My breath wouldn’t come and I felt hollow inside. I hung up the phone and my husband took me in his arms. While he tried to comfort me, I thought: Oh, Lucy, I’m glad you didn’t die alone. Did you think I’d abandoned you? Now you’re gone and I’ll never see you again. What I also thought was: Not again.
Only two weeks earlier, one of my best friends, Sandie, had been killed in a car accident. I received an equally shocking phone call and then, grief. She was gone and I’d never see her again. Too much for me to take in, it hadn’t seemed real. And now, neither did Lucy’s sudden but permanent absence from my life.
My other dog, Hannah, had seen Lucy get hit. She still seemed confused and upset, searching frantically for Lucy whenever she went outside. I decided that we both needed a strong dose of reality. I called the vet back and asked him not to do anything with Lucy’s body—I was coming over and I wanted to see her.
While I felt it was the right thing to do, I still felt apprehensive. I had never seen a dead body in my life—much less the dead body of anyone I had known and loved. Could I handle it?
Hannah and I drove to the vet’s office. I had Hannah on a leash as we walked into the room where Lucy lay. I don’t know what I was expecting, but the still white form lying on the table was devastatingly beautiful to me. Hannah, distracted by all the interesting smells of the vet’s office, had her large nose to the ground and wasn’t aware of Lucy until I gently pulled her over to the little waist-high table where Lucy lay. Lucy’s tail, her three remaining paws and the tip of her nose stuck out over the table’s edge. The instant Hannah’s nose scented Lucy’s tail, her eyes actually widened. She walked slowly around the table, sniffing every inch of Lucy that she could reach. When she was done, she lay down at my feet, rested her head on her paws and sighed loudly.
I stroked Lucy and felt the texture of her upright ears, her soft fur and the denseness of her muscular body. She looked the same but she felt different, cold and somehow more solid. It was certainly her body, but Lucy was gone. I startled myself by leaning over and kissing Lucy on the head. There were tears running down my face as Hannah and I left.
Hannah was subdued for the rest of the day, her agitation completely gone. For the next few weeks we babied her, taking her for more walks, giving her extra treats and letting her sleep on the couch—a previously forbidden zone. She seemed to be adjusting and perhaps even enjoying her new “only-dog” status.
For me, losing Sandie and then, so immediately, Lucy had been hard. Yet it was actually seeing Lucy’s body that finally made the concept of death real. After that, the way I experienced my losses—Lucy, Sandie, even my father, who’d died twenty years earlier—shifted, and as time passed, I could feel that I was steadily healing and moving beyond the pain. It helped to have Hannah to comfort and be comforted by, and I was moved by the unwavering support and love my husband and close friends offered me.
It has been three years since Sandie and Lucy died. I am amazed at how often I still think of them. But now it is always with wistful fondness and a smile, the pain long gone. I am glad that I had the courage to go and see Lucy one last time. For she taught me how to say good-bye.
Carol Kline
Toto’s Last Christmas
Snow fell softly on Christmas Eve as I made my final patient rounds. The old cat, fragile in his downy white coat, was sleeping. Days before, his owner had dropped him off to spend the holidays with us. Sadly, she had worried he might not make it to greet her in the New Year. Indeed, the day after she dropped off the cat, I called to warn her that he was failing. Her tear-choked voice let me know she understood. “No heroics, please, Dr. Foley, but let him rest easy and make him as comfortable as you can.”
Soft blankets along with a heating pad were wrapped around his frail body to keep him warm. Puréed chicken and tuna had been offered and declined, and now he slept in the deepest of sleeps. Not wanting Toto to be alone in his condition on this holiday night, I wrapped him in a large wicker basket and carried him home.
A gust of wind blew the door from my hand as I entered the house. My cat, Aloysius, greeted us while my other cat, Daphne, peeked timidly from the corner of the room, sniffing appreciatively at the cold winter air. They both knew what a wicker basket with an electric cord hanging from it meant. Aloysius retreated haughtily across the room.
Rescued as an abandoned cat from a clinic I worked at previously, Aloysius has been with me for twelve years— through vet school, my first job and my first home. Other people see him as just a cat, but for me his presence has become a constant in my life. Aloysius is the one who listens to all my tales of woe. On the down side, he is possessive and has a low opinion of anyone, feline or other, who infringes on his territory.
Daphne had come to me a timid and yet ferocious feral tabby kitten that no one could tame. Ten years of love, patience and roast beef tidbits had paid off. Now a round and sassy butterball of a cat, her heart was mine. To keep the peace in the house, however, she usually agreed with Aloysius on the subject of uninvited guests. Sensing his disdain for the fellow in the basket, she politely hissed from the corner.
“Now, now, you big bullies,” I said. “This fellow is old and may be leaving us soon. We wouldn’t want him to be alone on Christmas Eve, would we?”
Unmoved, they glowered from beneath the Christmas tree.
Old Toto slept on in his basket. I placed him by the table in the kitchen and plugged the cord for his heating pad into the wall. My husband, Jordan, and I prepared our Christmas Eve dinner while Toto slept, and I checked on him every once in a while to be sure he was comfortable. Daphne and Aloysius, still resentful of our guest but moved by the smell of grilling steaks, crept into the room. I warned them that Toto was old and frail and to be good hosts, they must let him be.
Toto still slept.
Dinner was ready, and Jordan and I sat at the table. Relaxing after the long work day, soon we started teasing each other about what surprises were hidden in the gleaming packages beneath the tree. Then Jordan silently nodded toward Toto in his basket, and I turned my head slowly to look at the cats.
Aloysius first, and then Daphne behind him, slowly and cautiously approached the basket. While Toto rested, Aloysius sat up on his haunches, peered into the basket and gave a long, deep sniff. Gently, he lowered himself and walked to the corner of the old cat’s basket. Then he rubbed his cheek against it, softly purring. Daphne followed, leaned into the basket and, sniffing Toto’s face, placed a gentle paw on his soft blanketed body. Then she, too, lowered herself and purred as she rubbed his basket. Jordan and I watched in amazed silence. These cats had never welcomed any other cat into our home before.
Leaving my chair, I walked over and looked at Toto. With the cats still positioned at each corner of the basket, Toto looked up at me, breathed once and then relaxed. Reaching my hand beneath his blankets, I felt his heart slowly stop beating. Tears in my eyes, I turned to Jordan to let him know that Toto was gone.
Later that night, I called Toto’s owner to let her know that he had died comfortably and quietly at our home, with two cats beside him, wishing him a fond farewell and Godspeed on his last Christmas Eve.
Janet Foley, D.V.M.
8
PETCETERA
. . . a morning kiss, a discreet touch
of his nose landing somewhere
on the middle of my face. Because
his long white whiskers tickled,
I began every day laughing.
Janet F. Faure
“Kids today have everything. When I was your age
and wanted entertainment, I chased my tail.”
Reprinted by permission of Marty Bucella.
Good Neighbors
The old house behind ours was deserted now. My neighbors, the elderly couple who had lived there for many years, had died within a year of each other. Their children and grandchildren had gathered, grieved and gone.
But looking out my kitchen window one morning, I saw we still had “nei
ghbors.” Two white cats had made their way up the back steps of the old house to sit in the sun on the back porch. Their favorite overstuffed chair was gone. Everything was gone. Even from my kitchen window I could see they were pitifully thin. So, I thought, no one is going to claim the cats. They’ve been left to starve. They’ll never leave that old place. They’re as shy as their owners were.
I knew they’d never even been inside a house. Even during bitter cold winters, they lived outside. Once, when the female cat had kittens, a dog had killed them. After that the mama cat had her kittens in the attic of the 100-year-old house, entering through a hole in the tin roof. Several times the kittens fell down into the small space between the walls. Once my neighbor told me, “We worked most all afternoon, but we finally got the kittens out. They would have starved to death.”
I sighed, looking at the hungry cats sitting on the back porch. A familiar battle began inside me. Part of me wanted desperately to run to the cats. Another part of me wanted to turn away and never look at the starving cats again. It was frustrating to be a forty-year-oldmother and still want to pick up stray animals. When I reached twenty-five, then thirty, then surely by thirty-five, I had assumed I would outgrow my obsession with abandoned animals. Now I knew that it was only becoming worse with the years.
Sighing again, I wiped my hands on my apron, grabbed two packages of cat food and headed for the old house. The cats darted beneath the porch as I approached. I crawled part of the way under the house, which sat on concrete blocks, and called, “Here, kitties.” I saw four slanted, bright eyes gleaming at me. I could see it would be a long time before I would be able to become friendly with these neighbors.
For several months, I fed the cats this way. One day the mother cat came cautiously toward me and rubbed her face against my hand for a brief moment; then fear sprang into her eyes and she darted away. But after that she met me at the fence at five each day. The other cat would scamper away and hide in the bushes, waiting for me to leave. I decided the white male was probably the female cat’s son. I always talked to them as I put out their food, calling them by the names I had given them—Mama and Brother.
One day as Mama rubbed slowly against my leg with her eyes almost shut in contentment, she purred for the first time. My hand didn’t reach out, not yet, but my heart did. After that she often rubbed against me and allowed me to stroke her—even before she touched the food. Brother, reluctantly and stiff-necked, allowed me to touch him occasionally; but he always endured my affection, never fully receiving it.
The cats grew fat. One day, I saw Mama kitty on my patio. “Mama kitty,” I whispered. She had never come into my yard before. My own cats would never permit that— and yet, here she was. “Good for you, Mama,” I said to myself. Suddenly she leaped up into the air, and I thought for a moment that she was choking. Then she seemed to be chasing an object rapidly across the patio. For perhaps the first time in her life, Mama kitty was playing. I watched her toss an acorn into the air and leap after it. My cats came lurking toward the patio door to try to hiss Mama kitty away. She only looked at them and continued playing with the acorn in the sun. Brother sat on the fence, as usual, waiting for supper.
That summer Mama kitty had kittens again—in the attic. She came to my back door to get me. The Realtor had given me the keys to the empty house in case of emergency. I went to the house with the cat and crawled somewhat reluctantly into the dark attic, ignoring the spiders, dust, heat and rattling sounds that I suspected were mice. Finally, I located the three kittens. Brother stood guard over them. I brought the kittens down and fixed a box for them in the empty front bedroom of the old house. Mama kitty wasn’t too content with my moving her kittens, but she let them stay—for a while, anyway.
A week later, human neighbors showed up! Unexpectedly, another family moved into the house. Their moving frightened Mama kitty and she returned her kittens to the only safety she knew—the dark, terribly hot attic.
I quickly went over to introduce myself and explained to the family who had moved in about Mama kitty. They gave me permission to go into their attic and rescue the kittens. But I discovered Mama kitty had moved them to another spot. The old attic was a maze of hiding places, and I couldn’t find them.
Three times I went back to look, apologizing to the new tenants each time. Three times I was unsuccessful. Back at home, I would look out my window at the tin roof of the house. I could see the heat rising off it. The outside temperature stood in the upper nineties. The kittens couldn’t possibly survive.
I couldn’t let it go; I felt it was my duty to watch over those cats. One morning as I lay in bed, I prayed, “Lord, I’m asking you to get me those kittens out of that attic. I can’t find them. I don’t see how you can get them out. But just please do it. If you don’t, they’re going to die.” Silly, maybe, but it didn’t feel silly to an animal lover like myself. I hopped from my bed and ran to the back door, half expecting to find the kittens there. They weren’t there—no sign of Mama or Brother either. Nevertheless, I expected to get the kittens.
I was worried that I was wearing out my welcome with my new neighbors, but I wanted to go over one last time to look for them. When the wife answered the door to find it was me with the same request yet again, she said, without enthusiasm, that I could go up in the attic. Once I got up there, I heard them meowing!
“I’m coming. I’m coming!” I called out, my heart pounding with joy.
The next moment I couldn’t figure out what had happened. I seemed to be falling. Plaster broke loose. I wasn’t in the dark, hot attic any more, but dangling into the kitchen. I had forgotten to stay on the rafters and had crashed through the ceiling. I climbed back up onto a rafter, only to fall through again in another place.
Thoroughly shaken, I climbed back down. In the kitchen my neighbor and I looked at the damage. I was horrified, and it was clear that I wasn’t making the best impression on this woman. Not knowing what else to do, I grabbed her broom and began sweeping. More plaster fell on us and we coughed in the dust. I apologized over and over, babbling that we would have the ceiling fixed. I assured her I would be back over to talk with her husband. She nodded, silently, with her arms folded, and stared at me with seeming disbelief. I hurried home, humiliated.
That night at supper, when I told my family what had happened, they all stared at me silently, the way my new neighbor had. I was close to tears, partly because of the plight of the kittens and also because of my own stupidity.
The next day I went back to the neighbors’ to speak to them about the ceiling. I arrived during a meal. The couple’s children were eating with them. They all stared at me as they continued eating. I was introduced as “that woman who goes up in the attic all the time and fell through yesterday.” I smiled at them all.
The husband looked up at me, still chewing, and said solemnly, “Get my gun, Ma.”
For one horrible moment, my heart froze. Then he broke into a little-boy grin. “Forget it. I’m a carpenter and the ceiling needed repairing, anyway.”
I smiled back at him and added, “I came to tell you that I won’t be going in your attic any more—ever.”
“Okay,” he grinned, and I thought I heard his wife sigh.
The next afternoon, our family sat in the living room reading the Sunday paper. Only I wasn’t reading, I was praying behind my part of the paper.
“Lord, it seems more hopeless than ever now. But I have no intention of giving up on this request. Give me the kittens, please.”
As I prayed, I imagined the kittens in a dark, obscure corner of the attic. I knew almost for certain that Mama kitty had moved them again. Then I imagined a large, gentle hand lifting them up and bringing them down into light and cooler air. I saw it in my mind, over and over, as I prayed. Suddenly, I thought I could actually hear the kittens’ tiny, helpless mews.
Silly, I told myself. Your imagination goes wild when you pray.
Jerry put down the sports page; the children looked up from th
e comics. We all listened quietly, almost without breathing. “Mew, mew, mew.” It was real!
The doorbell rang and we all ran for it. I got there first and there stood my neighbor, cobwebs in his hair, dust on his overalls, and the impish little-boy grin on his lean face. We all looked down and there, cradled in his hands, were the kittens.
“Lady, you won’t have to look any more for ’em. I found ’em for you.”
This time Mama kitty let her brood stay where I put them, in our small storeroom, just off the carport. We found excellent, cat-loving homes for the fat, playful kittens. And I found a permanent solution to the attic/kitten problem. I had Mama kitty spayed.
That was over a year ago. Brother still sits cautiously on my backyard fence, cold and often hungry. I keep trying with him, but he’s obviously still skeptical about my neighborly good will.
Not Mama kitty. Now she comes right into the kitchen to eat from my other cats’ dishes! She rubs against my leg when I let her in. On cold nights she sleeps curled up in a kitchen chair. And often she sits and watches me type. At first, my cats hissed, growled and fumed. Eventually, they just gave up and accepted Mama kitty.
Now when I look out my window at that old house, I have to smile. It’s good to see lights on in the kitchen and children’s toys in the yard. The new occupants and I have become pretty close. It’s not hard to break the ice—once you’ve broken the ceiling.
Marion Bond West
The Cat and the Cat Burglar
I lived in New York City for many years. As a professional dancer and dance instructor, it was the logical place to pursue my career. The city had its many good points— fine museums, great theater, wonderful food and terrific shopping, but it also had its downside—high prices, crowding, noise and crime. The crime bothered me the most. As a single woman, I felt particularly vulnerable. I considered getting a dog for protection; I had grown up with German shepherds and loved them. But the idea of cramming a big dog in a tiny apartment didn’t feel right. So, like every other single woman in New York, I had a few deadbolts on my door, and in the streets, I watched my back.