The Wolf River Veterinary Clinic is dedicated to servicing your pet needs. Our goal is to provide compassionate and competent care for your pet. e strive to protect and nourish the special bond that exists between a pet and it's owner and/or family. Since all of the employees of our clinic have numerous pets themselves, we deeply value the importance of animals in our lives and we strive to reflect this in the care of our client's animals.
Are you lookinf for a 4 legged companion? Well stop in at the clinic we have several very friendly kitties that would love to be in their forever home by Christmas! Please feel free to give us a call if you have any questions.
3 cups plain all-natural Greek yogurt
1/2 cup pumpkin puree
Mix 2 ingredients together and fill into designed ice cube trays or designed molds. (Ex: Stars, paws, x-mas trees, snowman)
Freeze and serve.
Minty Holiday Snacks
1 ½ cups whole wheat flour
½ cup finely chopped parsley
½ cup chopped fresh mint
3 tbsp. vegetable oil
1/3 cup milk
Green or red food coloring
Preheat oven to 350 F
Mix all the ingredients together in a large bowl until dough is formed. Dough will become thick and flakey. Roll out dough on a floured surface (the thinner the dough, the crunchier the treats). Use a holiday cookie cutter to cut out desired shapes. Place on cookie sheet and bake for approximately 20 minutes or until brown. Thicker treats may remain spongy.
She was a small, unassuming gray cat, tucked away disinterestedly in the corner of the “communal cats” kennel. These cats allegedly got along with other cats, so they were housed together in a big pen with climbing trees, instead of the single-occupancy kennels of the loner cats. The other cats in her unit were torties and calicoes and adorably interactive tabbies, milling around your feet when you walked in and hopping in your lap if you sat down for even a moment. For the first two months or so we visited, every Sunday afternoon, she barely glanced our way. We were there to socialize the animals—walk the dogs, play with the cats, learn their idiosyncratic ways to help potential adopters choose wisely. We were not there for a cat of our own.
After we had been coming regularly for a while, hard to say how long, she began to come out of her shell. She would saunter over and rub her head on my shoe, and then just sit there, resting on my shoe as though it was the best thing in the world. She didn’t seem to care if I petted her or not, but that stinky, muddy, God-knows-where-it’s-been college-student sneaker was just awesome. I didn’t much care; she seemed happy, and the other cats kept my hands full, anyway. Besides, there was a fat orange tomcat named Tubby in the solo kennels next door who’d caught my eye…
The spring semester was coming to a close, and she was still there. A glance at her intake paperwork said she’d been there since August, a stray off the streets, estimated between 2-4 years old. She was more social with us every day, coming over for head-butts, trying to block the others from stealing her limelight. We saw her beauty more all the time: the strikingly green eyes, full of intelligence and regality, the soft chinchilla coat, impeccably groomed, the cream-colored belly with faint gray spots and the ever-so-delicate, subtle tabby stripes on her legs and sides… the things that were easily missed by everyone just passing through, for whom she remained a gray lump in the corner. We began talking about her like a Forbidden Fruit. We knew someone else had gotten away with it, this very year. We had a connection, and resources, and drive. I had… perhaps courage is the wrong word. I had the audacity. And in a moment, it was agreed: if we came back after summer vacation, she would be ours.
All summer, we waited nervously. Our connection kept us updated, and we weren’t sure what to hope for. If she were taken, we would miss her terribly, for in our minds, she was already ours—but there would be no fear of getting caught, and she would have a stable home. If she were still there, we would have her—and a big stack of rules shattered, and a big secret to keep. August came, we moved back in, and she was still there, a full year now in kitty jail. I refused to blink; on September 9th, 2005, she came home.
We lived in a dorm, pets (other than fish, which we also had) strictly forbidden. My mother (who was conveniently not informed of these events for several months) was beside herself on learning what we’d done. But with the will only a self-righteous college student can have, we pressed on. Our very-allergic friend was disgruntled. We assured her that THIS cat didn’t like strangers, never approached them. The first time Patti stopped by for a visit, she ran right over to say hello. Patti glared, then laughed out loud. How could you not? She was so sweet…
Our sweet cat, it turned out, was already spayed. We found the scar at her first doctor’s appointment. She was also declawed, something we had already known. She had to have had a previous owner. Some wretch had, therefore, turned her out on the street and never bothered to look for her. Three weeks into our happy new family life, we discovered a possible motive. I came home at 2am from an away-game with the Marching Band, exhausted, to find my bed stripped and a fold-out mattress on the floor. Waking Lee from her slumber, I asked why I’d been relegated to the floor… “She peed on your bed,” came the mumbled reply. It was not the last time.
The rest of the year was a combination of joys—snuggling on the bed while studying for midterms, watching her chase the laser pointer around the room and wait for it to emerge from behind the bookshelf, sharing spoonfuls of chicken soup, catnapping between classes, listening to her signature greeting (a “me” less meow!)—and irritations. She peed on my bed again. And again. Sometimes on my pajamas. She hacked up hairballs on our area rug. Particularly horrifying was the discovery, the night before we were to take her to Lee’s house for a week on vacation, that she had tapeworms. She was an accomplished spot-thief, always appearing magically in any space you had temporarily vacated. Then there were the near-misses: the fire alarm we had to smuggle her out for, the dorm-rewiring project that required us to relocate her across campus to a friend’s room for two weeks, the open-house for underclassmen picking their rooms for next year. Lee hid with her in the closet for that one; it didn’t help, because closets don’t typically meow. The girls were over the moon to discover this adorable bit of contraband, however, and vowed to keep our secret—if they could pet her, of course.
Ten days before graduation, we were discovered. Dragged before an irate dorm rector, I pleaded for mercy; after all, we had had her all year, surely ten more days wouldn’t hurt? That was the wrong tactic: “I don’t care what you do with her, but if she’s not gone by to-morrow, you’re going before ResLife!” So much for Christian compassion. We drove her the 5 hours to Lee’s parents’ house that night, skipped much of Senior Week getting her settled in, and went back to walk across the stage. She wasn’t going anywhere without us.
We moved to Minnesota, got an apartment. She loved the extra space, the extra light; our room had been big for a dorm, but still a bit confining. She got to sit on the balcony, sleep in the sun in every room, climb more things. No more baths in the dorm room sink; now, we could use the tub! But she seemed lonely; the life of a graduate student and a full-time veterinary assistant entailed a long commute and longer hours. No more pit-stops home over lunch, or catnaps between classes. 12-hour days weren’t uncommon. She continued peeing on things intermittently—most notably, my shoes, 3 days before my first day of veterinary school. When I started school, we talked about getting her a friend. A kitten, someone she could dominate and beat up before he or she realized they had weapons she didn’t, because this one would be keeping their claws. A few months into my first semester, the school took us for a tour of a local shelter to study population medicine; the following weekend, we brought home her baby brother.
This calamity resulted in her longest run of peeing-on-things ever. She peed on more shoes, pajamas, pillows, beds. She refused to sit on the couch if he was sitting there—which, since he was a ball of kitten glue that had to be adhered to someone at all times, was pretty much whenever we were home. She hissed. She punched him. She bit his ear, repeatedly. He worshipped the ground she pretended not to walk on… it took 6 months, but we have a picture of the first day they shared a couch. She was aloof, full of disdain for everything and everyone (except visitors, whom she always adored!) but when you weren’t looking, she’d saunter over and sit on the couch, just within reach if you worked for it. She purred like an outboard motor. She still loved my shoes.
Life got hectic. Lee went to medical school—in Madison. I moved in with a couple of classmates—and their children. We shared custody of both cats, and they shuttled back and forth between Lee’s loft apartment and my mixed-up 4-bedroom house(s- we moved twice). We moved again. And again. More split apartments; more shared custody. With every move, she took it all in stride. She hated the car, cried like her soul was being tortured for hours at a time, but as soon as you unzipped her carrier, she’d pop right out, saunter around, sniff here and there, and then look at you as though to say “nice new digs!” Her brother would have a nervous breakdown with every move, and she would just watch him with philosophical indifference. She was a well-traveled kitty.
In my junior year of school, she almost died of cholangiohepatitis and hepatic lipidosis, a very serious pair of liver diseases that are often (though not always) fatal. Our world turned upside-down as my roommates and I embarked on a whirlwind of 11 daily treatments: force-feedings, pillings, injections, fluid administrations. I made an excel spreadsheet and taped it to my door to keep track. I skipped classes, skipped lunches, went to the grocery store at 10pm searching for a food I hadn’t already tried to entice her to eat, and cried. She was hi-liter yellow with jaundice; I was white with exhaustion and fear. She pulled through with the aplomb of a queen…
As time passed, I began to wonder about our age guesstimates. Cats can be hard to “age”: they look like kittens for a year, maybe two; then they look timeless for a decade or more; then one day, they simply look old. We knew she was an adult when she came to the shelter, at least three when we adopted her. Lately, though, she’d started to look old, which made me think she was closer to 5 when we brought her home, if not older. I ran senior bloodwork—all normal. I watched her weight, her diet, her demeanor. She was fine. Irrationally, I decided she must simply live forever.
It was toward the end of August, while we were doing shared-custody again and she was across the state, that she started getting picky about her food. Always a slow eater of crunchies, she’d started leaving some of her canned food behind as well. And maybe she was drinking more, and peeing more too—in the box, thankfully. She came home with me the next weekend, her brother took her place. She came to work, and complained loudly about the trip. She charmed the staff, as she always has.
Her bloodwork told me a story I did not want to hear, one I’ve heard and told too often: kidney failure. I geared myself for the battle ahead. She did not like changing diets. She did not like food additives. She did not like pills, or needles, or anything one uses to intervene with any health problem ever. I couldn’t make her eat the prescription food that would be most beneficial in saving her, but I could stuff pills down her throat and wrangle 100mLs of fluids into her every night. I once again emptied out the grocery-store and pet-store aisles of canned-food varieties. Good foods, crap foods, foods I had sworn would never cross the threshold of my home. Cans of “braised trout” and “poached salmon” and “ocean fish pate” went in her bowl… and then into the garbage. She remained alert, regal, herself, though more cuddly than usual—but with no appetite. In desperation, I asked Dr. Ziegler to place a feeding tube. I added more pills, now crushed and mixed with water to be tube-fed rather than forcing her to swallow them. Now I controlled meal-time. Still, the story her bloodwork told me worsened inexorably. Still, she would not eat—except tortilla chips, for which she always held an inexplicable fondness. She developed a bladder infection. An upper respiratory infection. An infection at the tube site. I treated them all, and they all resolved—but still, she would not eat.
Lee came to visit, with Baby Brother in tow. He happily stole her untouched food. We cuddled. We cried. We decided to pull the tube and give her a chance to eat on her own; she respectfully declined. She was not unhappy, simply not hungry; she was tired, and someone stronger than me was calling her home. Her will, and His, have always been greater than mine. I drove to the clinic and got what I needed, though my hands shook and my eyes blurred as I wrote her name in the logbook. When I got home, she sat in her mama’s lap while I gave her an injection to make her sleepy. It was only a few minutes before we moved her to her favorite patch of sun, on the living room floor, to say one last goodbye and send her on. It seems odd, to think that her life is summed up in just these few pages. They don’t tell her whole story, or how much she will be missed. They are the palest shadow of the beginning of who she was. We only had 8 years together—but oh, what wonderful years they were! She was a cat of many names: the Princess, the Sweet Pea, FlatCat (for the way she used to lie, stretched out on her belly as flat to the ground as possible, for a nap), BuddhaCat (all feet tucked under, eyes closed and contemplative), SquirrelTail (puffed up and mad because someone suddenly appeared from around the corner), Peebucket (on our not-so-happy days!)… but always, always, my Misty cat. Gone but never forgotten… we love you, and we will see you again on the other side.