Some people reflect on turning points in life and remember people who shared those emotional moments. In my life the apparent motif in personal highlights points to felines rather than humans. When I needed a rescue, comfort, support or tough love, a cat took on the challenge.
A large orange tabby, we scooped up Herb Jr. to replace the original Herb. His predecessor belonged to Grandpa Roy when he lived on the farm. He didn't really fit into the town lifestyle. Herb qualified for the short bus. He was stone deaf. A deaf cat doesn't hear a blaring horn. His death served as my children's first grief encounter.
His namesake taught me the importance of effective communication skills. Herb Jr's messages focused on clarity. As a single parent, my 13-year-old daughter and I set off on a new adventure moving to a new town with a new teaching job. Creative financial management meant that even the car served as a place to pack items. Clothes, kitchen supplies and personal belongings crammed every corner. Herb Jr protested with high-pitched yowls and growls during the two hour trip.
He believed in the direct approach by clearly sharing his perspective on moving. We dropped him onto the front room carpet. "Look Herb it's your new home. You can stretch and look out the big window!" I crooned to him as I bent over to pet his arched back. Nope. He wasn't having any of it. His dark eyes glared with anger.
First he slinked over to Andy, sat at her feet and uttered three loud shorts meows to make sure he had her attention. Then he regally passed by me pacing the length of the large picture window in search of the perfect spot. After deliberately turning to us again to make sure his audience noticed, he promptly pawed the carpet, slowly squatted low and pushed out a large log of poop!
As the one and only time Herb Jr chose carpet over litter, his action was no accident. It definitely served a purpose. There was much more to Herb Jr. than his vengeance.
Petting Herb Jr relieved lots of stress after a bad day in the classroom. His instincts drew him to my lap whenever I felt alone and disillusioned. He kept my feet warm at night and my thoughts more hopeful during the day. My respect for him and the way he relished life helped me choose his peaceful ending.
One autumn day, I noticed the lack of sparkle in his eyes. When I stroked his soft fur, the warmth of his skin alarmed me. The cat knew something was not right. After feline leukemia was confirmed, I strolled with my friend in a wooded area of the park allowing his leash enough slack so he could explore one last time. I opened a can of tuna and told him that I loved him as tears slid down my face. We talked and said our good byes.
My kids arrived at the clinic, each sharing time with our family friend. After one last hug and a long look of understanding, the vet carried Herb on his pillow behind closed doors where he gave him that injection. No more pain or fever. He left during his peak with no regrets.
On the way to his funeral on a friend's farm, we shared Herb Jr stories and laughed and cried. Herb's last ride was in that same car he protested during our move. This time he rested in a blanket lined box. With torches in the ground casting shadows over the fresh dirt, I'll never forget the image of lowering him into the ground. The muffled sound of sobs from Herb Jr's closest friends settled into the silhouette of the cornfield behind his grave as we took turns placing rocks as his marker.
Elmo, the next orange cat Herb replacement, took on the personality of my junior high daughter. A friend's sales pitch to take in the tiny feisty kitten included, "He reminds me of Andy and her fierce sense of competition." So true. Being little on the outside is not a measure of how big a person (or a cat) is on the inside.
This independent dynamo let down his tough exterior at night when he liked to curl on the pillow on a human head. Not on the pillow. On a head. He wrapped his tiny frame in hair like he was tucking himself in with a blanket. Elmo was Andy's best friend through roller coaster high school drama. It didn't matter what time it was, when he heard the rumble of her old pickup, Trusty, he'd trot out to greet her. He often lounged on the pick seat and stretched to crawl out the back window after long luxurious naps.
A keen hunter, he'd proudly paw at the front door where he'd drop his lifeless trophy. Brave by day. Vulnerable by night. That was Elmo's M.O. Then, late one night I asked my husband if he'd seen Elmo. When he checked the back door and there was no Elmo, we put on jackets to look around the yard.
Mark carried Elmo to me and cradled him in my arms. A sick white froth oozed from his tiny mouth as he panted to breathe. As the raw pain in my tears soaked through my T-shirt and into my skin, I wrapped Elmo in Andy's keepsake baby blanket. Just like soothing a baby, I held him close and rocked all night.
The words would hardly come out when I called my daughter. In college in Kentucky she was far away from her best friend who suffered from poisoning. The next day we chose the option of more tests to try to treat Elmo's dire condition. After a 10 hour drive home in the middle of the night, Andy's wide eyes greeted her friend. When I tenderly lifted Elmo's swollen body from his cage, all of us knew it was hopeless. His once-tiny body bloated with fluids signaling body organs shutting down.
After five days in the hospital, Elmo's torture stopped. Andy gripped the ash filled tiny urn tightly as she headed back to Kentucky a few hours after her arrival. But, this time she had her best friend Elmo sharing the long trip back.
Elmo's lesson to me proved that life can't be measured by hard facts. When my oldest daughter Amy, was diagnosed with cancer, Elmo's spirit gave me some hope during my short visits home. The doctors pronounced Amy's case as terminal. "Get your family here and make arrangements," one doctor advised.
After sitting in that bare hospital room week after week witnessing Amy's fragile deterioration, a snapshot of Elmo and Amy posted by her bed still made me smile. I thought of my dad's howling laughter when Elmo bounded up the stairs in two leaps scared by Lion King Slippers. Just because you're little doesn't mean you can't do big things. Just because some doctor said my daughter was going to die doesn't mean she can't live. It's all a matter of perception.
Elmo is gone but I thought of his independence recently when I took Amy in for her tenth year cancer-free checkup.
K.C. and Sammie were throw aways who reminded me of the importance of helping others. K.C. (King Cat) was a beautiful gray long hair with a perfect white mark on his chest. He broke the orange cat replacement mold when Andy picked him at the shelter. Intending to come home with a cute kitten, she ended up choosing K.C. who was abused and abandoned when the renters moved out.
It took years of hiding under beds, before he could trust a male in his presence. At the animal shelter he ate the paper lining his cage when thunderstorms frightened him. We still chuckle about the time he ate most of the phone bill, or how he would pull bows from gifts under the tree and tuck them into shoes on the rug.
He was a kind special cat who wasn't appreciated for his goodness. Similar to the homeless or the poor, who are sometimes shunned by those who are "better," who is the better person in the long run? Why do people hate and judge others? After a person (or a cat) is used and abused enough, trust is gone. They give up hope.
That's what amazed me about Sammie, a gray tiger striped cat. She was dumped in the country as a stray. We rescued her when Amy heard her hungry cries near her apartment building. Malnourishment caused her stunted growth. Sammie didn't hold a grudge, but she "turned the other cheek".
To this day, she is the sweetest most trusting cat. When a new person visits our home, she comes with a friendly greeting. She never judged the rest of us based because of a stupid few people treating her poorly. She was willing to forgive and move on. If only humans could learn such a character trait. K.C. and Sammie both represent innocence. They didn't choose to be mistreated. Just like people, they handled their crucible in extremely different ways.
These days I soak up the joy of scenes of two-year-old granddaughter Anna tucking our black cat Rafeeky into her chair with kisses and hard pets on the back. Rafeeky's common sense probably tells her to run fast, but she tolerates the little one's tugs on her tail. "Aw, I wuv you Feefee," Anna coos with black hair sticking to her pudgy little hand.
I think Rafeeky knows it's up to her to teach little Anna about the special relationship between a cat and a girl. Maybe she will be like her Gaga and have cat lessons threading through her discoveries in life.