I was planning to write about something completely different this week, but as usual life had other plans. On Friday, June 2, my dear friend Pat had to make the difficult decision to euthanize her beloved Teacup Chihuahua, Teacup.
Pat has a heart of gold. Over 13 years ago, she rescued Teacup and her inseparable companion, Riley, a larger chihuahua, from a dire family situation. Riley died from heart failure more than four years ago on May 4, 2019. Interestingly enough, all week prior to Teacup’s passing, I kept having visions of Riley, who was always full of vigor, barking, jumping, and catching tennis balls in his mouth that we threw toward him. He was a tender-hearted dog who didn’t ask for anything much — except maybe treats!
Riley was very protective of Teacup, who was blind for most of her life. Teacup was also a content creature, but she loved being showered with love and attention from her mama, Pat, especially after Riley passed away at ten years old. Teacup brought Pat so much joy, and Pat was the kind of mama any four- or two-legged creature could only dream of. After Riley’s death, Pat and Teacup were inseparable.
Teacup, who was fourteen, seemed in good spirits on that fateful day. Overall, she possessed a feisty character and was in good health, although she did have a history of seizures.
It was one of those “ordinary” afternoons when I heard Pat’s voice calling me, “Come quick!”
Her chipper voice grated on my nerves. (I soon learned that she was only trying to protect me from any unnecessary shock.) It had been a physically toiling day, and I was exhausted. The last thing I wanted to do was stand up, having just sat down. I assumed Pat wanted me to look at a colorful wild bird outside the window.
Get up I did and walked into the hallway. Pat’s face was contorted in anguish. Teacup was having a seizure. We both knew from Teacup’s past history that her seizures usually lasted a few minutes, but this one was different. It had a fierceness to it that clung to her tiny body like the talons of a hawk clutching its prey. We layered her with cool, wet towels, and her seizure seemed to subside, but then, her body convulsed again, like an electrical circuit that had been hit by unrelenting lightning. Foam dripped from Teacup’s tiny mouth that was shaped like a half moon.
I had an urge to perform the same departure ritual, our final earthly walk through the house and grounds that I performed with our other pets, but refrained due to her excessive shaking.
Above all, I was riddled with anxiety, fearful that she would slip out of my hands. As I sat on the top of the back deck stairs, Teacup let out two yelping screams. I intuitively knew that she had released her final breaths. I looked up at the two towering trees in the distance, which mesmerize me every night at sunset and remind me of my humility in the great universe. As I watched the landscape fade, I thought of my own slow fade in the natural cyclical world that revolves and changes so perfectly without my influence.
That was when I mentally let Teacup go back to the good earth, back to the natural cycle of sunrise to sunset, where silence and acceptance are the only true answers.
Because her seizure showed no signs of stopping, we called the closest emergency pet clinic, knowing that this was a serious situation.
After an overnight stay at the animal hospital, the next morning Pat learned that despite the medication that the doctors administered, Teacup continued to endure several seizures that led to brain damage. Pat agreed with the doctor to euthanize Teacup, because she didn’t want her to suffer any longer. She wanted Teacup to go peacefully, and she did. Pat and I envisioned her playing and seeing Riley once again — a boisterous, bouncy, furry beach ball. As I mentioned, Teacup was blind and as she aged, her pitch-black eyes bulged and turned light blue with a fog-like appearance. Uncannily, when we spent those last few moments of her earthly life with her in an isolated room at the animal hospital, her eyes were wide, clear black and beautiful like a young pup once again. It were as if she regained her vision and was able to see the world anew with a pair of faith-filled eyes.
Sam Grassi, Sunrise: 06-12-2003 | Sunset 09-12-2022, written in collaboration with J. Patricia Grassi
If you didn’t read Sam’s story from last week’s blog, click here
Otherwise, the blog post below is a continuation from last week:
Once Pat’s neighbor decided to sue Pat for $2,000 regarding the cat bite she endured from Sam, we were all stressed to say the least. Then suddenly, serendipity arrived in the form of a phone call from the courtroom clerk. Out of all the pending law suits, a handful of them, including hers, was chosen by the staff of Judge Judy to appear before the arbitration-based reality court show. Pat had an opportunity to take Sam’s case on the show. Whether she won or lost, the TV show producers would entirely compensate the plaintiff. If Pat, as well as the plaintiff, who at that point was working in California, made a TV appearance on the show, she would not only not owe a dime to the nurse, but get the chance to travel on an all-expenses paid trip to Los Angeles, AND she’d receive a $250 stipend, even if she lost the court case. Of course, Pat agreed.
Fast forward, and there she was live on TV: an 80-year-old spry woman whom I was able to watch during my lunch hour in the dining area at work. Of course, I couldn’t eat a thing, only listened to my heart beating as the episode in which Pat appeared unfolded. I wanted to throw my apple at the TV the minute Judge Judy ruled against Pat and Sam. (The moral of the story is: make sure your cat always wears a collar with his or her metal rabies tag that proves the pet is up to date on his or her shots!)
Neither Pat, nor Sam really didn’t lose because the small claims court fees were paid and everyone was happy. In fact, the nurse appeared pleased that Pat didn’t owe the $2,000 claim. Actually, she had said, that was her reason for going on the Judge Judy show in the first place.
Nearly two years later after her reality show moment, Pat had decided to downsize and move in with us. Our household was down to two cats. Fran-Fran, Pat’s cat had passed away from old age, and I agreed to open the door to her two dogs, but I was reluctant to take in Sam, especially with Chervony, my own Alpha male at home. We were in a pickle, such a pickle, in fact, Pat reached out in desperation to Sam’s previous owner to take him and left him a voice message. Fortunately, he never responded. I’m quite sure, though, she wouldn’t have given him back to that man once she regained her senses. We also uploaded photos of Sam on Facebook to see if anyone could provide him with a good home. Nothing panned out, and one day Pat arrived, standing on my front porch with Riley, Teacup and Sam.
Riley and Teacup acclimated from the get-go into the two-cat household. Sam fell head over heals with Blossom, our female calico. Chervony? Wow, that was another story. Fur flew everywhere, even though we did do a decent job of keeping them both separated. Before you knew it, Sam, who was by no means an indoor cat, took off for most of the day. (We never did find out where he went!) Chervony was ruthless and would wait for him for hours at the top of the long flight of stairs that led to the upstairs deck. I could still see him, waiting patiently as if he had forever to wait, because, in essence, he didn’t have too many priorities on the list any longer in his advanced age.
The first year or two were the hardest, but the the two Alpha males adjusted and “Sam I am” seemed to have lost a lot of his muscle. Whenever Pat and I walked the dogs, the three cats followed behind, far apart, but still in the mix.
The last summer in 2020 only Sam was left to follow us when we walked. Blossom and Riley and then Chervony had passed.
In fact, we had to sneak out of the house since Sam would be on our heels meowing as if he were losing his mind.
“He’s scared we are going to abandon him,” I told Pat.
The following year, Sam stopped grooming himself. That’s when we found out he, like Chervony, had a bad thyroid, and the vet prescribed meds.
Most nights, I’d ask Pat, “Did you give Sam his meds?”
By then I had not only warmed up to Sam, but was like his second mom. I searched for him in his favorite spot on the sunny side of the kitchen. Fed him and loved to give him his favorite tuna-flavored treats. I even tried to teach him tricks that I had taught my other cats, but Sam was not about to be a trickster. He had to hold onto some of his Alpha, after all. He loved it especially when I gave the top of his nose a firm rub. Other than treats, he lived for nose rubs.
Shortly after my birthday at the end of August, Sam started fading. I sensed the closing in of the sunset of his life. He ate less. Slept more. Had difficulty walking. His trademark strut and powerfulness that helped get him to be a reality show celebrity, the I Am SAM, vanished.
“Let’s take him to the vet,” Pat said on Sunday, September 11.
“How can we? He’s still drinking. Eating, a little, right?” I broke down and delayed the inevitable outcome.
Come Monday, the 12th, there was no doubt in our minds that it was time. Boy, how many times had I gone through this with all my other pets? Usually the I AM SAM put up a fierce fight before being secured in the carrier. Not this time. He was ready, peaceful, pain-free. He lived in this house so happily, especially after Chervony passed. We are surrounded by trees and nature and, as it turned out, he really didn’t like the traffic-filled, noisy neighborhoods. He liked the tranquility, the hum and predominantly noiseless existence.
I broke down at the front door. I couldn’t take one more pet death. No more death. Fall is my grief season.
I waved good-bye to Pat and Sam behind a river of tears. Remembering, how many lives we lost through the years, but how much we gained in return. For instance, if you live with someone like I Am SAM, you truly realize just how powerless you are in his (or her) presence. You realize though, the only real powers that can penetrate the hardest exterior are love, kindness and empathy. It is what gives you the faith to carry on long enough to learn that unconditional love not only melts steel, but ceases the roar of an engine and transforms it into a purr. In this way, the road ahead into the sunset is smooth and gentle, but harbors a few memorable bumps to keep things interesting.
Sam Grassi, Sunrise: 06-12-2003 | Sunset 09-12-2022, written in collaboration with J. Patricia Grassi
My roomie’s beloved 19-year-old black cat, Sam, who passed away last Monday on September 12, taught me a lot about faith. He also taught me two additional lessons:
1. Underneath an alpha male exterior can be a camouflaged scaredy-cat 2. Love can take your heart by surprise
Sam had a thyroid problem on top of his advanced years. During this past summer, I’d gaze nostalgically at the cat lounging on the outside deck and think, “This could be his last summer. I might never see him again next summer.”
Then I would pacify myself, saying, “He could make it to 20. Maybe even 21.”
These days, with the enormous amount of advancements in veterinary medicine available, some cats live until they’re 21 – and beyond. Sam I noticed, though, along with the butterfly season and summer, was winding down. His bite was gone, as if it had never happened. And what I realized was that what I had been most anxious of, I now missed.
“Love can melt steel.” This was one of my mom’s favorite sayings, and my roomie, Pat, is the epitome of what the expression means; she inspires us all to look beyond the flaws and imperfections of a person or pet and discover the beauty. In this case, it was Sam.
I first met Sam in 2009, when he was six years old, rolling around in the debris underneath a dumpster in a parking lot close to my ex-husband’s workplace. The cat found refuge there, far enough away from the house where he lived, as we learned much later. The minute my ex-husband introduced us, his little face meowed while his sleek, black skeleton of a body fussed over me. My ex, as it turned out, had spotted what he first believed was an abandoned cat. He was feeding him on a daily basis.
We both agreed that Sam, the name my ex had given him, needed better living arrangements, especially with the cooler months approaching. The question was: Where could he go?
We weren’t about to acclimate him into our three-cat, one poodle household at the time. Then a brainstorm of an idea conceptualized. Dear Pat? Our children’s widowed Godmother. Why not? She lived alone in a large colonial with one dog, sweet and friendly Nala, a border collie mix, and a gentle cat named Francine. So we showed up with Sam inside a pet carrier, and the imminent living arrangement was as natural as figuring out where to position a throw-down, furry rug in a living room.
Soon enough, although Pat lived in a busy neighborhood, notorious for fast-moving vehicles, Sam pranced around outside, brazen and bold. We surmised that his new surroundings felt comfortable to him because they resembled the action-packed area where he was found. Before we knew it, he exhibited a “Mayor of the Street” swagger, flexing his muscles to make it known to those in pawing distance: “I am SAM.”
No one messed with Sam. The local cats found that out soon enough. Sam would lurk behind Pat’s garage or under her deck until a target appeared. Prepared to leap, his tail raised slightly, he would inch forward and suddenly lunge at the intruding cat. Inside the fighting ring of hissing and screeching flew a lot of fur. Needless to say, Sam never lost a fight and soon it seemed as if some hungry creature had eaten all the other cats in the neighborhood (the birds were thinning out too!). The only one left was Sam. His presence screamed loud and clear, “I am SAM.”
Pat pretty much gave into Sam’s desires and demands. She said she didn’t mind. If he wanted a treat, or anything else for that matter, Sam was appeased with instant gratification. Sometimes, though, she endured a few minor bites and scratches, which she laughed off. The last thing she wanted was to bring even minor discomfort to a cat whose original owner was an alcoholic with unpredictable mood swings. How did she know that?
Well, one month after Sam was living with her, she discovered in the “Lost and Found” section of the local newspaper an ad that described Sam and the area where he had lived. She called the number listed and spoke with the man who answered. She decided that Sam was possibly his missing cat, and he would come to her house around six that evening.
Pat immediately called me and after consulting with my ex, we both drove to her house to be there when the possible owner arrived.
In short order, yes, it turned out that Sam was his owner, but because the man reeked of scotch, my ex and I managed to convince him that he wasn’t able to maintain Sam as he deserved, and that he could visit Sam whenever he liked, but that in Sam’s best interest, the cat should stay where he was. Reluctantly, Sam’s owner agreed. To his credit, he did visit Sam many times over the years while appearing satisfied with the arrangement.
As the years went by, my family rescued animals, and Pat rescued many of our rescues. At one point, after Nala had died, she had Sam, two rescued chihuahuas that were from us and Francine, renamed Fran-Fran by my daughter, a small black cat that was abandoned at Pat’s sister’s condo complex in a nearby city.
To the amusement of her neighbors, this is how it worked when Pat walked her pets down the sidewalk: Riley, the nine-pound chihuahua, forged a few feet ahead, straining his leash to its limit while Teacup, a three-pound chihuahua that we still own, lagged behind. Sam, unleashed, strolled behind Teacup and Fran-Fran straggled at the end of the line.
“Come look at this!” Pat heard through some of the screen doors neighbors exclaim to another person inside their houses. Many stepped outside to enjoy the parade from their porches.
Slowly, very slowly, it was obvious that I am SAM, the alpha male, was growing softer, which was a result of Pat’s unconditional love.
My superstitious mother referred to Sam, as she did to all other black cats, as “Bad Luck.” In fact, I nicknamed him “Sam, the Bad Luck Cat,” just for the fun of it. The name never did stick because Pat made sure we all knew how much “Good Luck” he brought into her life. However, this concept did not hold water when, in 2016, her neighbor from across the street, rang her doorbell to ask her if she owned a black cat. She was searching for its owner because two days ago a black cat had banged at her screen door, trying to enter her apartment. When she opened the door and swung her foot out to shoo him away, he bit the top of her foot, which was bare since she was wearing sandals. The intruder ran away.
The neighbor called the town’s animal control and because she had observed that the cat wasn’t wearing a collar with a tag proving it had its rabies shots up to date, she was advised to go to a local emergency room, which she did and where she received a rabies shot at the cost of $6,000. Her medical insurance covered all but $2,000 of the bill. In addition, because she lost a day’s work, she added $500 to the bill. After Sam was identified as the culprit, Pat paid the $500, but refused to pay the $2,000, especially since Sam was current on his shots.
The woman declared: “I’ll see you in court!”
Read how SAM becomes, “I AM SAM, the REALITY STAR on court TV!”
Nearly a month ago, my neighbors’ only child, I’ll call her Felicity (one of my favorite names!), about whom I’ve written a previous blog post, relocated to attend a college about four hours away from home. I’ve not seen her mom, but her dad, as I’ve written about prior, is having a difficult time dealing with her departure.
All grief, as far as I am concerned, as I’ve also written about before, is valid. Whether you mourn the lose of a pet turtle or death of a child or grieve a child who has catapulted into the next stage of life, there is an infinite roll-out of feelings and emotions associated with a sense of loss. Grief is a natural response to a painful or traumatic experience that is part of the human condition over which we have no control over. This time, hearing my neighbor share a part of his heartbreak involving his daughter, I was able to step completely outside my personal emotional pain and maneuver my way onto the bridge that connects us humans better than Crazy Glue: empathy.
His tone had an absorbing melancholy when he discussed the slow fade of time. In other words, in retrospect, although you’re going all out, have both feet planted on the pedals, it’s a losing race.
“The house has a different energy about it without her,” he vocalized as his head tilted downward.
Energy. Yes, I thought, life is energy. In this same vein, his daughter’s departure could be a song: Felicity is packed. Ready to go. Boxes and bags, belongings and energy flow. All her belongings, only to leave us longing.
Thinking deeper about this, Felicity disappeared from her house, but not completely. You see, Biology 101 teaches us that the body’s cells and organs work together to keep the body going, to make it the energy field that it is. As a safeguard, the body is also equipped with many natural defenses to help it stay alive. For instance, in order to fight infections, we humans “lose 200,000,000 skin cells every hour. During a 24-hour period, a person loses almost five thousand million skin cells.” In one year, the total amount of dead skin loss per person is more than eight pounds, that’s about as big as a Labrador puppy.
The process is our human way of shedding. What falls off us collects as dust. All those fast-flying gossamer bunnies you find nesting in the corner of the radiator and on your tables and windowsills are amassed mostly of former bits of yourself, which, in turn, provide a gourmet haven for dust mites!
And, here’s the point I’m getting at. About 20 years ago, I heard a renowned historic preservation architect speak. If you don’t know already, a historic preservation architect helps preserve old buildings that have historical value. Anyway, he said that each time a building is demolished, not only do we witness an inanimate object disappear, but, along with it, is the annihilation of a trail in human history – thousands upon thousands of shredded cells from the lives that once laughed, loved and experienced the many highs and lows of life on the premises. The architect’s somber talk, which kept me on the edge of my seat and on the verge of tears, changed my life forever.
In my own house, built in 1980, after hearing the talk, I thought about the “remains” of the two families that lived here prior to us. Even though I am a germophobe, I know that they have left their marks in secret places that are spared from my cleaning habits. Sadly, the boy in the second family died in a horrific accident when he was 13. My children went to school with him and they always felt creeped out to know he lived in our home. His bedroom was where I once housed my office. His shreds of long-ago life filled me with faith and reminds me that he matters.
In essence, Felicity and her energy are gone, but her shredded skin still coats her house like angel dust. And this goes for my departed son, mom (my dad passed away before he ever could see our house), brother and my relocated daughter, our pets, and even ex-husband who lives in a state 600 miles away, not to mention all the many friends, extended family and acquaintances who have crossed my house’s threshold to visit over this 20-year span. Yes, they are all here somewhere in places invisible to the naked eye, but still close, like a whisper in my ear. Their remains peeled off during ebbs and flows in the tide of their lives. They are all part of my household history like my own skin that sheds at this very moment as I stroke my creative muse. We partner peacefully, drifting, weaving tapestries from everything repurposed, sustainable and with a thread of hope that they will last through the remainder of the century and, if possible, push farther into the next dusty trail that sometimes seems like a riverbend ahead.
Although I have not experienced any dreams involving my deceased 26-year-old son Marshall, I did dream about his cat Chervony two weeks after he died from old age. When he was alive and before old age set in, Chervony was a clean, fluffy ball of Creamsicle-colored orange. Sometimes, in fact, I nicknamed him “Chervon-sicle.”
For about 16 years, he was our household’s alpha cat. That is, until alpha-male number-two Sam, a black cat, about six years younger, arrived with my new roomie slightly over two years ago. For the first six months guttural meowing sounds, screeching, hissing, growling as well as black and orange hair flying were the customary background in our house.
Miraculously, by the second year, tempers simmered down and both alphas tolerated one another. Chervony, aging and ailing with a newly diagnosed thyroid condition, started to nest in the bathroom corner. Subsequently, I took an unusual liking to Sam, who, as it turned out, was terrified of Chervony. For over a year, I showered undivided attention on Sam until the day came when I realized that I unintentionally neglected Chervony. Though, in his last months of life, I tried to make up for my careless behavior, I felt tremendously guilty, especially after my son’s cat died.
Circling back to my dream, Chervony, reflecting a chromatic peach color, sprinted over Sam who was laying in front of him. It was as if, although the details are hazy, this ball of fire was going to spill into my open arms. What I know for certain is that in the dream, Chervony was vibrant, happy. Upon awakening, I felt all was forgiven and he held no grudges against me for my playing favoritism. In fact, it was one of those few mornings that I actually felt like my old self at least for a few minutes; light and carefree, before my son’s death.
All I can say is that I don’t know if this dream about my son’s cat symbolizes that my son is “in a better place.” (My womb of grief whispers there’s no better place than home with me and with those who are lost without him and who are conducting a daily mental search party for him, especially his younger sister.) However, since losing him, I don’t attempt to flex my muscles anymore and hold up and arrange the building blocks in life’s space. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: there are things in life that I don’t understand, and I’m okay with that today.
It’s been said way too much, “faith is believing.”
For me right now, doubt is better than belief. Raising my hands up and surrendering releases me from control, and I can exhale and live one more day. Just one more day I can open the dark blue drapes on the bedroom window and let the sunlight stream in with its Creamsicle-orange glow, a whisper of hope and energy that spills over my arms into my soul.
My son’s words chimed through my head last Monday when at day’s end, we were forced to put our dear, sweet girl down. During this sad day, I wrote the somewhat cryptic post last week.
Today, as I write this post, dear fellow bloggers and friends, I am grateful for the response and support I received from so many of you at a time that pierced my womb of grief deeper. You see, even though I loved my daughter’s cat, Blossom’s death, the last of our nuclear family’s household pets, only underscored that our once happy “Maxwell House” of four adults, four pets, is now a mere memory.
Out of eight family members, there are only two of us left. Beyond the disbelief, regret, remorse and utter pain, I feel a sense of betrayal. For instance, when we were all vibrant and alive, my now ex-husband reinstated the idea of retiring and then renting an RV for us to undertake a year-long’s drive through the United States to Canada. I believed in the future to the point of RV window shopping!
During these years of wishful thinking, I thought this was it. IT was an arrival at the destination. IT was a place of permanence. IT was a tattoo. Blossom’s passing this past week made me realize that separation and death have fooled me, overtaken my home, heart, dreams and aspirations, and at the moment I feel like there is no place on earth I can find without fall’s shadow cast over it. IT is not to be.
Anyway, this past July, Blossom turned 19 years old. A couple of months ago, before her son Chervony died, her body, like summer turned to fall, faded. Her system slowly malfunctioned. Her purr, in fact, had ceased at least a year prior.
About five weeks ago, her son passed. Mind you, their dislike from the get-go was unmistakable. When they were younger, they wrestled fiercely. Fortunately, though Chervony championed the role of the alpha male cat, Blossom held her own, though mostly to manage to escape her son’s savage strength. Also, for a string of years, unbeknown to me, Chervony stole his mother’s breakfast. Once I caught him, I fed them separately.
In later years, “separate” is the word to describe their relationship. They simply did not acknowledge each other at all. Every once in a while, however, Blossom would break through the apathy and paw slap Chervony when he passed close by.
I read that feline mom’s disfavor their sons. Who knows? But I figure it must be stressful to be a “teenage” mom. It all started in 2001 when my now ex-husband, along with the kids, rescued Chervony’s mom from the pound and brought home the surprise. Admittedly, I was unhappy about the extra responsibility in our household. Immediately, she turned out to be my daughter, Alexandra’s cat since my son Marshall had his own beloved cat Cliff, our only pet at the time. Alexandra named the calico kitten Blossom, after the main protagonist of the Powerpuff cartoon series.
Thankfully, she arrived with a free spay/neuter certificate. However, that was the week my 55-year-old brother suffered a stroke and suddenly died. During this time of chaos, “teenage” Blossom accidentally got pregnant by the neighborhood tomcat. A few months later, “little” Blossom delivered seven kittens in our kitchen with the assistance of my neighbor and Alexandra, who got a taste of what it meant to be a vet, her lifelong ambition.
Intent on smoothing the transition of the newly born babies, I strode into the nursery ready to make introductions, holding Cliff, Marshall’s cat. Well, “sweet, little” Blossom, the epitome of mama bear, perceived my action as a threat and attacked us from behind. Ouch! I can still remember the debilitating pain from her claws on my back. With Cliff still in my arms, I managed to break her grip and rocket out the kitchen. Over the course of the next few days, after three kittens died and four lived, everyone settled in.
Although it was a tough decision, we could only select one additional household member from the litter. Out of Chervony, Vanilla Sky, Cali, and Mr. Mike, Chervony it was. We subsequently secured good homes for the others.
Anyway, fast forward: Chervony passed away this past August 28, and what I learned is that even when mom-offspring relations are strained or nil, an invisible bond remains. After her son’s passing, Blossom illustrated this when she continuously roamed his typical path through the house, from the kitchen, down the hall to the bathroom, an unfamiliar course for her. Amid her venture, she howled on occasion. In fact, on her last day on earth, she took one more painful trek on his behalf, howled and collapsed.
Without food, drink or body strength, by two in the afternoon on October 5, I knew her time of sunset drew near.
Ironically, out of all my pets, it took the longest for me to get acclimated to her. I can’t put my finger on it, but I think after I stopped seeing her as another round of litter to clean, I started seeing her value and worth. My ex-husband phrased it best by saying, “When you look at her coloring, her design, her incredible artistic mastery, you cannot doubt the existence of God.”
She was God-like. Aesthetically, her beauty, grace and refinery was second to none. Looking back, too, whereas Chervony got into numerous neighborhood altercations during territorial battles, and both he and Cliff drove me nuts catching birds, squirrels and bunnies, Blossom was peaceful and gentle. She did, however, on one occasion catch a snake! It surprised her as much as it surprised me and she spit it out as if saying, “Oops, I thought it was an over-sized string, not something that was actually alive!”
Little wonder was it that over the years we called her “Lady.” More days than not, I sang one of the lyrics from the song “Lady” written by Lionel Richie and first recorded by Kenny Rogers to her.
Lady, for so many years I thought I’d never find you You have come into my life And made me whole Forever let me wake to see you each and every morning Let me hear you whisper softly in my ear
After her son died, we shared an intimate womb of grief. As I mentioned earlier, her purr had stopped about a year ago. Amazingly, however, about a week prior to her passing, she gave me a final memorable machine-like purr as part of her legacy. Then, on October 5, vet appointment scheduled, in the same departure ritual that I performed with our beloved Cliff and poodle Crouton, and her son Chervony, we experienced our final earthly walk through the house and grounds. Before us rolled the silver screen of memories filled with children’s laughter, glee, dogs dancing and cats’ deafening purrs, I sang Lady, for so many years, I thought I’d never find you …. One of the last stops on our final tour was viewing her children’s grave. That was when Mother Bear tried to muster the energy to escape my arms. This time, I won out and not her.
Together, just past four, my roomie and I, in the same way as with her son, due to Covid-19 restrictions, we met our vet in the parking lot and she took Blossom to sedate her and brought her back to us for one final good-bye. We nested in the car as our dear Lady faded into her personal sunset. How I had wished my son was alive to mourn, support and comfort me, my roomie and my daughter, who lives in another state. He was a rock presence, a sense of sunrise in dim times.
“It’s going to be a sad day when she goes.” Over and over, I heard his deep, masculine voice. And so it was. This was IT.
Blossom, leader of the Powerpuff Girls
As it turned out, I finally read about the Powerpuff girls this week and I found that the character Blossom was named after is the “Everything nice” part of the trio. She “is the confident and courageous leader of the Powerpuff Girls. Dubbed ‘Commander and the Leader,’ she is best known for her level head and determination, as well as leading the girls to victory and saving the day.”
Blossom, Leader of the Powerpuff Girls
In the eye of another household death, it brought a sense of reprise to recall my younger days when faith was flawless like Blossom’s colors and design. So many images flashed by me: the beautiful feline sleeping with my daughter, perched on my daughter’s desk while she did homework or the memories of when she simply flattened the curve on the alpha male chaos in the house. She was our regulator and peacemaker and our Lady who offered us the welcomed perspective that a whisper can be far more powerful than a guttural battle cry. xo
I have had the privilege in life to love unconditionally and abundantly. Not because I am special, different or blessed anymore than anyone else, but because I am a vessel and brimming with what others once gave me. I feel it is my duty to spread my inheritance.
With that being said, I experienced a particularly painful day yesterday and will post about it next week. You are free to pray for me and my family and keep us in your thoughts, but I do have one particular request. I ask you to perform one act of kindness this week. Nothing earth-shattering. A mere smile to a stranger is an excellent way to bring a little light and a message of faith into a world that can sometimes seem so dark, chaotic and disconnected.
Remember, faith works through love, and its usefulness cannot be underestimated. In fact, it is a good thing to store it in your everyday arsenal.
However, I was floored by a few other signs that two of the closest people in my life shared with me.
First, my significant other sent me a text on Friday, the day Chervony (he called him “Bonner”) died,
Marshall was on my mind all day today from the minute I got up. I am truly sorry Bonner is gone.
The next day, I visited my daughter who lives out of town. We talked about the sad events surrounding my son’s cat that had transpired the day before. She said that on that day before Chervony was put to his final rest, upon awakening, and throughout the day, she felt a strong sense of her brother’s presence.
Unaware of the cat’s fate, both she and my significant other felt Marshall nearby. The mirror messages sent goosebumps down my spine.
I interpreted both instances as signs and it helped me feel the faith and realize that we can survive the vicissitudes of life as well as death. The first step is to reconcile with faith. Only then can one weave a web of hope.
When our cat Chervony was in his prime, my favorite saying was, “If he were a man, he’d be in jail.”
He championed the role of the alpha male cat. The internet description of this type of cat is perfect:
“Alpha male cats are dominant, natural-born leaders. They may bully other cats or even their owners into getting what they want when they want it. They may act aggressively for attention or to get more food. You might be the owner, but the alpha male cat believes he owns you.”
Needless to say, Chervony did what he wanted to do, and we were at his beck and call or there would be consequences. To illustrate the point, about 12 years ago, my now deceased son Marshall and I dropped him off for a simple procedure at the vet’s office. A few hours later when we picked him up, the vet assistant sported a huge white bandage on her hand.
I looked at my son. My son looked at me. We already knew that no one could mess with Chervony. He was his own best advocate. Sure enough, he had bitten the vet assistant when she attempted to exam him. Lucky thing she didn’t hold a resentment!
Marshall discovered some research stating that orange tabbies are particularly aggressive cats. In our case, research wasn’t necessary. We lived day-to-day life with a raging warrior. Out of all our pets, he was my problem child. The one I worried about and lost sleep over. The one I endured a hate-love relationship with. In fact, when the prospect of relocating presented itself nearly 10 years ago, I was most anxiety-ridden over Chervony. Obviously, he did not fare well with change. Don’t get me wrong. Chervony loved with the force of a bull too. Sometimes he’d jump into your lap and deliver a headbutt that could knock you off your seat. In other words, his fiery color matched his personality.
It all started in 2002 when my now ex-husband, along with the kids, rescued Chervony’s mom Blossom from the pound and brought home the surprise, which I eventually accepted. Thankfully, she arrived with a free spay/neuter certificate. However, that was the week my brother suffered a stroke and suddenly died. During this time of chaos, “teenage” Blossom accidentally got pregnant by the neighborhood tomcat.
Shortly thereafter, “little” Blossom delivered seven kittens. Three died and four lived. Realistically, though it was a tough decision, we could only select one additional household member. Out of Chervony, Vanilla Sky, Cali, and Mr. Mike, Chervony it was. We subsequently secured good homes for the others.
Our house was a rambunctious household of people and pets. Life was as vibrant as Chervony’s beautiful coat of red, orange and ginger. In fact, my son shared his coloring, especially the ginger hues. Great faith is easy when all things are great.
After Cliff died 12 years later, Chervony unofficially became Marshall’s cat. No matter how old Marshall was and no matter how much that darn cat kneaded and drooled over him, he never outgrew kissing and stroking him. Sometimes the ritual lasted up to an hour, if not longer.
In 2018, as Chervony aged, he developed an over-active thyroid, and the vet prescribed medication for it. When Marshall, who had moved to Kentucky in 2017, last visited us in Connecticut, he cradled him in his arms and sounded broken when he said, “He’s not the same.”
Marshall was right. The brakes didn’t come to a screeching halt, but they were slowly wearing down. Chervony was losing his loud purring motor and flow of washer fluid drooling. The drum beat of death had insidiously started to paw its way into his lifetime of contentment and scratch at it until Chervony just became a shell, albeit still handsome.
Beginning this past June, the death march gained force. In the beginning of August, Chervony went outside and disappeared again. Later that day, an animal control officer arrived at our door. She informed us that one of the neighbor’s spotted the cat, apparently old and frail, and called the police to ask if they could shoot him with a gun. The neighbor assumed he had rabies, which was, of course, furthest from the truth.
After the cat was safely home, though I didn’t learn who the trigger-happy neighbor was, I sure wanted this person to realize that he or she would have not only destroyed a cat, but the rest of a grieving mom’s heart. Later, I discovered that during Chervony’s disappearance, he had sheltered under a tree on which my son’s name that he carved into it in 2008, remains. I came to the stunning realization that the cat had been undergoing his own fashion of mourning. Afterwards, rocking the senior cat in my arms, I imitated Marshall’s tone when I called Chervony’s name. Instantly, his gaze’s haunting quality was filled with an intrinsic sense of lose, sadness and longing.
Since his last disappearance, we sealed all of Chervony’s escape routes. Then, on August 24, he accidentally trapped his hind leg in an opening of a child’s gate in our house. After another neighbor released him from the gate, we took him to be treated at the Pet ER where the vet reported he had no broken bones.
By the time August 28 rolled around, he was not only frail, but had stopped eating. I intuitively knew his time on earth was near. I scheduled an appointment with our vet and a few hours later, in the same departure ritual that I performed with our beloved Cliff and poodle Crouton, we experienced our final earthly walk through the house and grounds. Before us rolled the silver screen of memories filled with children’s laughter, glee, dogs dancing and cats’ deafening purrs and slobbering drool kisses.
Due to Covid-19 restrictions, we met our vet in the parking lot after she had sedated Chervony. Subsequently, Chervony started to fade peacefully that afternoon as my roomie and I kissed and rocked him under a breezy sky. Prior to his final departure, as the vet carried him back inside, we asked him to deliver an extra purr from us when he saw Marshall again.
Our old cat had many aliases over the years: Prince Peach, Pumpkin, Chivvy, Chivvs and Churrr-von-y, as the CVS drug store recording called him in their prescription alerts. To us, his unique names, personality and spirit were all bundled into a single, over-sized furry package that was part of our now nearly dissolved family. The love we shared together radiated like a pumpkin in the sun’s rays and was like a cherished tattoo in which the actual process hurts, but it’s all worth the effort.
In essence, our time spent with Chervony was an 18-year test of faith, and when you combine love and faith, the only way to pass the challenge is with flying colors.
Before the tragedy, I would swear to it that these two angels in the window protect our house. These days, putting my faith in the angels doesn’t feel like a sound investment.
I actually positioned the angels in my window yesterday, primarily because I think they are pretty. In fact, they are the first thing that catch my eyes when I walk by. Sometimes I think they symbolize my son and daughter standing side by side. My son is the way bigger angel, literally now. In secular terms, though, what is definite is that they are pretty wooden angels, and they make my eyes look up high.
Yesterday was also when my son’s cat Chervony (Ukrainian for red–though the cat is actually an orange tabby) went missing. The cat is 18 and has a heart condition. He stopped eating and drinking yesterday, and I knew what was happening.
Our plans of taking him to the vet went out the window, in the same way our plans for my son’s visit went out the window. The only thing I can be sure of is that I have wooden angels IN my window. The angels will not guide my son’s cat home nor do they give me a false sense of promise.
My mom used to say, “We make plans and God crosses them out.”
Investigating the dilemma with my son’s missing cat, I found the research below on the internet.
“Although it is not fully known why some cats go away to die, it’s likely that when our cats become very old and feel unwell, they prefer to be alone and rest. Unlike people, cats do not anticipate or know about death as we do, so they are not fearing what might happen.”
I have shed my grief-on-top-of-grief tears, but, strangely, I know our dear Chervony is at peace.
Maybe I sense this peace because peace is a regular part of my life. After all, I am in a 12-step community that promises me, “We will comprehend the word serenity and we will know peace.”
I burst with gratitude when I say that promise has never been broken in over 35 years and even now serenity and peace do not leave my present grief-stricken life, and that’s what helps propel me to move forward and not give up faith.
It is ironic that my son chose to die in his own way on his own terms. And now it looks like his cat did the same thing. The realization provides some sort of skewed feeling of peace, and I correlate their endings like two bookends. Between the bookends, though, there were volumes of books brimming with love and memories. After all, a connection between a cat and its owner is special, angelic really.
*Chervony returned this morning! We talked to the vet and, for now, we are keeping an eye on him, because, he appears better. Maybe our window angels interceded in bringing him home or maybe my son’s Godmother’s prayer was answered when she asked my son to bring him home! Either way, what a test of faith. Will keep you updated!
WTF? (Where's the faith?) 