From the Quill: Little Brown One

Thinking still of Tiger, yesterday, I remembered something I wrote a little over ten years ago. (I include it below, but it's not free for the taking, people, all right? …unlike some of the more-crappy things I've written and posted here. Besides, I have the drafts.) 

Since his death, I find that I keep stumbling over the little Tiger-stuff – which is a typical experience when someone's left us, whether moved across state lines, or overseas, or on to their maker... all of which I've endured (and survived) with loved ones. E.g., for me it includes even little things like scratching his jowls while dinner heats up in the microwave, pushing his fluffy tail out of the popcorn-bowl while watching TV, and so on. 

When I laid him to rest Friday afternoon, it was following on a couple hours of very difficult, frustrated digging through rocky backyard soil that really is more rock than soil. Two hours' work had yielded barely enough depth and breadth for Tiger and his soft blanket and toys (but not the cat-pillow that should have gone along), and I still worry that it wasn't deep enough, that some scavenger may yet come along and undo the work. So atop his low, broad mound (which also describes his own generous shape in life, come to think of it) I set four large paving-blocks; they'll stay there through the fall and winter; come spring, I might just expand Mother's garden to enclose his own plot, and lay down a couple more inches of topsoil and flowers… maybe catnip. 

Dr. Tiermann's office had offered to cremate him and return the ashes (90$), or include him with other animals being cremated (25$... and no ashes back). This would have saved me that labor for certain, but I begrudged the expense… and something about that far-easier option felt a little like a cold return for all the years he's warmed and entertained the family. Nor would I have considered simply putting his body in a bag and leaving it out with the trash, and his last load of used litter. 

No. 

Once before this, on a much smaller scale, I was confronted by an animal's body, and what to do with it. During a lovely sunset in late June of 1997, I heard an odd scrabbling-sound on the concrete balcony, and stepped outside to find a wild English sparrow (I believe she was female) flapping around in some desperation. She hadn't flown into the glass, so I had no idea why she was there, nor why she was in distress. 

But I picked her up, held her, and realized she was dying… and held her while her life ebbed away to nothing. Then I discarded her body sadly in the dumpster (no yard there in our third-floor apartment), feeling while doing so that I'd done something really vile and dirtying to something pure and pretty. 

Then I went inside and wrote a verse to this little bird, and cried. 

Little Brown One 

Little brown sparrow,

fluttering, feathering on my balcony,

As you scraped around, flapped about,

gently I picked you up,

Held your quivering fluff in my palm,

felt the life still filling your chest.

Eyes still open, you must have seen me;

and crying out, did you thank or fear me?

All I could do was hold you;

All I could do was stroke you;

All I could do was whisper and soothe.

I told you it was okay;

twittering myself, I told you to sleep,

To dream and fly again,

the sunset pink and peach around us.

Your feathers were soft as angels,

your tail still twitched, eyes closing;

And I said, Let go of the hurt,

It’s okay. It’s all right;

Let it all go, Relax, Relax,

Be at peace, Fear no longer.

There was nothing I could do!

There was nothing I could do!

(nothing beyond my own mortal powers)  

Little brown one, tan and soft and fluffy,

cupped dying in my hand:

All I could do was watch the life leave you,

the breath go away, the eyes squeeze shut;

All I could do was mourn your gentle passage,

and whisper that your life was special.

Thank you for coming to me!

Thank you for giving me your last moments!

I hope you lost your fear, and knew me,

knew I wished you only peace and comfort.

I hope your last thoughts were free of pain,

threshold of a dream of flight unending.

Thank you for trusting me!

Thank you for living those last moments!

I can only feel honor that I held you,

privilege in guiding you home;

I can only wonder why it all happened,

feel tears that I watched – held – you die.

It felt to me so evil, after such beauty,

to cast your little corpse away.

But I knew, I think, that it was okay;

that while your body rests with the trash

Your spirit, your soul, is still flying,

and your song fills the skies of heaven.

I wish I were an artist!

I wish I could encase your body in gold,

enwrap you forever in glass agleam!

I wish I could show all the world your beauty,

or hear even once your song...

"In what distant deep, or skies..."

Mrs. Dawn Bosco – his former owner (or ownee) – was on the send-to list of yesterday's note on Tiger; she has a very deep and compassionate soul, and shared with me her own measure of sorrow: 

-----Original Message-----
From: Mrs. Bosco
Sent: Friday, October 24, 2008 5:05 PM
To: 'Aging Child'
Subject: RE: Burning Bright  

Gene, 

I share your sorrow in Tiger's passing. I thank you with all my heart, for giving him such a loving home to live out his life while I tried to be there for [some strong family demands of my own]. I did get to see Tig during a visit just prior to your Mom taking ill so I know he was a happy kitty with all of you. I know too that these companions are not people; but, special comforters sent by God to bring some measure of unquestioning love into our sometimes bleak lives. I thank God for the joy of Tiger, and all my other pets over the years. They have been great, helping to soften sad times and heighten the happy ones. We have been blessed with them in our lives. 

Thanks again for being Tiger's adoptive family. 

Love,

Mrs. B 

I wrote her back: 

-----Original Message-----
From: Aging Child [mailto:AGeneChilde@YouWho.com]
Sent: Friday, October 24, 2008 10:41 PM
To: 'Mrs. B'
Subject: RE: Burning Bright 

Good evening, Ms. B.,

And thank you for your kind words – at least as much on my mother's behalf, and my daughters', as my own. It is through you that he came into our home, and your prior years of loving care for him (and the dogs' attention on him also!) certainly prepped him for the sideshow Mother's home can sometimes turn into… as you well know.

I did tell Mother about Tiger this evening – and most interestingly, she very much seemed to know already: she was crying, and asking how Tiger was doing… so I gently told her (choking up badly, I admit), and we talked about him for the next hour. I suspect he may have passed by her room on the way to his next home, and purred something in her soul's ear, waiting with her awhile until I showed up.

At Mother's request, I posted on her bulletin-board a large Tiger-picture that Shellie took a while back and Mew had printed up. Mother said it would make his passing easier for her to bear, not harder, with his big fuzzy face right there by her bed.

I agree deeply with your sentiment: There is no question that God gives us these companions to serve as additional conduits to us of His unconditional love. And they teach us as well about responding to such trusting hearts, and expressing love and devotion ourselves. I get annoyed at certain priests, and other religious figures, who insist that our animal-friends will not be there in Heaven – these men likely never had a big slobbery snout slathering their cheek, or a warm fuzzy curled up next to them on the couch, purring away in contentment and closeness. (And they take their scripture far too hogwash-literally and narrowly.) 

Other priests – e.g., the saintly Benedict Groeschel – express their own feeling that, since God's grace and love accompany us beyond this life, so too will those literal, walking and wagging loving friends He's given us. The Bible itself states unequivocally that at Jesus' name (which means "God will save"), "every knee should bend, of those in Heaven and on Earth and under the Earth" – and St. Paul doesn't write "men's and women's knees"; last time I looked, every animal had knees, from grasshopper to goose to… Tiger. 

The poet Charles Laurence Dunbar wrote (and fellow poet Maya Angelou embraced) the words, "I know why the caged bird sings". I think that's why dogs' tails wag, and Tiger purrs… it's not just because there's a ball or brush in someone's hand, either. 

Gene 

My daughter Shellie had written me shortly after I spoke with her about her "baby": 

-----Original Message-----
From: Shellie Childe [mailto:C.Shell@YabbaDoo.com]
Sent: Friday, October 24, 2008 6:45 PM
To: Aging Child
Subject: RE: Burning Bright  

Thought you might like this: 

"No amount of time can erase the memory of a good cat, and no amount of masking tape can ever totally remove his fur from your couch." 

:] 

quotegarden.com has a whole bunch of quotes about cats - mostly hilarious and so very true 

…prompting from me: 

-----Original Message-----
From: Aging Child
Sent: Friday, October 24, 2008 11:08 PM
To: 'Shellie'; 'Portia'
Subject: RE: Burning Bright  

Thanks – especially for the laugh. Almost nothing is as funny as a cat (although you come darned close, and then some) being him/herself… just troll YouTube for funny cat videos. 

P.S.: I did include Tiger's brush with him – I wrapped him in one of Grandmother's soft couch-blankets (but the pillow was too large) – and added a dingle-ball, his Morris catnip-pillow (freshly doused a couple days ago), and that colorful chair-tied mouse he'd beat mercilessly for no obvious reason. 

Love, 

Dad 

She answered: 

-----Original Message-----
From: Shellie Childe [mailto:C.Shell@YabbaDoo.com]
Sent: Friday, October 24, 2008 11:10 PM
To: Aging Child
Subject: RE: Burning Bright  

Awesome. Make sure you save some catnip/food/treats. I feel a need to leave some for him the next time I'm over. 

I'd heard pretty quickly from "Chuckles", complicit scriptwriter for this blog, and at one point a near-enough neighbor to my mother that she visited with her and Tiger on a regular basis: 

-----Original Message-----
From: Chuckles [mailto:Chuckle_Wilson@Scooby.com]
Sent: Friday, October 24, 2008 10:59 PM
To: 'Mrs. Bosco'; Aging Child
Subject: RE: Burning Bright  

I believe God lets us know when something happens. My mom knew when her sister died and kept asking for her that day. Couldn't think of anything else. I miss that big ball of fur too. Strange how he touched so many. 

giggles 

And fellow contributor – no stranger to the love and devotion of furry companions himself – Spartacus wrote as well: 

-----Original Message-----
From: "Spark" le Klaus [mailto:SpartaCuss@Yabbadoo.com]
Sent: Friday, October 24, 2008 5:59 PM
To: Aging Child
Subject: RE: Burning Bright  

I'm sorry to hear of your loss. 

Pets may "not be people", but I maintain they are just as much a part of our families as anyone else, and it is entirely right/natural to mourn their passing. 

Tiger was lucky to have such a loving family to call his own. 

…eliciting from me: 

-----Original Message-----
From: Aging Child
Sent: Friday, October 24, 2008 11:28 PM
To: 'Spartacus'
Subject: RE: Tiger, Tiger…  

Thank you kindly, Sparks. 

And I appreciate your perspective – you can see by the email traffic I've been bcc-ing you on that it's a common and reassuringly inescapable sentiment, too. I'd be the last to put a sweater on a dog or cat (although I did send Tiger off in a soft blanket), yet I agree with Twain's sentiment that a house just isn't a home without a cat or three in it… ditto a slobbery dog, too. 

(P.S.: If the subject-line's origin snuck past you (e.g., Chuckles didn't recognize it), it's from the first line of Blake's "The Tyger".) 

And this afternoon I took a call from Dr. "Mitchell Tiermann", DVM, owner of the veterinary office where Tiger was taken care of. (Not too long ago, he was also Chuckles's boss.) He had the rest of Tiger's test results. First: hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. That is, his heart had deteriorated, and swelled greatly – he was within days, at very best, of sudden death. And second, he'd indeed had a kidney infection, as seen by the blood in his urine. 

My sister Mew, who has had to say goodbye to a number of sweet cats herself over the years, takes this to point out a likely kidney failure for Tiger, had he had no heart trouble. 

There is, of course, some genuine closure for us in knowing the reasons why the poor fluffy fellow's heart finally gave out. Again, it's quite likely the stress of leaving home for the clinic, after the discomfort of his failing heart and kidneys, was a bit too much. Yet he did have the comfort of being back home. 

And we had – have – the comfort of his being part of that home.

"...Burning Bright"

The following is an email I sent out earlier today to family and some close-to-home friends:

It is with great regret and deep sorrow that I announce the passing this afternoon of Johannes-Tiger Bosco-Childe.

Our Maine coon-cat had recently been showing very troubling signs of a flareup of his previous kidney problems – obvious pain (he'd taken to crying), loss of appetite, and so on – so I brought him to his veterinary office yesterday. Test results (urinalysis, X-ray, EKG, etc.) indeed showed urine crystallization, and a pink tinge that indicated a possibility of blood; his heart – and this was new – showed serious enlargement (likely feline cardiomyopathy, though no trace of a murmur). Further results are due Monday.

When I picked him up this afternoon and brought him home in his carrying-cage, he was expectably vocal about not wanting to be in it, and just wanting to be back home – almost leaping out of the cage (I'd left its gate open) before I could get us in my mother's front door. Once in the house, he wasted no time getting out of his cage, and headed for the steps to the basement… and his litterbox, and Mother's bed (which he'd taken to sleeping under). But he stopped at the stairwell doorway, hunkered down almost sphinxlike, and started his pain-cry again. I petted and soothed him, and after a bit he got up, went down to the top step / landing… and started crying once more. I kept him company for a bit longer, but needed to return to the vet's for his medicine.

When I got back maybe fifteen minutes later (~3:30?), he was still there… and had simply rolled onto his left side, and already breathed his last. He was still warm, and soft… and already gone.

The veterinarian was as shocked as me when I got hold of her – I was still stroking Tiger there on the step – and she ventured that it was likely the stress of the trip to her office and back had been too much for his heart, and I'm inclined to concur. She explained that Tiger had shown no signs of distress, or even given cries of pain, while there at the office; if they'd suspected in the least that there was the chance his heart would let go, they'd have kept him there.

I reached my older daughter Shellie at work after a bit, and let her know – Tiger had been her baby, ever since we inherited him from Mrs. Bosco most of ten years ago (we figure he was about fifteen). Daughter-two Portia, too, has been deeply fond of him, and remembers overnights a few years ago when we'd get up in the dark and brush him and giggle at the static-electric sparks; Tiger never minded the attention, of course. And Mother loved – loves – him with the particularly rich fondness only mothers can exhibit.

I found it was hard to keep the tears at bay while telling Shellie – and I've never been one to elevate our pets, our family-companions, to fellow-human status, nor mourn their passing in the same way I've wept at the end of friends' and relatives' lives. Still, there is a genuine bereavement to my heart. And I don't have a clue how to break this to Mother… and so I won't, and would really encourage each of you to do the same, please. One failed heart (Tiger's), and a couple broken ones (mine and my daughters'), is enough for now. Attached is a photo I took of him this past Saturday, there on the couch enjoying some late-afternoon sun; I'll be going outside in a little bit to lay him to rest. That cat-embroidered pillow there behind Tiger in the photo, by the way, will be going with him, as will his brush (that latter being Shellie's gentle suggestion).

Fur and purr

Pets are not people, however warm and fuzzy (or feathered, or gilled, or scaled) and affectionate they can be… even while heroic at times. The passing of a pet – again, I need to use the word "companion" – , and especially one of many years, is nonetheless a sad event, and their fresh absence does of course leave a void in our hearts. In time, there'll be another cat (or two) here, purring away and shedding and filling the litterbox… though not until after Mother's back home. For now, though, it'll be a lot emptier.

Rest well, Tiger. Thank you for sharing your life with us.

Love,

A. Gene Childe

 

The Dog Daze of Autumn

Your Aging Child has been busy these past couple weeks… again/still. Pope Pius XII remains on the front burner – figuratively, that is. Yet I've been juggling several projects beyond that one, too!

On the job front: while still wallpapering the neighborhood's corporate infrastructure with my résumé, I received the politest of letters from the religious order where I'd applied for the position of Executive Assistant to the Provincial Council. This letter gently and regretfully informed me that another candidate had been selected for that position. Certainly I was disappointed by the news, but I was still feeling the thrill of having just filled out an application there, especially one with a crucifix boldly in its header.

I've also begun plowing more actively into finally rejoining the ranks of college/university students… among whom I've studied (sometimes flying, sometimes flunking) since, er, Carter was president. Victim – I mean, candidate – school number one is a local community college, where at the least I'll nail down those last few "gut" classes toward my humble Associate's Degree. With luck, I'll be studying again this coming Spring.

On a parallel avenue, Mount St. Mary's University in Maryland has been getting an increasing amount of my attention and intentions as well. (See my previous posting.) They even have a satellite campus (which is not, however, in low-Earth orbit… although that would be really cool) closer to home. (And former coworker Aurelio attends that same remote campus!) There I met yesterday with an adult-student placement advisor; I'll be getting together with her again (embarrassing transcripts in hand) to look at what's needed to fast-track my Associate's Degree. I'll get the ba$i¢ classes finished up at the community college, then climb the Mount either for my Bachelor's degree, or to beg for admission at their on-campus seminary.

I'm also still pestering various placement agencies, and am under consideration (interviewing next week) for an admin-assistant job right there on the Mount campus, too. The position would pay barely over half what I was making with my previous employer, but the benefits include – check this out – free tuition. Aaaghhaagghh!

And at this time of year – as September finally shrugs its shoulders and yields to October and his russet leaf-palette – I generally take a week off and sequester myself in a monastery (really!) for a thorough spiritual flush-and-fill, and to sample further the monastic life. There's a great string of Saints' feast-days from late September into early October: archangels', guardian angels', beautiful and awesome St. Thérèse, the equally humble and inspiring St. Francis, and others. So there's plenty to meditate on. Sometimes during this span I can sneak in a birthday while no one's around to make a fuss over me.

But with my income essentially nil at present, this year I sacrificed that special week to prudence (ah, dear prudence), and made a couple-day roadtrip a little closer to my old Kentucky home – I mean, old New England home. I spent much of this time at the Fatima Shrine in Washington, New Jersey. (I'd popped by there for a bit last year, too, and nearly managed to bump into the gentle Father Apostoli.)

I was able to get in two early-morning runs (under a mile each), the first I've run in New Jersey. While panting along, I found myself giggling at an old B. Kilian cartoon I remembered:

No offense intended toward the Garden State! Put away your pieces.

It turns out that occasional contributor Spartacus has a high-security homestead within a day's drive (and perhaps a few state lines) of the Shrine, so – having already given him ample warning by cell and email – I swung by there as well. At some point this year his patient wife must have prevailed on him to put up a sign warning potential trespassers (and intrepid visitors) of the minefield. I paused a moment with my Sharpie and corrected the Russian spelling (the fresh sign's done up in six languages, IIRC), then pressed the call-button quickly enough to avoid the electric-shock he's wired in.

 "It's switched off!" Sparks yelled through his bullhorn after a moment. It looked like the gate-camera had shorted out during the recent rains up his way, so I figured he didn't know it was me yet. I tossed a couple pinecones over the razor-wire just in case, and turned my back a moment. Sure enough, one of them detonated a small mine. I jumped, and brushed the dirt and pine-needles off my shirt, then quick-pressed the button again.

 "Sorry about that!" came the bullhorned voice… but I could hear a chuckle as he clicked off. "Okay, I've muzzled the dogs!" I sighed and wrapped a beach-towel around my lower arm, and stepped through the gate as it swung open silently. The halogen-spots came on; I should have kept my sunglasses.

Even with that first camera out for now (don't count on it again, though), one still enters the Sparta-house acreage with caution. His motion-sensors all seemed to be active, and I spotted what looked like a shotgun and a blowgun each lift and turn my way as I walked past. No doubt other, less noticeable, devices were marking my passage.) Early on there was another mine-crater and a dog-chewed piece of a salesman's briefcase next to it… but I think that's a prop. Maybe. I stepped over several tripwires to play it safe.

In person, Spartacus is not quite as intimidating, but he's both taller and broader than me – and his wife and oldest child both have black belts in karate (one of his children later showed me her sword, too – nearly as long as I am tall; I am not kidding!), so there was no question how respectful I'd be. He sheathed his bowie knife and shook my left hand, and chided the large dog still clamped on my right arm. The dog dropped reluctantly, its hackles still raised, and we went into the house. I wrapped the now-perforated beach-towel around my neck and dabbed the sweat from my face – it had been much easier going this time than last.

We reminisced a bit; forty years ago we had been schoolkids together… and even then he was taller and broader and older than me, come to think of it. Today I'd brought along some music for his impressive collection, and we checked out some blues-tracks and more obscure good songs that had managed to escape his notice over the years. We also looked over some Simpsons videos I'd included.

Sparkly took me into his workshops (why have one, when you can have two?), and amid the awesome equipment showed me a beautiful piece of rich, dense, fine-grained, rose-colored wood that he's slowly crafting into a lap-steel guitar. (After His Holiness, my next blog-project here will be to document the progress of this work, including photos and – hopefully – an MP3 of the finished product.) There were several pieces of wooden sculpture he's shaping. And he also has several aircraft-models in progress… which are about as far from the little snap-together kits you and I used to make as… a trebuchet is from a slingshot.

We also talked metaphysics (and I've never met a physics I didn't like), animals – another dog was chewing on my arm at this point, but he's not full-grown (maybe three feet at the shoulder), and was doing his best not to break my skin –, education, family, history, art, exotic cars, toxicology, politics, computers, mustard, and so on. Sparks and the wife and oldest child whipped together (they did not use real whips) a nice steaming bowl of pasta, and a cold bowl of rich salad, plus sauce-sop bread-slices, and I joined the family for a fine, impromptu, casual dinner.

Mrs. Spartacus – fresh back from Switzerland – did me a woman's finest honor and treated me to a modest slab of real, genuine, European black-dark chocolate. It was the best dark chocolate I've ever tasted. In manner she is warm and welcoming… but her fangs and claws are never far below the surface. In this regard – and her growl – she reminds me delightfully of my older daughter. Mrs. and Mr. are an excellent match, and their kids and curs are well raised and respected. And respectful.

Too soon, as always, I had to leave. Sparty flicked on the bank of security-switches as we headed out the reinforced door. I spotted the minefield-lever and switched it back off on the way past. We headed down the sloping trail to my car, and I had the sense to stop right where he did. I stooped and picked up a couple glacier-rounded rocks (Ice-Age glaciers had passed by there a couple-dozen millennia earlier), and threw one a few feet ahead, turning my back once more.

As pine-bark and leaves finished raining down on us, Sparty grinned his infectious best and said again, "Sorry about that." I gestured him ahead of me, and he took the other rock out of my hand and set off one last mine before going any further. Obviously the goodwife had switched them back on immediately; I told you they were a good match!

Once Spark had unclamped the younger dog from my ankle, I cleared the day's debris from my car, gave him a bear-hug, and headed off down the road. After a moment the bright glow of his security-halogens flickered off, and I found myself already missing him and his fortress.

And I wondered suddenly: where does he get the power? I'm guessing they finally hooked in the water-wheel, augmenting their small solar panel, but I wouldn't be surprised if they're also tapped into a vein of off-site, low-level natural radioactives. Possibly their mastiffs take turns on the treadmill, too; I don't know – they're certainly in good shape (and even their semi-feral cat is musclebound). But Sparkle-Cuss would undoubtedly simply shrug and say they've been running the home off political hot air for years.

That can't be true… or their manse would be huge. So you can drive out and ask them yourselves; just don't forget to have some pinecones handy.

 

The Mouse That Wept

Last week I received, and then sent around my circle of closer friends and coworkers, a cute little inspirational piece, interspersed with what looks like children's drawings of children playing; you've probably seen it, or any of thousands of its ilk: 

TODAY'S INSPIRATION

HOW TO STAY YOUNG
1. Throw out nonessential numbers.
This includes age, weight, and height.
Let the doctors worry about them. That is why you pay them.

2. Keep only cheerful friends.
The grouches pull you down.
(Keep this in mind if you are one of those grouches!)

3. Keep learning:
Learn more about the computer, crafts, gardening, whatever.
Never let the brain get idle.
"An idle mind is the devil's workshop." And the devil's name is Alzheimer!

4. Enjoy the simple things

5. Laugh often, long, and loud. Laugh until you have to gasp for breath.
And if you have a friend who makes you laugh, spend lots and lots of time with him or her!

 

6. The tears happen:
Endure, grieve, and move on.
LIVE while you are alive.

7. Surround yourself with what you love:
Whether it's family, pets, keepsakes, music, plants, hobbies, whatever.
Your home is your refuge.

 

8. Cherish your health:
If it is good, preserve it.
If it is unstable, improve it.
If it is beyond what you can improve, get help.

9. Don't take guilt trips.
Instead, take a trip to the mall, even to another country, but NOT to where the guilt is.

10. Tell the people you love that you love them, at every opportunity.

And if you don't send this to at least four people - who cares?
But do share this with someone.

Conservative friend Anon E. Mouse is good for sending these out, too – and sometimes I'll pounce on her gently for assuming that the Dalai Lama, or Saint Thérèse, has ever had time to write such treacle. Still, some folks like a high-sugar e-diet, so who am I to deny them?

Anyway, I generally include her when I pass one along; she responded to this one:

Sent: Wednesday, May 02, 2007 9:44 AM

Thanks AgingChild, funny how on days when you really need encouragement emails seem to appear out of nowhere. Thanks earthly angel. Regards,
Anon E. Mouse

I answered:

Sent: Wednesday, May 02, 2007 10:00 AM

Glad to pass along, of course! Remember from kindergarten: if it's a fun toy, or a giggle-making joke or inspiration, share it with the rest of the class so everyone can enjoy it!

But "angel"? Plllpp! Wrong window, ma'am. I just pray to be His clean and simple vessel or/and conduit. Trouble is, my own agenda too often clogs the pipe, so at times too little of the good stuff comes through; sigh.

Come to think of it, though, that doesn't stand in His way – if I'm supposed to pass along a good word to someone who needs it, the word gets through anyway… and He gives me a hug, too, on His way past to picking up the person in greatest need of being held and embraced.

Even being peripheral is a little blessing in itself. Amazing how much He has to go around!!

Regards,

AgingChild

But it wasn't simply a matter of a merely lousy day Mouse was having:

Sent: Wednesday, May 02, 2007 10:10 AM

Yea, I do remember AC. Sometimes just don't know how to handle disappearances by the ones I love. It's Carlie the impish 6 month old corgi who weighs in at about 12 lbs. She's missing since sometime yesterday, but this isn't the first time. Last time we lost her was when it was really cold in January and she was 5 lbs.; F2 [Mouse's husband] found her with the goats. This time he's looked in all the fields, went to the neighbors and no Carlie. I have a very hard time with this freedom bit for the pups. We have foxes and maybe even coyotes around. I've already lost 2 cats, Raffi the first month after moving in and Quilla his sister in January right after Carlie was lost and then found. I'm not sure I can continue with this emotional rollercoaster ride. Regards,
Anon

I'm no real dog person. I'm the odd (straight) man who really likes cats, and has no desire to have a dog – though I'll play with friends' and neighbors'. So my empathy wasn't as sensitive as she needed, but I was still able to put my heart in her place:

Sent: Wednesday, May 02, 2007 11:57 AM

My friend, to say that "animals'll be animals" is no consolation when a warm, fuzzy, and affectionate – and vulnerable – critter is gone and, for all you know, just might be lost forever.

One of your own most awesome traits is the size of your heart; you see it right away in how you've embraced F2 and his kids… and in how you really worried about that ahead of time, too. You've seen it, too, in aching for your parents' health, and tears over the passing of your last dog. The cost to you of such a heart is, of course, that this deep-loving heart can also be deeply wounded.

You know that there simply is only so much you can do for these four-legged charges of yours: feed, clean, and shelter them; train and play with them; teach them where the boundaries are… and of course love them totally. Yet short of chaining them down, locking them up 24/7, and keeping every one of them on half-foot leashes, they are still at the mercy of nature: weather, instincts, and so on.

And each time one of them steps outside – where wilder, colder, more aggressive creatures lurk – your animals do take a risk, of course… and they take your big and vulnerable heart with them. You can't change this about yourself without obliterating a very essential piece of what makes you… you. This is a big part, too, of what your husband and children love about you (as do your friends and colleagues). The hurt is okay.

I don't know if our pets and other animals have guardian angels – although some are most definitely our own earthly guardians. Rest assured that God has entrusted them to you, and does expect each of you to be their physical caretaker here on Earth (and knows you can do this beautifully well). So you do want to be sure you're fulfilling this role as their caretakers. And indeed, you do already do all you arguably can to ensure their safety, security, and good health.

Beyond that, and your reasonable peace of mind, trust them back to Him and His care when they're out of your reach. And let it be a consolation, not frustration, that He didn't make you master/mistress of Earth, with the power to protect every child and animal from all threats… we're each expected to do what we can as vulnerable creatures ourselves, but we still have to leave the rest to Him.

The five hardest and scariest words for me to embrace are "Jesus, I trust in You" – and I've been working at that for several years now. It's not easy… but it does reassure us of His embrace those times a warm-and-fuzzy creature has returned to Him… as he will do for those whom we love when our own moment is in His hands.

Regards,

AC

Generally my words can give Anon some deep consolation. But not this time:

Sent: Wednesday, May 02, 2007 4:33 PM

Hi Acey, Thanks for your encouraging email, but I don't know if I can go through the emotional continual upheaval. Just in case you wanted to see the trio, from right to left is Marlo (½ corgi, ½ beagle), Milar (9 mo. Male) & Carlie (6 mo. Female) who at the moment is lost.

Just made up some lost flyers to post; F2 walked through the woods around our neighbors property; no luck yet. Regards,
Anon E. Mouse

There was little more I could offer her. I don't have the power to cause stray animals to return home. I can pray for them, too, but the world can be cruel and a lot more black-and-white and uncompassionate where animals are involved.

Sent: Wednesday, May 02, 2007 5:01 PM

How cute! Of course they'd win and keep your heart!

Marlo really does look part beagle! And your other two corgis look a bit like short-legged, short-haired shelties with more muscle. Thanks, and good luck to both of – all three of – you; thank God also that you each have the other to lean on for strength while waiting (and working) for Carlie's return.

Regards,

AgingChild

I've heard nothing more since, so I assume Carlie's still lost. I think God gave us animals to show us examples of total love and devotion (and at times utter dependence), and also to showcase for us the painful need to let a loved one go when s/he's out of our protecting arms and sight.

All things, and all living beings especially, return to God. This can be a bit easier to bear when we remember that God is closer to us than our own heartbeat… and so if our loved one – be s/he pet, friend, parent, child – is no farther away. Sometimes you don't even need to close your eyes. Why, the tears can leak out quite nicely even if they're wide open.

The Incredible Talking Cat

I’ve spent some of my (minimal) spare time, last few evenings, fixing up some of the problems (line-misbreaks, botched image import, etc.) in earlier postings here, plus adding hyperlinks, and other time-wasting AR-heavy nit-pickery. 

So this evening, while doing more of the above, the panting gerbil doing vertical laps in the back of my head was wondering what profundities, or literary excerpt, or political tirade, I might put up on WordPress. 

But you know, let’s go light-hearted again, instead. 

We inherited our unimaginatively-named Tiger from a family friend, “Mrs. Bosco”, whose son (IIRC) was moving back in, and couldn’t tolerate cats. Tiger is interesting: overweight and beautiful, friendly to most folks (especially if you’re holding his brush, or giving him his weekly catnip-fix). He must be eighty-plus percent Maine Coon Cat: plump, tiger-striped in shades of brown (and cream on neck and belly… where he’s polka-dotted!); he has the characteristic fat fingers and toes, and fluffy tail; thick – though not long – almost-persian fur. 

Early on I concluded that he’s a very mixed breed. He has: a dog’s wet nose (and also says “woof!” when I pick him up, sometimes – really!); a squirrel’s tail and wrists (his hands hang limply like a squirrel’s); a bat’s ears; a pony’s gallop, when he’s chasing a laser-dot or catnip-laced ball-on-a-string; if he’s hunched down on his tummy and you rub his jowls, he’ll get long and slinky like a weasel or ferret; scratch him in that position by gently pulling the handful of loose skin and fur between his shoulder blades, and his purr sounds like a grunting pig. My mother thinks he’s actually part eggplant, given his shape (though not color!). I call him “Mr. Pearbody” for that same reason, among other names (Fluffbutt, Knucklehead, etc.). 

Most interestingly, he talks…REALLY! 

Until recently I was taking a bus to work (need to resume doing so – heck of a money-saver!), picking it up at a local hub where trains can also be taken to Baltimore and Washington and points beyond. And Tiger really wants me to ride the train, and tell him what it’s like. I know this, because each morning he greets me with a very clearly-spoken “Rail?” 

He also wants beer for breakfast, which I refuse him. When getting ready to pour his water, I have to listen to his hopeful plea, “Ale?” 

He knows I like stamps, too; once when I came home after buying an old album with even older stamps in it (how’s the 1850s for “old”, eh? Yow!). Tiger seemed to know what I was carrying. As I headed up the stairs to my room and collection, he looked at me and said, “Rare?” 

When my older daughter moved for a time to Baltimore, I closed off her room to save HVAC costs. But Tiger had liked going up there to hang out with her. So he led me up there once, about a week after she’d gone, and I opened the door… but of course my daughter wasn’t there. Tiger looked around in bafflement, and asked, “Where??” I don’t think he could understand the answer. 

The most hilarious word from him came when my mother was complaining about how long it had taken me to complete something essential around the house (can’t recall anymore what it was). She pointed out, “It was a whole hour!” And that very instant, Tiger looked up from his sprawl on the floor and asked incredulously – it sounded exactly like this: “OWW-wurr??” 

Qazy Qat.