IMHO: 26 November 2007
Page 25 of 28
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IMHO: 26 November 2007 |
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Rest in peace, my sweet little Emma.
As I held the sad little bag of bones, she clung to me with all her might and emitted a purr five times the size of her tiny body. She remained happily on my shoulder for the next hour as I stood in the lawn beside the patio, petting and cuddling her incessantly. Not in the best position to adopt a cat just then (my wife at the time had birds), I checked with neighbors to see if she belonged to anyone, or if anyone was willing to take her in. Alas, no one could have her. She seemed to know this, as she proceeded to stake out my patio as her territory. At best guess she was about nine months old and abandoned, although someone must have cared for her, since she was spayed and appeared to be an indoor cat—she didn't know how to hunt, and consequently she was starving to death. Thus the duty fell upon me to rehabilitate her (as if this would be a burden for me!). Non-cat people—and even some cat people—adhere to the old stereotype that cats are generally aloof and unsociable. Nothing could be further from the truth. I've lived with cats since before I was born. On my first day home, I was joined in my crib by Smokey, a remarkable girl who survived being hit by a bus and lived to the ripe old age of 17 (I was only 12 when she died); despite being crippled, she was a mighty huntress, bringing home prey nearly as large as herself. Since then, I've known many, many cats, and each of them had a strong and distinct personality, as unique as people. Cats become classically "aloof" either due to some trauma, or because they're treated with indifference by unenlightened owners. If they are raised in a loving, interactive atmosphere, they tend to be loving and interactive.
But of all the many cat friends I've known (right), Emma was without a doubt the most loving, sociable, people-centric feline imaginable, and even though us "parents" are never supposed to claim a favorite "child," Emma was my favorite by light-years. She was more like a happy, friendly puppy than a cat. She craved our companionship, and exhibited behavior that could only be described as appreciative. She demonstrated her affection for us by stroking our cheeks or shoulders with her paw, and giving us kisses—not licking, but simply pressing her tongue gently against our faces or hands. Although she was indeed named after Emma Peel, the only two things they shared in common were reddish-brown hair and striking beauty. Everyone who has laid eyes on her—even non-cat people—would immediately remark at how beautiful she was, particularly those captivating green eyes. As for the effect that her personality had on people, consider that my wife at the time hated cats. But after just a few hours with Emma, she came to adore her. Later, when Emma met her second mommy, it was love at first sight for Kathy, and "Pretty Kitty" became her very favorite feline friend of all time. Unlike the statuesque Mrs. Peel, this Emma was a dainty little thing; at her peak, she barely tipped the scale at ten pounds, fooling many people into thinking she was a kitten. Her most endearing feature was a complete mystery: she had a deformed paw (not the classic six-toed variety of an inbred barn cat; one toe was twisted and misshapen, and another was almost completely missing). None of the half-dozen vets who'd examined her could offer an explanation. Birth defect? Injury? No one but Emma knew, and Emma was not about to tell. But as a result, she was not a strong jumper. Her limit was the bed (thus she was never to be found on a table or counter—not that I would object). She would also automatically take her weight off of the foot while sitting, and so she regularly struck that heart-rendering pose I saw the first day. And it was her "gimpy" paw she used to make contact with us, regularly reaching out to touch us on the cheek or arm when she wanted attention.
Speaking of meow, she had quite a remarkable vocabulary. To most people, one meow sounds much like any other; but if you spent time with Emma, you could begin to differentiate and recognize the subtle variations in tone. It truly amazed people once they caught on. She naturally had her "I'm hungry" meow—as distinguished from her "Good morning, when's breakfast?" After a meal she'd often say, "I just ate and I feel good." Of course she had her "I want to play" meow. If she was lonely, she'd ask, "Where are my people?" Or when her tummy was upset, she'd advise us that "I don't feel so good." Then there was the infrequently-heard "I've had enough petting, thank you" meow. Her most unique vocalization was a short, dog-like "ruff" which meant, "Aren't you going to pay attention to me?" Just to add to her audible character, she snored when she slept. Sometimes rather loudly! Without a doubt, she was unquestionably a people cat, through and through. If she wasn't sleeping—her favorite pastime was "baking" in the sunshine—she was with us. Sometimes she craved attention to the point that she'd actually become a bit of a pest, although it was utterly impossible to ever be upset with her. Indeed, we often went out of our way to please her. We made sure that, on sunny days, the bedroom blinds were fully opened so she could bake her little heart out. Another bit of fun for her was to sit in front of the open patio door on a nice day and "smell the smells." Curiously, it took Emma a while to appreciate the joys of laps, but once she figured it out, you could not pry her from a lap with a crowbar. A creature of many habits, she never missed a night in bed with us. She could tell if we were sleeping or awake, and she knew not to disturb us if we were asleep. But amazingly she could also tell if we were "faking" being asleep. Once one of us was awake, she'd be up on our chest, purring in our face (literally nose-to-nose), pawing our cheek or shoulder. She loved having her chin scratched, and made sure it was positioned precisely over our fingers for best effect. Behind her left ear was another magic spot—scratch there long enough, and she'd start washing her face. And she had this adorable habit of sometimes forgetting to put her tongue all the way back in her mouth after licking us; she'd sit there staring at us with the tip of her tongue sticking partway out—the very definition of cute!
She'd been known to make quite a bold statement with gesture alone. Once, I was at the computer with my hand dangling at my side. She came up to my hand, grabbed it with both of her front paws, and pressed it against her head. I wonder what she wanted! She had a penchant for making sure her daddy was neat and tidy, as she'd sit and lick my balding head—sometimes for as much as a half-hour. She'd also "comb" her mommy's hair in the morning with her paw. Would that I could have captured some of these treasures on video... I imagine that her diminutive size was due to being a runt, and runts often have health problems. As she approached ten years (not all that old for an indoor-only cat), she started having more frequent trips to the vet. First it was a series of urinary tract infections. Then she began exhibiting a strange set of symptoms: she became somewhat unsteady on her feet (I started calling her "Weeble") and would vomit on random occasions. During one emergency trip to the vet, we discovered she had mild chronic renal failure. Then her weight began to drop, and the trips to the vets increased in frequency. Her appetite diminished, and she became less social. The vets were stumped; their best guess was either pancreatitis or lymphoma. Or both. To add to the mystery, she lost her voice; when she tried to meow, her mouth would open but nothing would come out. But in spite of four different professional opinions—everything from small local practices to huge specialist hospitals—the one common point that emerged was that she was almost certainly terminal. Worsening breathing problems led to a two-day hospital stay and a battery of tests, including X-rays and ultrasounds. Her blood was sent to Texas A&M, who confirmed results for pancreatitis, although it didn't explain her breathing trouble. Despite appetite stimulants, she was not eating enough to sustain herself, placing her at risk of liver failure. The next option was a feeding tube, but she was too old and frail for surgery—and besides, I would not want a feeding tube inserted in me, so we drew the line there. Not to mention the four-digit price tag on the procedure—we'd already invested thousands in her health by then. Three times she seemed to be at death's door; three times we planned on euthanizing her; and three times she rebounded with a few good days. But after a while, the good days were being outnumbered by the bad days, and caring for her began to create a great deal of tension. Emotions started to wear raw. The house looked like a triage room, with her fluid bag hanging on a floor lamp tangled with tubes and needles; bottles of medicine littered the counters, along with pages of her "diary" of treatments and behavior: 6 AM, pee and poop; 9 AM, 100 ml fluids and meds; 8 PM, 5 teaspoons lamb baby food. After several heated arguments over her fate, I finally realized that I'd been on the fence too long, and that euthanasia was inevitable, regardless of how cheerful she was in the mornings. I cannot think of anything that has ever been harder to do in my life than decide she was to die, particularly in the face of her purring and her somehow reassuring, gentle smile. I am, without doubt, entirely too sensitive for my own good, and at the thought of losing her I have sobbed as much as I might have had she been my human daughter. She was so sad-looking on her last morning, in spite of her usual purring and brilliant eyes, as always making direct contact with ours, as if begging for our sympathy—which she did not ever need to do, as her sweet face never failed to melt our hearts. During an earlier hospital stay, she had several large patches of fur shaved off where they gave her IVs and ultrasounds. The fur around her mouth was matted from administering dose after dose of liquid drugs. I had hoped that she would live long enough for her fur to grow back to its original glory, but it was not to be. I've never been present when an animal was euthanized, so I had no idea what to expect, and I almost didn't attend. A complication arose when they attempted to insert a catheter—her blood pressure was so low they almost could not get it in. But once in, they did not dare move her, so we were rushed back to the OR where they were preparing her. She struggled against the techs as they held her down to give her the fatal injection. I don't think it was painless: she uttered a gut-wrenching growl for about two seconds—and then it was over. She fell motionless in a heartbeat. There was a stark terror that ran through my veins the moment I realized that she was dead, which hit me all at once like a ton of concrete, and we were immediately reduced to blinding tears for the next hour. I sometimes managed to stop sobbing long enough to stare at her, convinced that she'd raise her head and reassure us she was fine. But her body remained frozen, and as every second passed, I felt waves of panic ripple through me as the realization of her death returned in stomach-churning surges. It will be weeks, perhaps months, before those last images of her lying on the exam table, now burned into my brain, begin to fade. A nauseating pall of guilt hung over me: I had done this. Yes, she was terminally ill, and this was for the best; but these thoughts brought no comfort as I gazed at her lifeless body. When Kathy leaned over and whispered in her ear, "Now you can bake in the sunshine every day, and we'll be right there with you," I was very nearly ready for a straight jacket. The hurt was utterly unimaginable, and I thought I would choke to death. As if some deity had arranged the weather to suit the mood, the day was grey and rainy and deathly quiet—so quiet that I could hear the blood coursing through my ears when I returned home from the vets. The emptiness of the house was crushing; the silence terrifying. I wondered when they would begin her autopsy, and I wondered what they would find. My greatest fear was that they'd be unable to determine the cause of her prolonged deterioration. But within hours of her passing, as if to answer my prayers, we had the report: intestinal lymphoma. Which, as it happens, was her local vet's diagnosis all along (proving wrong the internal medicine specialists who insisted it was either renal failure or pancreatitis). Dr. Fenwick said that it was immediately evident the moment he opened her up: the disease had completely overtaken her entire lower digestive system. I felt a microscopic bit of relief at the news; she had not died in vain. Now I imagine it will be months before my brain stops tricking me into seeing Emma everywhere I turn. She'll be sitting next to my computer chair; cuddled at my side while I sleep; taking a big drink at her fountain while I'm eating dinner; waiting for me on the steps when I arrive home from work. And of course there are countless reminders of her everywhere we turn that must be dealt with: the litter box in the bathroom; her two water fountains; food bowls; half-empty cans of food in the refrigerator... there are "Emma-droppings" everywhere, each one sure to elicit more tears.
Emma is now in a better place, leaving us behind to celebrate her short time in our lives. Someday we will be able to smile as we remember her, instead of sob as we think of her now, and wonder at how such a tiny animal left such a massive hole in our lives—one that we could never imagine being filled. I felt that it was worth letting the world know Emma meant more than the world to us. I must express special thanks to Dr. Fenwick and the wonderful extended family at Calling All Creatures in Toms River; to Leslie, her first mommy, who generously helped with her care-giving; and most especially to Kathy, her second mommy, who literally spent weeks tirelessly researching feline diseases, treatments, veterinarians and specialists, and who vividly demonstrated her love for Emma to the very end. David K. Smith, 26 November 2007 |
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On a pleasant
summer afternoon a little over a decade ago, as I sat at my computer drafting an early version of The Avengers Forever,
I heard a faint, plaintive meow from my patio door, and there sat a bedraggled, emaciated little kitty, with one front paw
raised as if rendered by an artist intent on tugging every possible heartstring. Being a cat lover as well as one of the very
biggest softies east (or west) of the Mississippi, I was immediately taken by her, and went outside to pay her a visit.
She had a unique set of traits that placed
her squarely in the realm of the extraordinary. She would play fetch with her favorite toy, a gray (had to be gray, not white)
rabbit fur mousie. If she was in the mood to play, she would bring her mousie to me wherever I was at the time (usually at the
computer), drop it at my feet, and meow at me, staring up at me with those saucer eyes of hers.
Her ashes will be ready in about a week, which will join a small shrine that will
include a glass containing whiskers we've found over the years. I have no idea why I kept her whiskers, except that
I'm apparently not the only sentimental fool to do so—a vet I knew decades ago had the same curious habit. Whiskers seem
to possess some ineffable magical quality, as if we should make a wish whenever we found one; if nothing else, they are
delightful little physical reminders of her having been with us.