We have kittens in the house, and they attack everything, so it only made sense that the tiny red blob on the end of Venus' nose was the result of some kitten-y smacking and slapping, but it didn't get better, and when I tried to wipe it away with a tissue, it was solid.
Our regular vet took one look and said, "cancer."
A week later, we were driving through the snow to a veterinary oncologist in Rickman to check her in for surgery.
Venus is fourteen - she's no young cat, but she's our cat, and other than having nose cancer, she's in great shape. She's healthy and has a great quality of life, and the way our vet presented the options, we had no doubt about seeking treatment.
One choice was surgery and treatment. The other choice was letting an aggressive form of cancer spread unchecked from Veuns' nose to the rest of her face over the course of six months, claiming more and more tissue until she became miserable with pain, infected, and too pitiful to live.
For Jack and me, that was no choice.
Venus came to live with us on a beautiful Saturday morning in September 2001 - September 8. We'd spotted her and heard her crying in the woods a week or two before that, but she would have nothing to do with us when we tried to chase her down.
I think she knew she was about to starve to death that Saturday morning when Jack found her huddled against our sliding glass door. She offered no resistance when he picked her up and nestled her into a towel-lined box. She was a skeleton with a coat so thin we could see her dry, shiny skin and every bone it covered.
She was pitiful and malnourished. We thought she was going to die and considered our efforts to feed her and keep her comfortable palliative in nature, but after a couple of meals and a bunch of sleep, she bounced through the living room, chasing the dust in a sunbeam.
That night, Venus Williams won US Open, and our new kitty had a name.
Venus and my old lab, Tess, became immediate friends, and the two of them piled up in Tess' bed like they'd been friends forever. Tess loved having something little to protect, and Venus quickly became her new project. Our family's new project.
When we took Venus in on that Saturday, we had no way of knowing what would happen a few days later on 09/11/01, how the heart of our nation would be ripped apart. In the dark days which followed, our little kitten became a symbol of hope as she grew stronger and more vigorous; courageous in the face of big cats and bigger dogs.
Fourteen years later, she is still a symbol of hope.
After the operation to remove her nose pad, she spent the night at the vet's office. Once we got her home the next day, she hid under the bed for a couple of hours, then she was back to normal - eating, drinking, doing her business in the litter box.
 |
| Venus before she got sick and then surgery on February 02. |
 |
| March 12. |
She still looked great, and everything was healing well.
Days before Venus' appointment for her second chemotherapy treatment, her nose ulcerated. We first suspected an infection, but six weeks and two rounds of strong antibiotics later, we know it isn't.
 |
| April 6 |
The cancer is back, and it's eaten much of Venus' upper lip, but she's a survivor.
 |
| April 30 |
For the time being, she's still happy and vibrant. She and Dudley exchanged facials less than an hour ago. After that, she partied in a pan of crunchy food and is currently sprawled out on her favorite deck of our cat condo.
She is our friend and companion. She is a warrior queen.
