Death
and Resurrection: Two Tales of Life, Love, and Cats
Tale
I: The Passing of Two Brothers: A Tribute to Pumpkin and Spooky
On Tuesday, May 29, my beloved companion for
nearly 17 years died of a brain tumor. Pumpkin was put to rest through the
loving care of Dr. Kelly Johnston of
But the story actually begins in 1987.
At the time, I was a client of Dr. Charles
Seung, when he had his practice in Canfield. His assistant was Barbara
Paparodis. She and her husband Chris lived near the entrance to the Canfield
Fairgrounds, and were caring for nearly 80 stray cats that had been dumped on
the fairground property.
Back then, I was strictly a dog person (HA!
says the woman now owned by 11 cats). I had just moved back from
In 1987, a beautiful black and white cat
named Bandit took up residence at Dr. Seung's clinic. All I knew was that he
was from a farm and was in need of a home. I fell in love with him, and agreed
to take him. It was then that they told me he had Feline Leukemia, but since I
only had dogs, it would be safe for him to live with me. I still agreed to take
him. He went through some therapy, and lived a relatively healthy life for 2 ½
years.
Now, Cleo, (bless her heart, she still tugs
at my heartstrings, even after all these years), was a bit of a bitch, and she did not like cats, and certainly was not
about to put up with one in the house. So, we fought like cats and dogs until
one day, she decided she loved Bandit, and then she really loved him. The two became inseparable.
In late 1990, both Cleo's and Bandit's health
began to deteriorate. Cleo had the first of a series of heart attacks and
strokes, and Bandit's leukemia worsened. He died on September 14, and Cleo went
into serious mourning and grief—not good for one with a heart condition.
That week, Barbara had just brought a litter
of four to the clinic that had been born at the fairgrounds. She brought the
mother in with and eye infection, and had her spayed, and was trying to adopt
out the little ones—three black and one orange tabby. I called her and said I
needed to get a cat fast, and went in to pick it up. When I entered the clinic,
I saw this scrawny little runt, who arched his back and hissed, and looked like
something on the cover of a Halloween card. Yup, that was my Spooky. I decided
to take the orange one, too. I mean, it was fall and orange and black were the colors. Barbara named him Pumpkin.
And so began about four years of living hell. These two were the most
miserable, destructive creatures that have ever set foot in this house. Spooky
was so little that he would sneak into troublesome places without being
noticed, like into the refrigerator while the door was open. They climbed the
curtains and destroyed every single houseplant. They found creative places to
pee, and up until the end, I could never put a throw rug down in the kitchen
without Pumpkin thinking it was a plush litter pan. I had to keep the rag hamper on the
porch, because Spooky would spray it, and it wasn't until yesterday that I
realized I no longer had to keep the bathroom door hooked shut. Somehow, after
17 years, all this became irrelevant. These two became powerful energies in
this home, and now all I feel is a big hole in my heart.
Pumpkin quickly established himself as the
head of the household, and with each new animal member that came here, it was he who took the longest to adjust. In 1991,
Maurice joined the family, and the two never did get along. They would cuddle
up and sleep together, but when they were awake, they fought like cats
and—um—cats.
Spooky, however was the peacemaker. He
really got along with everyone, but expected to also be the center of
attention, squawking and crying when he didn't get his demands met. If I was
talking to someone on the phone, the background noise was usually him.
Pumpkin had a face like a lion, and he was huge,
in his prime weighing 17 pounds. He also smiled most of the time, and would
give big kisses, but just one at a time. He like to
sit on laps, especially while one was drinking a hot cup of coffee. He would,
in a flash, get his head under the cup, just as you were about to take a sip,
and inevitably spill it all over. It was his sense of humor, you know.
When these two were still young, I became
interested in animal communication after reading the incredible book Communicating With
Animals by Arthur Myers. I remember sitting in my basement one day, and asked Pumpkin
if he had anything to tell me. He said, "I'm dying of a brain tumor."
I rushed upstairs and there he was, smiling. I thought, "Well you little
shit, you just wanted to get my attention, and you sure did." I even wrote
about it in a newsletter. Back then, I was writing newsletters on an electric
typewriter, and copying them on a home Xerox machine, then mailing them out or
giving them away. I sent a copy to Barbara, and we both had a laugh. Little did
I know that he was actually telling me what he would die of 15 years later.
When Jim moved in, in 2000, his evil quickly
spread to effect my animals' health. Spooky was one of
the first to be confronted with a serious illness, which turned out to be
diabetes. If any of you have a diabetic cat, you know how difficult it is to
control. He had major ups and downs, including one severe hypoglycemic attack
that nearly killed him and left him hospitalized for two days. But we
eventually worked around it, and I began to be able to tell where he was by how
much water he drank, and how much he peed. So, we lived through it, the insulin
twice a day, and doing whatever we needed to do.
But in December, 2006, his health really
began to decline, and one evening he went into low-blood sugar shock. I put
sugar water in his mouth, and soon he got his balance back and seemed OK. But
he never really was OK again, and went swiftly downhill. Two days later, he
peacefully passed away in his sleep. It was December 8, the 26th
anniversary of John Lennon's death, and also one of the lowest, darkest periods
of my life. His death hit me like a knife running through my heart. I have not
been able to write about it until now. Knowing, from a strictly medical
viewpoint that 16 ½
years is extremely old for a diabetic cat to survive was no
consolation. Yes, I had done everything I could have done, but my precious
Spooky was still gone.
And my gut feeling also told me that Pumpkin
would soon follow. The two had never been separated all those years, and just
like married couples who have been together for 50-60 years, when one goes, the
other soon joins them.
Pumpkin had been a little mentally off for a
while—not quite himself, but certainly knowing me and the other animals, where
his crate, food bowl and litter pans were, and basically spending most of his
time sleeping, like a normal old cat. In late April, he was snuggled up with me
on the couch, and suddenly he lost his balance and fell off. I helped him back
up, and he fell off again. He had been having off-and on-problems with his ear,
so I took him in to the vet, and got an antibiotic for an ear infection. But he
continued to worsen, and began to pace constantly, in an increasingly dazed
state. Then he went blind. Dr. Luke and I figured he must have had a stroke
when he fell off the couch, so I continued to nurse him the best that I could.
Dash and Penni, my blessed 20 and 15-year olds played caretaker to him, never
leaving his side as he slept on the cat cot. Dash, my 3-legged wonder, purrs
like a Harley, and even to a cat that has little mental capability left, there
has to be some part that still recognizes the comfort of another purring cat
cuddling up. I continued to do energy work on Pumpkin, and he seemed to be
reestablishing balance. But over the holiday weekend, he took a serious turn
for the worse. By Tuesday morning, I rushed him back to the hospital. By the
time we arrived, he was deteriorating so rapidly, and had begun to go into
convulsions. Dr. Kelly quickly brought him peace.
I held him as he died, and kept telling him
to look for Spooky, because I knew he was waiting to escort him to the other
side. I guess that is my consolation, knowing that the two are together again,
as they should always be. I can be grateful, however,
that his last moments of mental consciousness were spent snuggled with me on
the couch. That is how I will remember him.
Copyright©
2007 by Laughing Crow