I AM FINALLY UNDONE...BY AN OLD BEAR
This entry was posted on 7/10/2007 9:58 AM and is filed under uncategorized.
They feared him, at the vet's. The moment anyone there put their hands on him, he'd become the Tasmanian Devil, a whirlwind of claws, teeth, and cat-cuss words. He would sink his teeth into any flesh readily available--my forearm, the vet's thumb. I would meet the vet's helpless gaze and say, "He was named for his disposition--not his looks."
At home, the kids would tease me, saying that he was evil, but I would just laugh and say, "Nah, he's just misunderstood."
Once, when my nephew Michael had returned safely from his third Marine Corps deployment to the Anbar, he was driving from Camp Pendleton home to Dallas, bringing along a buddy, for his post-deployment leave. Dustin was deployed at the time, and he swung through here for a night. During our joyous reunion, his buddy excused himself to go to the bathroom. When he returned he said, "There was a cat in a basket there. I petted him."
Stunned silence greeted that pronouncement. Then my husband said, "Shoot, he's a MARINE. He's not scared of NOTHIN'!"
Bear was born under a prickly-pear cactus, which is appropriate, I suppose. When he was three days old, his mother died, and you could hear his tiny cries of outrage all the way across the pasture and in the house. When I brought him and a litter-mate into the house, it was a Friday evening, of course, so I wouldn't have access to our country vet until Monday, and I didn't have any kitten replacement formula on-hand. I warned the kids not to name him or get attached because he was not likely to survive. "They can't digest cow's milk," I said.
Nonetheless, I diluted what I had, heated it, put some in a syringe (country folk are used to doing their own vet-work and keep such things around). I fixed up a bed for them in a cardboard box with a heating pad and squirted the milk in their mouths at two-hour intervals. By morning he was the only one left alive.
I would poke milk down him, then take a warm washcloth and "lick" him all over with it the way a mama-cat would do, to stimulate his bowels.
First thing that Monday, I went and bought an expensive can of kitten replacement formula and a tiny bottle. I'd hold him in the palm of my hand, stick the bottle in his mouth, and he would grasp it with all his claws and growl as loud as he could with a ferocious don't-mess-with-me look on his little face that was so comical, my son said, "He looks like a grizzly bear."
And that was that.
I never saw a creature with a stronger will to live than that little guy. And though he didn't much like being messed with by others, to him, I was his mama, and we became the best of friends.
At night, when I would stretch out on my side, he would curl up in the crook of my body, the weight of him solid and reassuring. I would reach over my shoulder and touch his paw. He would curl his paw around my finger and give me a reassuring squeeze with gentle claws. I would say, "Silly old bear."
This was to be our bedtime ritual for fifteen years.
He loved to play with those blue Wal-Mart plastic sacks. A year or so ago, they started using white sacks, and I had to hoard all the blue sacks I had, because Bear didn't think they were nearly as much fun as the blue sacks.
Like most cats, he loved to play in laundry baskets and nap in freshly-laundered towels. When our other male cat became aggressive against the aging Bear, I fixed him up a laundry basket in the bathroom on top of the hamper. In it I made a bed for him of an old baby afghan, and on top of that, a big blue sack. On the floor, I kept an extra blue sack, and every morning, he'd dash into the bathroom and get into the sack on the floor and we'd play-fight. As sharp as his claws could be at the vet's, when playing with me, he never once drew blood or even provoked a yelp. I'd tickle his tummy and waller him around and call him Goof-Bear.
I made up a nonsense-song, the Bearcat Song, and I'd sing it to him while I was in the shower and he was keeping me company in his basket.
He'd jump up in his basket and we'd play Toothbrush. I'd poke an old toothbrush through the slots of the basket and he'd wrestle with it until finally, he'd pull the protesting toothbrush into his lair. I kept a little basket on the floor of the bathroom with some toys and a few extra toothbrushes.
As long as the other male, Max (who's a whole story in his own right--another rescue; his name is short for Mad Max the Road Warrior), was strutting around the house, I'd keep the bathroom door closed, but any time I went in there, I'd bend over the basket and Bear would lick my nose.
When Max was in "his" room (used to belong to the kids), or outside, Bear would curl up at the foot of the bed near my desk. Now and then, I'd be typing away and feel a pluck at my shoulder. He'd be reaching out to me, and I'd gather him up and hold him in my arms like a baby, and we'd love on each other, then he'd go back to his spot or you'd hear a rustle of blue-sack and he'd be back in his basket.
We have been through many dark years of late. Before my son reached his 20th birthday, he had buried both his best friends, one to suicide, one to murder. We buried Kent's mother and my beloved step-dad. My best friend died of breast cancer at the age of 46, leaving behind two grieving children. We struggled through financial setbacks and, for me, a career Dunkirk. The kids left home and went very far away.
And our son went to war.
There were days when the despair, the terror, the anxiety, and the grief were so overwhelming that all I could do was stretch out on my side in bed, plug in a movie, and drift. Then I would feel a soft thump, the weight of my Bearcat curling up against me, and he would heave a sigh, as if to say, "It's okay, I'm here. We'll get through this."
I thought I would have more time with him.
I knew he was fifteen, but he seemed fine to me. He began to lose his appetite, but I thought it was a combination of summer heat and aging teeth. I switched him to soft pouch-food. Right before my trip to San Antonio, I noticed he wasn't eating much of that, either, but my sister was coming out for the weekend and I knew she'd take good care of him, which she did. He ate, she said, went outside and played, crawled in her lap for a pet.
But when we got home Sunday--she'd only been gone a couple of hours--he didn't leave his basket to come and greet us. I knew right then that something was terribly wrong.
That night, he curled up with me, but held himself gingerly, changing positions frequently, which told me he was in pain. As soon as they'd see him on Monday, I took him in to the vet--a longtime friend who went to school at Texas A&M with my husband. They had to sedate Bear to take blood, and I went home.
When Charlie called me, he told me, flat-out, that Bear's kidney's were failing him and that, even though he was using his litterbox and drinking water, his loss of appetite had been the first real sign of danger. The damage was irreversable, he said, but they had put Bear on an IV and were building up his electrolytes. It could buy us time, Charlie told me. Maybe a few months. Maybe a few days.
I hated leaving Bear there. I knew that the reason he fought so hard was because he was scared, and he wanted to be home with me.
I asked Charlie if we were going to have to put him down, and he said, "It's looking that way."
For two days I cried, and finally, I said, "I can't have the vet do this to my Bear. He will be so scared. They will have to flatten him in one of those things they put cats in when they fight, and it will be terrible."
I asked Charlie if he would give us a shot, prepared with a sedative, so that we could take Bear home and be with him for a couple days, and then, when he started to show signs of being in pain or failing, we could give him the shot so he could go into a deep sleep, and then Kent would take care of it in the country way.
I was so torn about that, because Kent loved that old cat too, but he offered to do it for me because he knew how devastated I was, and I was trying to make things as easy on Bear as I could.
I told everyone who would listen, "I don't want him to die alone at the vet's. I want to bring him home, where he can be surrounded by love and happiness. I don't care if he dies while sleeping with me in the night--at least he won't be at that place alone and afraid."
I missed him so much at night that I had to stay awake until one or two in the morning, so that I could actually sleep when I tried. His empty basket broke my heart. I kept thinking I heard the rustle of a blue sack.
But the next day, before we went to get him, he began to show some improvement. He sat up, Charlie said, which he had not done before. He let me see Bear. I crawled into his cage, got up close to him, sang the Bearcat Song, told him we would bring him home soon.
The next day, Bear ate some. I went to see him again, crawling into his cage, singing the Bearcat Song. He was goofy from tranquilizers, but he knew it was me and struggled to get up. He was very weak and I thought maybe another day would help him get stronger.
The next day, yesterday, Charlie was actually kind of excited. Bear had drunk water and had used the litter box. "We'll take him off the IV," he said, "and you can take him home tomorrow."
I went to see Bear and he was stretched out on the floor of his cage. I thought he looked awful, but they seemed to see hope where I was afraid to. I crawled into his cage and he raised his head. I cradled his soft cheeks in my hands and sang the Bearcat Song and told him to hang in there. After about five minutes, he wanted to lay his head back down, and I said, "Go to sleepy now. Tomorrow night, you can sleep with Mama again."
I went home.
Two hours later, they called and told me that Bear was dead.
"Do you want us to take care of it?" they asked. I managed to say, "No, my husband will come and get him." And hung up, abruptly. I didn't blame them. I just could not speak.
I am very grateful that Kent was actually here. When he is not on the road--which is most of the time--he works from a home office, and I thank God for that, because it is hard for me to describe what happened next.
I howled.
I howled and I collapsed onto the floor.
I kept telling myself that it was just a stupid little cat, that there was a WAR on, that mothers were burying children and children were burying parents, and that I should not waste my grief on a stupid little cat.
But I could not get myself under control. I could not stop the howling.
I sobbed for at least two hours. During that time, I went to his basket and gathered up his blanket and blue sack. "Bring him home in this," I said. "Bring him to me. I want to brush him and take care of him."
Kent assured me that it would take him a while to dig a grave, and left.
This old house, this hundred-year old rock farmhouse, contains the spirits of frontier women of great courage and fortitude who have lived here before me, and one of the customs of the turn of the century was for the women to prepare their loved ones for burial. They would wash them and comb their hair and dress them, and family would visit the deceased in the parlor of the house before burial, which would have to be within a day or two.
I thought of those women. I had read somewhere that there was great comfort in the preparing of the body for burial.
We have buried many beloved animals through the years, in our own little pet cemetary on the west side of the hay barn. Our old dog Fibber was a puppy when Dustin was a baby, and they literally grew up together, exploring the pastures and the world. After he died, a high-school English teacher gave a creative writing assignment to the class to make up a story about buried treasure.
Two years later, the teacher sought me out to tell me that Dustin had written a story about burying his cherished dog, Fibber.
Some years ago, Kent had to put down our 31-year old horse, Sox, a huge black gelding (more than sixteen hands high) with wavy mane and tail who babysat our kids, earned trophies for them in 4-H Horse Shows, and taught me how to ride. We'd fly across the open pasture like the wind, and I have never felt a greater joy or freedom since.
The day Sox died was a black day, indeed, and it took my husband years before he could even talk about it.
I have grieved over every lost animal, and I remember them all. I see their little companion-spirits everywhere.
But Bear was different.
They had put him in a Hefty trash bag. Kent took him out and wrapped him in the blanket and blue sack and brought him home to me.
I cradled him in my arms and brushed him and smoothed his fur. Then I gathered him up, took him into the bedroom, where I stretched out on the bed and cradled him against me, in the crook of my body, one last time.
I told him how much I loved him, how much he would be missed, how desperately sorry I was that he had to die alone in that place. "I will never lay down at night, for the rest of my life, that I won't think of my Bear," I told him. I cried and I stroked his head.
Kent's big body filled the framework of the doorway.
I said, "I'm not going crazy. Don't worry. I just wanted him to have one last chance to..."
He said, "It's okay. I'll tell you when I'm ready." And he went outside to dig Bear's grave.
I petted Bear and stroked his fur and sang the Bearcat Song and wept and told him that someday he would see me again. I thanked him for all the comfort and all the joy he had given me, how he had never, not once, left me alone.
Kent appeared at the door.
I got up, smoothed out the blue sack, put the afghan on top of it, and swaddled Bear in it the way you do a baby, then surrounded it all with the blue sack.
We went outside, and I saw that Kent had cleared back an overgrown hackberry tree at the front of the barn, looking toward the house--not at the side--and had dug a deep grave beneath its sheltering boughs. A perfect spot.
I sang the Bearcat Song, for the last time, while he shoveled the earth over my Bear, and when I walked in the house, the phone was ringing.
It was my warrior-poet son, Dustin.
He said, "My Spidey-sense tells me something is wrong. How is Bear?"
The last he'd heard, Bear was doing great.
The plan had been for Kent to call the kids for me, because I knew I'd sob and didn't want to upset them.
But there's this bond, you know, between mothers and children, and it doesn't just stretch one way.
I told him we had buried Bear, and Dustin was devastated for me.
I said, "I feel so stupid, to grieve so for a little cat, when there is a war on."
"Mama," he said, using his childhood name for me, "You have absolutely nothing to feel bad about. Bear is HOME. Bear is FAMILY. He means every bit as much to you as Fibber did to me and Sox did to Daddy."
"I got hysterical," I confessed, my voice small and weepy.
"It's not just Bear," he said. "You've had a really tough couple of years, with this war and my deployments, and all the sadness and fear and worry, not just for me and my buddies, but for my cousins and for all the families you've come to know through your blog. You're not just crying for Bear," he added. "You're crying for all of us."
I thought about that profound little piece of wisdom.
"I let him down," I wept. "I left him alone and scared. I should have brought him home when I first planned to. At least he would have been with me at the end."
In a voice gentle, but firm, he said, "If there's one thing I learned in Iraq, it's that you CANNOT play the What-If game. Once you start to play the What-If game, you will go stark-raving crazy."
I knew he was right, but it sure is hard to convince yourself of that. Still, I was trying to give Bear the best chance he could have, with Charlie. No one ever had a stronger will to live, and I'm just grateful that I was able to sing the Bearcat Song to him while he could still hear it, and pet him to sleep. They say he passed away that way, in his sleep, after I left.
Both my son and my daughter offered to come home, but Dustin really would not be able to get leave and it would be too expensive for them both, since they live in California, and I would feel too sheepish, for them to come home just because my cat died.
I had Kent throw out Bear's basket. I saved his favorite toy and the blue sack we used to play on every morning, and gave his other toys to Jessica's cat, Annabelle, who we inherited when she moved to New York. (She's only been in L.A. a few months.)
I know that this post has been ridiculously long and not the sort of thing I normally write, but I wanted to honor my little furry companion and thank him, one last time, for all the years of comfort, companionship, and joy that he brought to me, and the formidable force of his personality that livened up the Mills house for so many years.
I knew that anyone who has ever loved an animal would understand and appreciate this, and I wanted my friends to know why I haven't been answering the phone the past day or two. Just not ready to talk about it yet.
Perhaps my son is right. For so long when he was deployed, I tried so hard to be brave and strong, supportive and wise. Whenever a Marine or soldier dies in this war, or takes a terrible wound, I weep for them. And I am deeply concerned for my nephew, who fights as we speak in Bush's War.
Maybe Bear's final gift to me was to give me an outlet for all the howls--the pain and anger and heartache and fear and anxiety and empathy and grief I have held close to my heart during this terrible war--maybe he gave me an opportunity to release all of that.
But in the long run, when I stretch out on my side at night and try to go to sleep, from now until the day I die, I will miss a little gray cat cuddled up close to me, squeezing my finger good-night, and letting out a long, quiet sigh, as if to say, "It's okay, I'm here. We're going to get through this."
