Remembering Tiny | Honeysada’s Feisty Little Ranch Cat

Her many names and quirks

We called her many things over the years.

Tiny Tiny. Wee Girl. Little One. Baby Girl. For her forever petiteness.

Miss Tiny. Tinyius Sasnauskas. Princess Tiny. To mark her status in the family.

Tiny Talker for her extensive vocabulary.

Tiny Whiney for when that vocabulary carried a certain tone of entitlement and demand.

The Early Years

Space disappeared from the ranch sometime in the 2010s. We were never sure of his fate. But Chubby and Tiny both survived well into their retirement years (Chubby is still with us).

Tiny, in her youth, was a fierce little one. This came partly from living free and wild on the ranch, with all the perils of the wilderness on her doorstep, but also from surviving her family. Tiny’s small stature against the other bigger cats meant she had to learn early to stand up for herself. She had to get her share of food and love.

She learned a lot from Nanny, but our matriarch was also known to be harsh in her discipline and took no nonsense from any of the offspring.

Thanks to her light and lithe little frame, Tiny could run like the wind. She also loved all the high places where she couldn’t be reached by humans. Perhaps this came from being born in the eaves of a ranch building, and from learning early how to escape the mobile vet visits. Either way, her gifts of exceptional running and skilled climbing served her very well in the ranch environment.

Up until she was about ten years old, she lived very free on the ranch. She wasn’t attached to any human in particular. She ran wild with the cat crew, hunted at night, and caught many mice.

And then, in 2019, everything changed.

The First of Nine Lives

It was one bitterly cold, wet, grey, miserable morning in May. May in Wyoming is still very much a winter month.

The Honeysada cabin was waking up as usual. Miss Nanny was on the bed. Panther on the windowsill. Chubby on the chair.

But there was no Tiny indoors with us.

That was highly unusual in such nasty weather. We immediately pulled on warm clothes and ventured out to look for her.

We found her straight away, hopping around on three legs, unable to make the jump to the ramp that led to the cat-flap into the warm cabin. She was wet, muddy, and exhausted from trying. We brought her inside immediately.

Her injured left hind leg was bad. She held it off the ground, the bones below the knee dangling lifeless in a sack of skin.

A vet visit confirmed a knee dislocation. Surgery was scheduled with a high chance of her losing her leg.

Miraculously, the vet saved it.

She came home with instructions for recovery and rehab. We had to prevent her from jumping. We didn’t want to lock her in a crate, so we kept her in the bathroom. The cabin bathroom was small, with only a shower, nowhere for her to leap. The bath rug became her healing spot.

The little princess soon got used to being brought food especially for her, away from the others.

Her recovery was slow. The vet instructed us to gently move her repaired joint for physiotherapy. She was having none of that. It was clearly too painful. From that point on, she became forever protective of anyone, human or feline, getting near her sore leg.

Weeks passed. She adapted to her new swagger. Early on there was a little bend and flex, but as months turned into years, the leg became straighter and she resigned herself to it being unbendable.

We never knew how the injury happened. Most likely a bad fall from a high perch.

It changed her love of running and climbing forever. But she adapted. Despite being in some level of discomfort for the rest of her life, her carry on regardless attitude was remarkable.

The Communicator

Tiny had an extensive vocabulary. Not just meows. She spoke her own language.

We knew when Panther was approaching, because Tiny called to him before we could see him, with a word she had only for him.

If Darius walked near the fridge, she would demand goat milk or sour cream with a unique sound not used under any other circumstances.

She could announce she was about to vomit with a few seconds’ warning. This was an amazing notification, especially if she was snuggling on a lap or on top of the bed. She gave us a few seconds to help her and her bad leg into a more convenient position away from laps or soft fabrics.

When she got urinary tract infections (and she had more than a few), she communicated in both voice and behaviour. She demanded access to the shower floor so she could pass a little blood colored urine and let us know all about it.

In her later years, when both hind legs were hurting and she was reluctant to jump, she had a special word for ‘up please’.

And when words weren’t enough, she had her silent language. The look. The posture. The retreat to a quiet place, usually the bath rug, when something wasn’t right.

The Feline Medical Education

Tiny could have written a veterinary manual.

Tiny was a model patient. Cooperative. Brave. Tolerant of treatments most humans would complain about endlessly.

She also became an incredible teacher. We learned gentle handling, observation and listening skills, we knew all her cues. From cat rehab to cleaning ears, we got educated to a great degree of knowledge about every symptom and treatment she ever went through.

We had countless vet visits. Countless ‘this might be it’ conversations. But Tiny had other plans.

She survived.
Again.
And again.
And again.

Most of her miraculous healing seemed to occur while laying on a bath rug and being fed sour cream.

A fierce little athlete in her youth, she carried that same grit into her senior years. Even as arthritis and age crept in, that fire never left her eyes.

Her body slowed.

Her will did not. It was clear she wanted to stay in this life.

The Final Chapter

It was happening more often.

Then we noticed her eye. A whiteness across it. The vet initially diagnosed dry eye. We started drops. A week later, bloodwork. Another week, more bloodwork.

The results were devastating.

Severe and irreversible anemia. Critically low red and white blood cells. Her body had quietly stopped producing what she needed to live.

We brought her home.

We gave her sunshine. Sour cream. Tasty food and treats. All of our love.

But we could see the tiredness. She retreated to quiet spaces. Watching. Listening. Almost as if she was searching for her portal to the other realm.

One Friday evening, at home, surrounded by love, we let her go very gently.

Many Lives

People say cats have nine lives. Tiny seemed to have more. Each time she came back from the brink, it felt like a gift. Extra time. Borrowed days. Another chapter.

We knew she loved us deeply. She demanded sour cream unapologetically. She insisted on attention. She survived things that should have ended her story much earlier.

Her body was small. Her spirit was not.

Over The Bridge

We like to imagine she is reunited with our Nanny now. Running free. Climbing high. Without medications. Without discomfort. Without limits.

Tiny One, you were loved beyond measure.

Thank you for your stubborn courage.
Thank you for your vocabulary.
Thank you for staying as long as you did.

Rest well, sweet girl.

What an incredible life you lived.

🐾🐈💛🌈✨

Recommended Products

• Tiny’s ear cleaning solution
• Tiny’s favorite Digestive Care Wet Food & Urinary Care Wet Food
• Favorite Toys: Loaf Kicker, Mushroom Kicker , Bird , cat nip mice
• Poop bags
• High edge Litter box