if we are.

Because Bacon is such a unique little soul—he’s quirky and skeptical and gentle and strange.  He’s a constant reminder that even the most troubled of us can persevere and find joy in little things like a warm bed or a soothing voice.

I only learned this week that the medical staff isn’t sure that Bacon can see very well.  I was feeding him treats and noticed that when I put them down, he had to sniff around to find them. If he knocked one off the surface it was on, he couldn’t find it again.  When I asked about this I was told that they’re just not sure—certainly, he finds his way around just fine, and he knows where to find Sally, and is deft at dodging her occasional attempts to bop him on the head—but sometimes he doesn’t find treats, or steps in his food.  It’s hard to know if this is a side effect of his anti-seizure medication (who among us hasn’t stumbled around in a cold medicine fog?), or if he has some level of visual impairment.  Unfortunately, you can’t ask a cat to read an eye chart, so sometimes these things are hard to know for sure.

But Bacon does just fine, apart from the occasional food-covered paw or missed treat.  He knows his friends (of which I think he finally recognizes me as one, I am thrilled to say), he knows the way to his favorite spots, and he knows his routine.  He takes joy in the little things that make up his safe little world, and he gives boundless love in his own language.  We should all be so steady.

Your correspondent,
Tara