Chicken Soup for the Cat & Dog Lover's Soul (37 page)

Sir Walter Scott

Banjo came to me by way of a paper bag deposited on my doorstep, apparently the unwanted runt of a litter of German shepherd puppies. At the time, I was single, pushing thirty and living in the country, so I was able to take on the responsibility of a new pet. But did I want one? I had recently decided not to have another dog after losing Chad, a collie who had been my companion for nearly thirteen years. Chad had been a mature animal, easy to live with. Now here I was holding a tiny creature that would demand a lot of time, energy and patience. Was I prepared to deal with the torn shoes, the gnawed table legs, the destroyed flowerbeds? Was I willing to spend the time it takes to properly train a dog?

These questions disappeared the moment I lifted that black and brown furball into my arms. And in the years that followed, I never regretted my decision.

Later when I married, my wife Sandy didn’t share my feelings about Banjo. She made it abundantly clear that she wasn’t fond of dogs. To her, Banjo was simply the cause of hair on the couch and mud in the carpet, and a nuisance to make arrangements for whenever we went away.

But in time, I noticed a change. It began with her insistence that she had accidentally added toomuchmilk to her cereal, and instead of wasting it, she might as well give it to Banjo. (She continued this ritual “accident” until the morning Banjo died.) Next, my grooming technique for Banjo suddenly became unacceptable, and Banjo and I found ourselves going on regular visits to the doggie beauty parlor.

Sandy’s love for Banjo truly blossomed during the second year of our marriage when my work took me away from home for ten weeks and Banjo became entirely her responsibility. Banjo never had it so good. The two of them did everything together, becoming better friends than Sandy ever dreamed, although there had never been any question in Banjo’s mind.

Sandy has never been accused of spending too much time in the kitchen; yet, as I later found out, she and Banjo would spend their evenings baking gingerbread and blueberry muffins. Then they would top the treats with whipped cream and homemade jams and sit in front of the fire, leaning against each other, licking clean fingers and plates. Since I was more strict as to what was and wasn’t considered dog food—and I never once baked Banjo his very own birthday cake—sharing dinners and desserts when I was away was a conspiracy they both relished.

Our life together with Banjo continued for ten happy years. Then Banjo’s health began to deteriorate. When he was diagnosed with cancer, Sandy and I reached the painful realization that Banjo was leaving us.

In the weeks that followed, we were glad for every extra moment we had with Banjo, but we couldn’t shake the sadness we felt. We were concerned when Banjo’s dear face told us he wasn’t feeling well, yet we were unable to make the decision that the time had come to help him along. And although we prepared ourselves for the inevitable, the end was no less painful, no easier to accept. It was still too soon.

The day Banjo died, he walked unsteadily over to me as I was pulling on my coat. I believe he was asking me to stay. I knew why. So I helped him outside one last time, then took him next to the fire and held his head on my lap. We talked about a lot of things, alone in the quiet, just as we had in the beginning, ten short years ago. After all, it seemed like only yesterday Banjo was curled up in the crook of my arm making contented little grunts, a sound only a puppy can make. It seemed like just last week I was explaining to him for the umpteenth time that the rawhide bones were his and the furniture was mine. If I had any regrets, if I thought I could have done certain things better, if I wished I’d been a little more understanding with a young, rambunctious puppy, none of this mattered now as Banjo and I were ending our relationship the same way we started it: just the two of us holding each other close.

He was in pain, and as the glow of the fireplace enveloped us I kept telling him it was okay to let go. And he finally did, leaving me feeling very alone in the middle of the living room, wondering how the last ten years could have possibly gone by so quickly.

The line between life and death is but a fragile second, and watching Banjo cross it was profoundly moving. I held Banjo a bit longer than I probably should have, running my fingers along the black stripes that accented his eyes. Though his life had slipped away, he was still Banjo, still my friend, and I wasn’t ready to give him up. All I could think of, as tears ran down my cheeks, was that I wanted him back.

I wanted him waiting for me at the door, barking up a storm and acting as if after ten years he was still amazed that I actually came home to him every day. I wanted to see him wriggling down the hill behind our house on his back, making the first tracks in a freshly fallen snow. I wanted to hear that long, moaning sigh as he fell asleep next to our bed, a sound that clearly said, “This is a fine place to be.”

I could have gone on forever with the memories, but Sandy would be home soon and it was important to me that her last time with him be as dignified as possible. So I folded a blanket around Banjo, arranged his head across his thick pillow, and left him lying peacefully in front of the fire.

When Sandy came home and walked through the front door, she knew by the expression on my face that it was over. I believe her heart broke even more deeply than mine.

We stayed with Banjo for a long while before composing ourselves and carrying him into the woods where he so loved to run. We buried him, covered his grave with pine bows and placed flowers against a hastily made cross.

And then the forest grew silent, except for the wind that pushed through the winter trees. When we finally turned to walk away, Banjo’s gravesite seemed small, so small for a dog so large in our hearts.

A few months have passed since we stood in the snow and said good-bye to Banjo, and I still miss him every day. But an outpouring of love during the ensuing weeks helped Sandy and me deal with our loss. Cards came through the mail, flowers arrived at our door, friends stopped by to offer their condolences. Even neighborhood children, who knew me only as “Banjo’s Dad,” came around to say how sorry they were. It was a warm feeling, knowing Banjo had touched so many lives, in however small a way, and that people understood and cared about what Sandy and I were going through.

I’d like to think Banjo and I shared an extraordinary kinship, one worthy of being recorded and remembered. But frankly, there was nothing unique about it. The world didn’t spin differently because of us. The simple truth is we liked each other, and that’s all that really mattered.

Now, the morning cereal bowls with their leftover milk sit in the kitchen sink, the front door opens without fanfare and I find myself once again saying, “No more dogs; I can’t go through that again.” But deep inside, it’s a different story. I know exactly what will happen when the next puppy shows up on my doorstep.

David C. Hoopes

The Cantor’s Cat

Imagine the head soloist, the music minister and the associate pastor of a house of worship. Now imagine one person taking on all those functions. That’s about half of the job of a cantor.

Cantors commemorate every stop on the Jewish lifecycle. We chant the blessings that bring a child into the congregation; that celebrate the arrival of those children to young adulthood; that bind two lives together; and that pronounce a person’s journey from life into death. We rejoice with the celebrants, as well as mourn with the bereaved. But how do we respond when somebody loses a loved one with four legs instead of two? And how do we handle this situation when it happens to us?

Some years ago, a silver tabby named Petey plopped into my life. We were a team from the get-go. Petey was large and cuddly and had the charming ability to hold hands with me, using a firm, tensile-pawed grip.

When I met my future husband, Mark, I was about to ask him the important question—did he like cats?—when he mentioned Julia, his own tuxedo puss. The first time Mark and I sat together onmy sofa, Petey stretched out to his full length in order to sit on both our laps simultaneously. Then he looked at me with a face that said, “Can I keep this one?” And so our household numbered two cats, and two people who were allowed to live with them as long as they paid the rent.

On the first Sabbath in our first home, we suddenly noticed Petey and Julia sitting on the kitchen floor, watching our every move. We lit and blessed the candles together. They stayed at attention during
kiddush
and
motzi,
the prayers before the wine and food; and then they walked away. The following Friday, using the Yiddish word for Sabbath, we hollered, “Hey,
Shabbos
cats!” and they came into the kitchen and sat quietly during the blessings as they had the previous week.

Jewish law mandates caring for the animals in one’s household, including feeding them before we feed ourselves. Being good Jewish pet lovers, we ran our household accordingly, and all of us thrived on the love that grew from this four-way relationship.

Many happy years passed. At fourteen, Petey started to lose his luster but none of his love. However, like an old man who doesn’t quite understand why life doesn’t continue on the way it did when he was young, he had his crabby moments. Still, he was my beautiful boy, and we all moved to Albuquerque from New York when I took a pulpit out West. Both cats seemed to thrive on the changed atmosphere and seemed extremely happy in their new home.

One Monday, some months after the move, I took Petey to the vet to try to find out why he couldn’t keep his food down. The doctor prescribed an enzyme powder, and Petey valiantly continued to eat, but to no avail. By Friday night, he was miserable. No matter how hard we tried to make him comfortable, he cried like a baby with the effort of walking, of settling in my lap, of pressing next to the windowpane’s cold glass. We ached for him and for ourselves. Clearly he was saying goodbye, but he wasn’t about to go easily.

At last, too exhausted to fight any longer, he slept fitfully in our bed between Mark and me. He held my hand between the still-strong grip of his paws as I held him in my arms and whispered my thanks and my love. All night long, I struggled between fighting to keep him and facing the reality of letting him go. In the morning we rushed him to the vet, but Petey had other ideas. He died as soon as we got him inside the office.

His death destroyed us. The price of love just then was the deepest pain imaginable as we wept uncontrollably. To make matters harder, Sabbath services would begin in two hours. How could I serve professionally when my heart had just been ripped in two? Only those who have had an animal in their home can fully understand that loss, no matter how much they sympathize with it. Would the rabbi and the congregation understand my sorrow over a cat?

But begging off was out of the question. We needed to be with our congregation in our spiritual home that morning.

When I arrived at the synagogue, Mark mourned in my study, calling friends and family who knew and loved Petey. I went to the rabbi and told him what had happened. His eyes were gentle and full of understanding, and I felt the genuine quality of his words of comfort. To my surprise, he said, “Do as much as you can this morning, and I will fill in when you falter. You need the support of your congregation today. And I think we should let people know what’s happened after the service.” His support buoyed me enough to manage through the service. My notes soared, but my customary ebullient sparkle was severely diminished. The rabbi knew that this would be noticed, and we would meet the consequent inquiries with honest answers.

Afterwards, I hesitated to greet the congregation one-on-one. I still wasn’t sure how they would react to my grief over the loss of a cat. After all, I was their invincible cantor. With a slight sinking feeling, I noticed Mrs. Gold approaching me. For the last few months, I’d been directing her son in his religious studies and I found the Golds to be the most demanding, least flexible family I’d ever worked with. But as she got nearer, I saw compassion in her eyes. She took me gently into her arms, saying, “The rabbi told me about your Petey. I’m so sorry. It’s hard to lose a dear friend.”

When she released me, we smiled at each other, and both our faces were shining with tears.

And so it continued, members of the congregation clasping my hand or embracingme, as they spoke kind words of condolence. I saw that Mark was having the same experience. This wave of comfort poured over us like warm honey as we began to feel our grief over losing Petey.

And though we had lost a loved one, we’d found something, too—the people in our congregation, a large and loving family to share our lives with. While Petey lived, he brought people together, and our
Shabbos
cat continued to do so—even with his passing.