Cherished (18 page)

Meanwhile, Fraidy took to spending most of her time in our neighbor's yard. One day, our neighbor called to ask if our white cat was depressed, because she spent most of her time sunning herself on their dog's marked grave.

Fraidy developed cancer on her ears, and the vet explained that this often happened to white cats, since they had no melanin to protect them from the ultraviolet rays of the sun — just like humans. Fraidy developed black spots on her ears that turned into ugly sores. The vet lopped off most of her ears. “You must put sunblock on her ears and nose if she goes outside. In fact, it would be better if you kept her indoors.”

We decided to turn our master bedroom upstairs into Fraidy's room, and put her litter box and food and water in the bathroom. She had a sleeping pad on the bedroom floor, and her sleeping blanket on our bed. We left the bedroom door closed to keep her in and Kiki out. I nursed Fraidy in our bedroom for the next four years. She thrived on this arrangement.

Kiki, however, was furious she had been driven away from our/her bedroom. One didn't have to be a pet psychologist to know that Kiki was angry and jealous that her nemesis had the most important room in the house. She must have blamed me for her exile from the bedroom, because she turned cool toward me, preferring my husband instead. She didn't hiss at me or resist when I picked her up, but for the longest time she wouldn't purr. And she made no eye contact with me. When my husband held her, her purring could be heard throughout the house — as if she were saying, “I love him, I love him…but not you.”

Y
EARS LATER, LONG AFTER
F
RAIDY WAS GONE,
I would look at Kiki and think,
You and I are getting old
. She started having difficulty jumping on our bed; sometimes she limped; she spent more time napping; and she would nip your hand if you touched her lower back the wrong way. But she always
remained playful.

Chris had become a lawyer by now, and he moved near us with his new girlfriend, who wanted a cat. My husband, who constantly dreamed of simplifying our lives, volunteered to return Kiki, and they took her to their two-bedroom apartment. Kiki peed inside their shoes and on their clothes, including the leather jacket of the girlfriend, who, fortunately, laughed it off. Our son was not so good-natured, and one day he burst into our kitchen holding Kiki. Hands shaking, he handed her to us and said, “Take her, or else I'll take her to the pound!” Unfazed Kiki sauntered to the den, jumped up on the couch, and began grooming herself. She looked smug, as if thinking,
This is where I want to live. Don't ever try to change my life again.

But changes did come. Kiki's life revolved around our house and garden and a bit of the neighborhood — a small planet. The neighbors' cats came and went; she had one cat friend who was also a tuxedo cat, but older; one day he stopped coming around. She watched Fraidy take the last trip to the vet. Kiki saw our house evolve: a bedroom becoming an office, the front yard acquiring a gate. She watched my husband and me gain weight, begin moving more slowly, and start talking about doctors and dentists more. She watched our three sons grow taller, and saw them come and go as they went to college, returned home, found work, lost a job, fell in love, fell out of love, or got married. And throughout all this, Kiki was a fixture for all of us, the one thing permanent in our lives.

She disliked the grandchildren; she did not like children touching her. The sudden uncontrolled movements of the young ones made her nervous. When she saw them coming, she would shudder with disgust and run off to hide in the garden or upstairs in our bedroom. This did not discourage the grandchildren's awe, and they would shout excitedly when they saw her: “Look, Kiki's here!” as if she were a unicorn, a rare and beautiful creature.

At one point, our ages were the same, mine in human years, hers in cat years. Her black fur had faded and picked up a reddish tint; my dyed black hair had done the same. I felt there was a bond between us, and it was a bond that went deeper than the color of our hair or fur. One night the bed was too high for her, and she fell when she jumped up. We found a footstool to help her. She had gum and tooth problems, and I ignored the vet's suggestion to have all her teeth pulled out. She healed, and still had enough teeth to bite you with if you stroked her the wrong way.

She still preferred my husband's lap to mine until the very end, but she knew she could rely on me. I was the one who took her to the veterinarian, who Googled her illnesses, who popped pills into her mouth, who brushed her thick black fur, who cleaned her remaining little teeth with a finger contraption, who gave her mercury-free people tuna or bits of steak, who cajoled her into drinking water when she was very ill. It was difficult to watch her grow old, like watching myself heading down the same path. And the fact of it was that Kiki had become so much a part of my life and myself that I couldn't imagine not having her around. Even her naughtiness and arrogance had become lovable. I realized I loved this cat.

Sometime during the seventeen years we had her, a reversal of roles took place. Kiki ceased being our pet who tried to please us; she became the master, and we her servants who tried hard to please her, or at least I did. Until the end I was her nurse and secretary, jotting down her imagined missives in a blog, as if giving her voice would make her live a little bit longer, just a bit longer, even when she would look at me pleadingly as if to say, “Let me go. Stop forcing me to drink water and eat. I'm tired.”

S
HE WOULD SPEND HOURS IN THE ROSE GARDEN
under the bougainvillea bush, where she could watch and listen to the birds and squirrels. She stopped sleeping on our bed, preferring the den couch. Perhaps climbing up on the bed became a nuisance; perhaps being close to us, being touched by us, became an annoyance. She retreated from us and communed with nature.

One gorgeous spring day, Kiki was out in the rose garden — a black-and-white cat lying contentedly under the bougainvillea covered with brilliant red flowers. The rose bushes displayed huge blooms of red, yellow, and pink. I could hear the birds twittering in the bougainvillea. I had done all I could for her, including carrying her in my arms and whispering affirmations: Y
ou can do it. You'll be well again. You have to eat. You have to drink so you'll live.
That day, Kiki was comfortable and happy in her rose garden. I went to my office to work. Then suddenly I heard a meow, and when I looked up I saw Kiki enter my office. She had something in her mouth — a baby bird, which she dropped in front of me. I jumped up; the fluttering of the birds always upset me. Kiki looked straight at me; she had an expression, something in her eyes. I realized the baby bird was her gift to me. I picked her up, hugged her tight. “Thank you,” I said.

Three months later we buried her in her beloved rose garden, next to the bougainvillea bush.

W
hen my husband moved out, our children were confused, frightened, and desperately unhappy. As much as I tried to soothe their hearts, their emotions ran deep. One afternoon, in a moment of what was either brilliance or foolishness, I took my son, age eleven, to a local pet store. Matthew immediately fell for a tiny Australian shepherd mix (the salesperson swore the dog would grow to perhaps fifteen pounds…ha!), and we agreed that a little black puffball of a cockapoo was perfect for his sister, age nine. When we presented the puppy to Alisa, she let out a little shriek of surprise and then melted with pleasure. By the end of the day, Matthew was the caretaker of Pookie, and Alisa was devoting every ounce of maternal instinct to the cuddly mass she had named Muffy. I watched the children with their new pets, saw
the joy and tenderness in their faces, and knew with certainty that, no matter how much work these puppies would require, they would bring joy to my children.

Four years later, Matthew was fourteen and living with his father, and Alisa had moved with me to a turn-of-thecentury craftsman-style home in Palo Alto. The old house was nearly perfect; the only drawback was the backyard. While it was more than large enough for trees, flowers, and a vegetable garden, it was inadequate for the needs of what had become a very large Pookie — a full-sized dog whose need to run far exceeded the space. At the time, Matthew's father was unable to keep the dog, so we were left with a terrible decision — what to do about Pookie, one of the most loving and intelligent dogs who ever existed. With a deep sense that I was letting down my son, I gave Pookie to a woman who had long admired and adored him. The fact that she lived on more than an acre of doggie playground did not assuage my guilt.

I had decided to make the move to the active and education-focused Palo Alto, from the sleepy Los Gatos community at the foot of the Santa Cruz Mountains, because I believed Alisa would thrive in this new and culturally rich environment. I was wrong. Adolescence was not easy for my daughter. Here we were, in a town where she knew no one, yet she soldiered on through middle school. When she entered high school, she was charming and beautiful, and made many new friends, but I became overly protective and too often distrusted her choices. We argued incessantly. Was she really going to wear
that
to school? (Glare.) Did she have any intention of doing her homework? (Roll eyes.) Was it asking too much to meet this girl's family before my baby
climbed into that car and disappeared into parts unknown? (Slam door.) There were times when I questioned whether my daughter, or even her mother, would survive these years, and I sought counsel about being a better mother, more accepting, less controlling.

As I floundered and gasped through the process, often leaving my daughter wondering what the hell her mother was trying to convey or accomplish, there was one constant in her life that never, ever let her down. Never forgot to love her. Never turned away and sighed too loudly when she was in the throes of one of those teenage pique or angst moments. That constant was Muffy, the sweetest dog, the most steadfast companion. I recall telling my friends that Muffy was my protector as well, because, had my daughter ever been armed, she would never have pulled the trigger for fear that the bullet might pass through my heart, hit the wall, deflect off a pipe, and somehow find its way to Muffy!

Imagine, if you will, a girl of fifteen, tall and coltish, a mass of auburn hair tumbling around a face that, only a year earlier, was notable for the braces she wore on her teeth. Suddenly she was duckling-to-swan beautiful. My daughter was bighearted and kind, unaware of her beauty, and yet she suspected that something was indeed changing. Now imagine a girl typically confused, wondering where her life was going,
too young to imagine more than a few days into the future. Was she afraid? Did her world feel unsafe? I wanted only to protect her, to provide a haven where she never had to question whether she was accepted and loved. I didn't always succeed.

Filling in the gaps was Muffy, a fluffball of a dog who would race into her room, jump on her bed, use his nose to lift the covers, then rush down to her feet, where he would promptly turn around, scoot back up toward the light, and, in a show of devotion and uncanny — but perhaps not uncanine — perception, plop his head on the pillow, look into this girl's eyes, and give her one slurpy lick on the face. After sighing in unison, they would fall asleep. And those times when my beautiful woman/child picked up Muffy and hugged him? He would place both paws on her shoulders and return the hug. Thanks to this dog, the confusions of adolescence were less painful.

There was a time when, for many long and difficult months, my daughter had to share Muffy's tender nature with me, a mother going through her own angst. I had fallen in love with a smart, quirky man who was, alas, emotionally unavailable — a recurring theme in my life — and the collapse of this relationship left me bereft. (Actually, miles beyond bereft, but
gasping for air
or
falling into a useless and pathetic mass of protoplasm
seem melodramatic, accurate as these phrases might be.) I worked all day, nagged Alisa about her homework and responsibilities all evening, and then cried myself to sleep. My poor daughter was torn between keeping her own head above water and making certain her mother's life jacket was securely fastened. Enter Muffy. In addition to being my daughter's loving support, the dog who may have understood nothing about teenage challenges and brokenhearted women somehow keenly sensed the need for his
loving presence. With Muffy nearby, both of us felt adored and appreciated.

A
LISA WAS NEARLY EIGHTEEN
and about to graduate and head off to university when disaster struck. After a weekend away, we came home to find Muffy on my bed, his curled up body surrounded by feces. I was furious and shouted at him to jump down, which he did. Rather than racing into the kitchen and out the doggy door as usual, he scuttled along the floor, back legs dragging behind him. Alisa and I rushed him to a local vet, where they kept him overnight for observation. The next day, they informed us that he had ruptured a vertebra and nothing could be done: the paralysis was permanent.