The Gingham Dog and the Calico Cat

Two friends of mine recently lost pets who were very dear to them: Mabel the dog and Ichabod the cat. Mabel was attributed by her owner as teaching her how to live without fear or guilt. There is a lot we can learn from children and animals.

I have had cats my whole life. Actually, I don't think there was a time when I didn't have cats. It's not that I'm specifically a cat person, but my lifestyle has always been more accommodating to the species. I suppose that's not as true anymore.

When one cat would die, I'd immediately adopt another. I've fostered a few cats: an all-white one with no tail named Snoball and a one-eyed Abyssinian named Claude. Today, I have two cats -- Metro and Judy -- and they both look like the girl cat in the Pepe Le Pew cartoons ("eet ees love, love, love at sight first, no?").

The only dog I ever had was a black labrador retriever named Mali. She came home at the same time I was born, and we grew up together. Her innate sense of loyalty was astounding. Whenever I ran away from home, she followed me all the way. The summers that we headed to Cape Cod, she would ride up with us in the back seat of the station-wagon -- our cat Cassandra lying up front on the dashboard. She swam in the Atlantic Ocean with us and in the reservoirs in New Jersey. Mali lived to be 13 years old, surviving one run-in with a car. When my dad had to take her to the vet to be put down (she always readily jumped into the car, making this last ride so bittersweet), it was the first time I ever saw him cry.

The list goes on: Pale Face, Penny Whistle, Tortue, Tooshie, Lucy (who only lived for 3 days), Bob, Ruby, Biscuit. And there are dear friend's pets still alive: Rufus, Madison, Chance, Bigsby...and Ichabod's best friends, Sarah and Bullitt.

I don't have children, but I don't treat my pets like children. I am not a crazy cat lady, or at least I hope I never become one. I take care of them. I feed them. Now, I take great pleasure in putting them outside in the back yard, where they chase ants and bugs with wings. They watch everything that moves. They eat the grass. They love it, and I love watching them in their true element. And I honestly think they love me more for letting them go. One day soon, I won't be able to corral them back inside.

It's a terrible, difficult thing to put an animal to sleep. I've done it three times in my life. I've lost both my parents, and that is significant, but I decidedly ended the lives of my pets to free them from the pain and discomfort of illnesses that couldn't be cured, or were too expensive to cure.

And when you're in that vet office -- with your hand on the animal -- and they are looking up at you with the same trust they've done for how ever many nights, it is a truly unbearable form of sadness. How can I suddenly erase all of those humanly qualities and emotions that I have likely been projecting onto this animal for so many years? Why is this just as hard as losing humans? Because those qualities really are there. They are capable of providing a truly unique form of reassurance, they are stronger and more willful than we are, and only they know how to give endless amounts of unconditional love.

Peace to Mabel and Ichabod.