Cherished (19 page)

We were faced with a weighty decision. The vet told us that surgery was purposeless, but what if there was even a smidgen of hope? Certainly the dog who had given his all to our family deserved every chance at recovery. We spoke to several veterinarians and learned that a clinic in Santa Cruz specialized in the kind of spinal surgery that sometimes reversed a dog's paralysis. We made an appointment and murmured hopeful incantations.

After the surgery we brought Muffy home. Over the next few weeks, we tended to his wound and kept him comfortable. I took him onto the lawn several times each day and performed acupressure on his bladder, because he was no longer able to empty it on his own. He always looked away, as if embarrassed that a life of joyful dashing about had somehow come to this. Were we expecting too much from him and
selfishly trying to convince ourselves that he could live a happy life on two legs? Ambulatory or not, Muffy would continue to dispense unlimited love, but at what price?

I rigged a sling for his midsection and walked him around the neighborhood, his hind legs dangling above the ground and his front legs racing as if nothing had changed. A veterinarian who specialized in acupuncture came to the house and inserted needles into areas that energized nerves. We bought a wheeled contraption that, when strapped on, took the place of his paralyzed legs. Sadly, nothing changed the fact that, when Muffy was not harnessed, or his legs were not supported, those legs dragged behind him like boneless flesh. Even worse, he became quiet and withdrawn.

The day finally arrived when we had to accept the truth. With Alisa now a young adult and her mother finally getting the hang of motherhood, we were able to talk this through, share our sense of impending grief, and give each other the emotional support required to make the right decision.

On the appointed day, we drove back over the Santa Cruz Mountains for the postsurgical evaluation. Alisa carried Muffy into the waiting room and held him close. The evaluation took only minutes, and we were told that, as we had feared, his injury was too severe, that nothing had changed.

Alisa and I were left alone to confer. We both knew what had to be done, but the choice was beyond painful. We held each other, Muffy between us licking our faces as we wept over what we both knew to be the inevitable. As the doctor and his assistant assembled syringe and vial, we cradled our dog, stroking him and speaking with love. We thanked him for the years of joy he had brought into our lives and wished him a
life where he could run freely and without pain. With Alisa holding his head and murmuring to him, and me scratching him behind the ears and wishing him a peaceful journey, he died quietly.

I loved that dog. Even when he rushed up to me, rolled over to have his tummy scratched, and piddled every damn time, he was special. The fact that he died more than twenty years ago and his memory can still evoke such emotions says so much about the role he played in our lives. There's a joke that has to do with the question of when life begins. Three clerics are arguing the point. The priest insists that life begins at conception, while the minister states that life begins at birth. The rabbi announces, “Life begins when the children go off to college and the dog dies.” Muffy's death was not a new beginning but the end of a period in our lives that had been fraught with tension and uncertainty, teenage confusion, and a mother's need to control. It was also a time when love and acceptance, warmth and joy, were delivered by a fluffy little dog who reminded my daughter every day that she was lovable, that she mattered, and that no matter how difficult life seemed, no matter how much she felt that her well-intentioned mother was making a botch of mothering, he was always there to share her pillow, listen to her secrets … and never tell.

I
found a silky white cat in my inbox. She was a long-haired Persian mix, and as soon as I clicked on her photo, I knew we'd be a good match. She had been abandoned at a veterinarian's office, the same place my friend Suz took her dog. The cat was sixteen years old, and she peed — a lot (early stage kidney disease, not yet fatal). Suz sent the sob story out into cyberspace with an announcement that the cat needed a new home. Icy was pure white except for her nose, pink as a cherry blossom, and cloudy blue eyes that sat buried in her furry face.

“Adorable, adorable,” I typed back to Suz. “I'll take her.”

All I had to do was convince Ron.

Ron inherited my dog when we married, a Lab mix. He embraced her from the start — hiding treats behind her water dish as a surprise, buying a retractable leash so
she could trot ten feet ahead of us down the sidewalk, and spending Saturday afternoons tossing a soft Frisbee for her at the park. Even though he welcomed her, he believed a dog deserved a yard. We didn't have a yard. Instead, Ron and I kept moving from one rental to another (apartments, condos, row houses). He was ready to plunk down our savings to buy a home near Washington, D.C., where we lived, but my dream was to return to California, the place we met and married. Not yet ready to sever my ties out west, I frequently flew back and forth between coasts. This would pose a problem if we took in a new cat. While I could assume the bulk of responsibilities most of the time — litter box, food, vet appointments — when I left town I'd be pawning Icy off on him. If Ron was okay with the plan, we'd be fine. But I had my suspicions.

It's not that we didn't want to grow our family. There
was
a barren space in our home (rather, our town home). But the missing piece wasn't a feline. It was a child. Three years earlier, I'd had a miscarriage. The loss occurred after the baby's heart had already begun beating, so when a sonogram later confirmed the fetus had died, Ron and I sat stunned. In the exam room, I stared at the floor beyond my feet, and he reached for me as my silent tears dripped on my gown. During an ensuing surgery, the doctor found my pelvic area riddled with endometrial tissue, inflammatory growths that made the prospects for another pregnancy bleak. Hormone pills, artificial reproduction techniques, and visualizations of flowers blooming in my uterus didn't work. We didn't conceive again.

So the day Suz's email arrived, I confessed to her my real reason for wanting Icy. “I have empty-arms syndrome,” I typed back.

I ached to swaddle babies, carry toddlers, and hug children — or, at the very least, squeeze a lovable cat.

“My dog?” Suz said. “He was an empty-arms acquisition. We got him minutes after my first in vitro fertilization failed. I had to have a baby
something
.”

Suz understood. Because she was a companion of mine on the fertility journey, our conversations often revolved around ovaries and motherhood. I told her I had a feeling Ron wouldn't go for an elderly cat.

“Let's send him ESP messages,” I said.

I shut my eyes and beamed him. He was in the air, thousands of miles away, on a red-eye flight to Washington, returning from a business trip.

Suz said she had an extra cat bowl and litter box I could borrow, so I made tentative plans to swing by her house on Saturday to pick up the supplies. Then I contacted Suz's vet, Dr. Whitehead, to find out more information.

“Icy will lie on your lap all day and cuddle. That's her only goal in life,” Dr. Whitehead said.

What magic words. I could practically feel Icy's gentle purr and myself stroking her silky coat and kissing her between her tufted ears. I dreamed of her all night.

Ron arrived home early in the morning, bleary-eyed from the flight. First I let him sleep. Then I watched him eat. Finally, I opened my mouth.

“We're not adopting a sixteen-year-old cat,” he said.

I hadn't even mentioned the peeing.

I waited a few hours before explaining the whole story again, only better this time. I added details about how Icy's ex-owners left her to be euthanized, even though she had a few good years left. And I tried to explain the hollow pang inside — a gulf that longed for a newborn baby, but one I thought could at least be tempered by a cat who wanted to do nothing but hang out and nestle all day. No dice.

Later, I tried again.

“So why don't you want to adopt Icy?”

“The logistics. What will you do with her when you're gone in February?”

“I'll take her with me.”

“Be serious.”

“I am serious. You're allowed to travel with a cat. I'll get one of those fashionable pet carriers — ”

“The cat will go nuts.”

“ —and some tranquilizers.”

“Who will pay for that? And who will pay for her food and litter and vet bills?”

I would if I could. When we married, Ron and I made comparable salaries. After I gave up my job as a lawyer to become a writer, my income tanked.

That evening, I schlepped down the street with a heavy heart and wandered inside the local market to buy dog food. Back home in the kitchen, I opened the bag and did a double take. I'd purchased organic cat litter.

“A sign,” I said.

“Can you get a refund?” Ron asked.

I looked up at my husband and sighed. Even when he's disagreeable, he has a peaceful demeanor. He is a kind, supportive, and faithful partner. But what the hell? Couldn't he see that not only would I be rescuing Icy, but also Icy would be rescuing me? Wasn't that worth the price of a cat? Or maybe Ron was the one doing the rescuing. Maybe he was trying to save me from myself. Keeping me from setting myself up for more heartache.

The funny thing is that Ron is more of an animal lover than I am. Take spiders. I smash them with a shoe. He sets them free outside. Last Christmas he spent hours flipping through the World Wildlife Fund catalog in search of the perfect plush animal gifts (a whale for his Alaska-loving sister, a wolverine for my Michigan alum mom). Squatting close to watch a bug, I'll wait with patience as he narrates the internal thoughts of a creature looping itself around a twine of ivy (“Where am I? Lombard Street?” or “Whoa, a crumb? My lucky day!”). His old roommate in California had a cat, and although Ron tried to be sly, I noticed how, after dinner, he'd save a piece of salmon and slip it in the cat's dish. But I couldn't get him to budge about the cat I wanted. Not a bit.

I started obsessing over Icy. I kept her in my inbox. Each morning, I uploaded her picture and built our imaginary life. We lounged on my chaise with a good book, or spent the afternoon in my writing office, where I reached over from my desk to scratch her chin as she stretched out in the sunny spot by the window and yawned. We had an instant bond, as if
we'd known each other for ages. True, the bond was one-sided. And I sensed a lingering awareness that it was demented to be emotionally involved with a pet I'd never met. A virtual cat. But I couldn't stop.

My preoccupation with Icy reminded me of another obsession of mine — scrolling through adoption websites in search of “special needs” kids. After selecting an exotic country, like Vietnam, I'd click through each face, wondering if I'd feel an instant connection. Before I stumbled across these Internet sites, Ron and I had started filling out adoption paperwork through a local agency. We moved smoothly through the process until I learned that international adoption is a business rife with fraudulence, abuse, and child trafficking. Ron thought we should navigate the system as best we could, certain we could find a healthy baby who needed a home. But I dragged my feet.

I found comfort in the Internet. And the more time I spent online, the more I was drawn to the special needs kids. With their physical and mental delays, these kids weren't in demand, and so they were in no danger of being caught in the web of child trafficking. At least, that was my theory. When one of the faces zapped my heart, I'd read the child's story. Fetal alcohol syndrome. HIV. Cerebral palsy. Some paragraphs were full of words that meant nothing to me but caused my pulse to race: hydrocephalus or arthrogryposis. Most special needs kids were older, and attachment disorder was practically a given. Taglines ran at the ends of their biographies: “This beautiful girl needs a family with access to the medical resources she needs,” or “This spirited boy needs a family who has parented past his age.” The warnings gave me pause, but I felt they were obstacles I could overcome.

I became fixated on a seven-year-old girl named Sheetal.
She was from Southeast Asia and had flawless brown skin
and short cropped hair. I could tell from her good-natured smile she was a happy child. Looking at her healthy glow, it was hard to believe she had a damaged liver. Her life expectancy was unknown, and her medical needs ongoing. I wanted to throw caution to the wind and take her in. As in my fantasy world with Icy, I fancied our days. I'd read books to Sheetal, and we'd walk the dog to the café, where we'd meet up with the neighborhood's newest puppies.

When Sheetal's picture disappeared from the adoption website, I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. But I was shocked. An update said she'd found her “forever family.” Part of me wanted to shout, “Wait — wrong one! Her forever family is with us.” But I'd never even told Ron about her. I kept meaning to propose the idea over dinner, unsure how to bring it up.