I Say Goodbye to Uncle Murky

I knew this would be the year I had to say goodbye to my longtime companion, Uncle Murky.  The signs of feline age increased as the weeks went by. Uncle Murky has had vibrant health and a mellow temperament for more than sixteen years. The only time he was ever ill was on catching kennel cough from his nephew Orange, and in his first months of life he was run over by a car. Miraculously, only his tiny foot had been hit and though it swelled up like a balloon, it was relatively easy to treat with some meds and Murky never went outside again.

He did go through life with a funny toe, which we nicknamed The Talon. It healed with a kind of crumpled effect, the middle toe sticking out. Without this distinction, Murky was the most ordinary featured cat- the prototype of feline, if you will, a grey striped tabby like millions of others.

Still, to our variegated family, with me as the one constant, Murky was anything but ordinary. He embodied serenity. In the tumultuous world of Mom’s emotions, Uncle Murky was the eye of the storm. He never felt dismay or bewilderment and though content and happy, he never veered too dramatically into excitement or joy. His Buddha nature tolerated every stage of my adult life, and he was front row centre for all of it.

Uncle Murky was the son of Itsy Diva, whom I had to shovel off of the road after her unfortunate demise, to spare poor Japey the sight of his beloved fluffy princess in such macabre disarray. Itsy Diva was tiny and mainly white with calico bits, nothing like her two massive tabby offspring. She was quite eccentric, like her human, Japey. She was the only cat I knew who went mad for peanuts. I’m talking about peanuts, in the shell, which she would eat along with the nut inside. Japey would stand on the front porch and call her, in a falsetto shrieking lilt, peanut in hand. She would come tearing through the neighbourhood like a rabid rabbit on speed, and tackle the peanut head on. After her untimely demise and her son’s mangled foot, I knew I would never have another outdoor cat. Now Japey is gone, too, a young man felled by cancer, and so Murky felt like a living relic, Japey’s grandcat.

Uncle Murky didn’t mind staying indoors. In all things, he was content. All he asked out of life was a pillow. Nothing made him quite as content as a pillow. There could be boxes galore, or clean fluffy blankets fresh from the dryer, and these he would ignore. All he wanted was a pillow, usually mine. He would clamber upon it while I was sleeping and gently nudge my head to fall off the side of the bed. Then he would get good and comfy and settle in for the night.

If by some lack of luck on his part, I failed to budge, he would attempt to share the space and nestle around my head. I found this quite endearing for a while, but when he took to frequent sneezing, directly onto my face, I took offense and told him, get your own damn pillow. And so ever after, he had his very own pillow, and we would sleep head to head in perfect harmony.

Murky did not bat an eyelash if we moved, if we got into the carrier and went elsewhere, nor if there was a party and a motley assortment of guests fawning over him. He didn’t get excited about much except sushi. Nor did he exhibit those most base and vile of human emotions like jealousy or self-pity, not even if the attention shifted from him to the newcomer- Orange. Orange happened one New Year’s, born to Murky’s brother and his wife. While I was not supposed to be in charge of the new kitten- there was to be no kitten, as we had believed that Miss Purr was fixed- I ended up with the little Orange thing, born no bigger than a thumb, and the only kitten in the litter.

Orange took considerable attention as he didn’t eat anything but milk and cream of mushroom soup for the first six months of his life, making us certain he would not live. But live he did, and to this day, he has no desire for foods that cats like- fish, chicken, and so on. Unlike his calm and collected and intelligent Uncle Murky, Orange is an oddball with few brains and a comic streak. He lives in his own little world, inhabited by all manner of sprites and butterflies. Uncle Murky took him under his wing from the beginning, cleaning him, showing him how to act like a cat at least some of the time, playing ball hockey with him, though Murky was rather disinterested in games from the beginning. He understood that Orange needed a game mate, and was happy to oblige. He graciously let Orange take the limelight, because Orange needed an extra bit of it in ways Murky never had.

In the past year, Murky became increasingly withdrawn and lost a few teeth, presenting them sorrowfully on that beloved pillow. He wore a resigned expression, tolerating the pain but wishing for numbered days. His stomach began to go and he had an increasingly difficult time digesting his food. Eventually, he began to have lengthy fits where he lost control of his stomach contents, spilling from both ends uncontrollably. This unfortunate hell meant giving him frequent baths, which he disliked, but tolerated with the same resolve he’d always had. Though the vet said there was nothing wrong with him but the beginnings of organ failure, I loathed seeing him suffering like this. The bouts became increasingly frequent and I knew I had to make the choice to say goodbye.

Because the Toronto Humane Society has a no-kill policy, I had to take my beloved tabby home to Niagara for Christmas. It’s not exactly how I wanted to celebrate the Yule, but Murky had been increasingly despondent the past weeks and showed complete apathy. He was waiting for the end, suffering through bouts of horrific illness as he waited with increasing impatience. And so, I packed his favourite pillow into his carrier and prepared for Murky’s last ride.

While he was generally comfortable in cars or carriers, because he was not feeling well, he was scared and crying. I was upset enough, and didn’t want him to be distressed for the long drive to Niagara. I wondered if he would be more comfortable with some Valium, and then dismissed the thought, thinking the dose might kill him.

Oh.

And so, I gave him half a human tablet. Within five minutes, Uncle was purring contentedly on his pillow, quite enjoying the scenic route, totally comfortable. When we arrived at the noisy humane society, Uncle Murky was unperturbed by the barking dogs, a rag doll in my arms, still purring.

Once, someone said something that gave me great comfort in this situation- that we are here for the duration of our pet’s life, even if he is not here for the duration of ours.  Still, it was so hard to say goodbye.

When I returned home yesterday, I found a solemn Orange with relative newcomer Bert. Nephew was lying on my pillow, where Uncle Murky loved to be. He looked up at me mournfully, looking around to see if I was bringing Uncle back with me. But the carrier was empty. He climbed back onto his uncle’s pillow, and wouldn’t move, keeping vigil all night long. Whenever I stirred next to him in the night, his eyes were wide open and he was not sleeping. Bert looked on, worried for his friend, wondering where Murky had gone.

But this morning when I rose from bed, still solemn from the hollow in the house, Orange jumped down from the pillow and resumed life at his food bowl, followed by a gathering of all his little sponge balls. He and Bert spent the morning while I wrote playing hide and seek with them.

I must learn from their wisdom, their innate acceptance of nature’s rhythms. Love, and be loved. Say goodbye. Grieve intensely, but not for long, and then greet the new day.

Lorette C. Luzajic

www.thegirlcanwrite.net

All Creatures Great and Small

October 5, 2008

Among the wacky and wonderful things that the Metropolitan Community Church of Toronto does, Sunday’s barnyard service was…well, the wildest.

I grew up in the kind of church where loving a pet too much bordered on idol worship, and certainly any mention of a saint meant your soul had been tainted by Catholic theology, and you were heading straight into the pits of sulfur, where St. Francis with woodland friends were waiting for you. At least we buried Silly Tillie under the lilac tree in the front yard, but we most certainly did not have services for her life or her death.

MCCT does both- the annual Blessing of Animals celebrates living pets and commemorates those who have blessed us already and moved on to that special forest glade where lambs leap and bow-wows woof and butterflies alight upon the heads of even their enemies.

We have Sandra Millar to thank for organizing this annual blessing ceremony. Sandra raises Shelties and knows how much pets mean to others in the congregation. The pastoral team knows that our flock comes from all walks of life and that to some, pets are all the family had, and for most, pets are a big part of the family. So once a year, Sandra organizes a brief celebratory service where you can bring your animals to be blessed.

St. Francis, who is the patron saint of animals, has long presided over such ceremonies, and hence, so many of paintings depict him with all manner of critter friend gathering around him. A statue of the good saint shared the altar with Reverends Hawkes and Bell this Sunday afternoon. And the congregation? I’ll say it was among the most surreal of my churchy experiences. For the pews were filled with Figgy and Dexter and Dolly and Chee Chee and Puffy and Pookie and Fluffy and Buddy and Cougar and Daphne and Lolita Esperanza. Poodles, terriers, golden retrievers, and mutts of every ilk filled the church and woofed happily along as we sang All God’s Creatures Have a Place in the Choir. The outstanding Dawn Sinclair, holding a friend’s pet chicken, sang You’ve Got a Friend. And then every cat, dog, and chicken present came forward for a photo with Pastor Hawkes or Reverend Bell.

I came on behalf of my three cats, guessing that since they only ever leave the house to go to the vet, they wouldn’t view the blessing   as quaintly or sweetly as their mother did. So I invited my bff Maeve and her dog, a strong boy of over 100 solid pounds of energy and muscle. Bodhi felt right at home for his first time in church, among dozens of barking beasts. After all, at MCC, all are welcome, even Buddhist dogs.

I’ve long held the view that pets are angels sent to help us on our miserable walk here on earth, to teach us, and offer companionship. Angels indeed have fur and feathers and fins.

We are not the only ones to have an annual blessing of pets, though it is not commonly held by most  churches. The ceremony is usually held close to October 4, which is St. Francis’ feast day.  Whether or not you attend such a ceremony, you could recite St. Francis’ canticle for your pets whenever you want to express your gratitude for their friendship. “All praise to you, Oh Lord, for all these brother and sister creatures.”

Cat Hair, Reunions, Facebook, and the Meaning of Life

Tonight after work is the inaugural spring BBQ at the BFF’s- it’s a haircutting and mojito party, with our hair guru Dax and her scissors. So you can all expect me to be a bit prettier tomorrow, and I know I won’t disappoint you!

It will be a much-needed few hours of relaxation after a busy day and busier week.

Remember the scene in the book Misery where Stephen King’s writer character is churning out a novel to keep his psycho captor happy? And his typewriter has no ‘n’ key? Well, this morning a rather important bit on my keyboard ceased to perform for me- the SPACE BAR.

I had a 10am deadline, so dashing out for a new keyboard wasn’t the best possibility. Taking the time to dismantle the dang thing and rake out the mattress of cat hair was likely the best bet for rejuvenation. It turned out that if I put a pen nozzle into the spongey part under the space bar, after every word when I needed it, it would work. Needless to say, the morning’s assignment was rather tedious. I had to get another keyboard at lunch.

Surely, cat hair is the bane of my existence. Every cat owner knows that there’s no such thing as clean laundry. Fresh from the dryer, Miss Kitty wants it warm. We have to vacuum our underwear drawers, for crying out loud.

But whatever, that is just part and parcel of having these amazing living creatures among us. It’s still beyond me how each and every cat is such an unusual character. I wrote yesterday about Erte, the eccentric Russian designer. He once expressed that his heart yearned only for a cat, and was never without a small entourage of his beloved felines. I have such an assortment of tom-dandies here, it’s ridiculous. And the best part of my job is that two of the three just love flopping across the desk and spending the workday with me. And this is why so much cat hair sails into the keyboard!

Of course, I’m e-jogging to facebook quickly after darting out for the keyboard replacement. It goes without saying that I have to catch up- it’s been hours, and I feel out of touch. I also check out my old/new pal’s blog. And it’s nice to see my book on his blog today!

Facebook rules. It’s not the first time an old friend (or otherwise!) has come out of the woodwork, of course. But not every girl from grade three gym do you rush out to meet up with, and some you can’t, because they are in Ireland or Madagascar.

My friends asked about my pending reunion with this dear friend from high school. It had been sixteen or so years since I’d last seen Dave. During high school we got on famously, nattering endlessly about every conceivable analysis of every situation. It didn’t long after e-contact to notice some obvious synchronicities- we’re bloggers, we’re cheerful drama queens, we’ve been at the same places on Church Street at the same time all our lives and never ran into each other.

“I’ll have my cell if things go sour,” one of my queens offered. Well, this wasn’t a blind date, but still, there was no way to tell how things would turn out. I’d been pretty sure way back when that Dave was one of my favourite things in the world, but things go by, and people change, so there was no real guarantee. Still, I was guessing it would be an incredibly normal experience; that it would resonate oddly as if there had been no in-between years, even though I’m graying, have gained fifty pounds, and Dave had lost as much!

“This is how I think it’s gonna go,” I told them. “I think we won’t be able to stop talking.” Then I said something that really shocked them: “And if I recall correctly, this one may well outchatter me.”

Well, Dave and I were right at home among the rich and the tragic at Zipperz, warbling along with the actually astounding Kendall the One Man Band. And we talked, and we talked. I learned among other things, that my friend also has three cats- and three dogs! How cool is that?

The quirky bubble we inhabited for the evening was familiar and wonderful and I’m thankful for these bursts of joy in life where something goes really rather nice. This kind of laughter is the best medicine. It’s nice to recover some of your precious souls when fate allows.

It was also funny because I was hoping to avoid the topic of the last time we’d seen each other before losing the ropes. It was a slightly sour note for me and any feelings or politic I’d had were brief and petty. It was just by chance that this was the last note: it was not ‘a final straw’ on either side, to my understanding at least. Now, a decade and a half on, I could care less that a scene occurred at Dave’s party. Julie Ann and I had heard about the party and happened to be in St. Catharines, so we went. Julie Ann’s date also went, and he happened to be very tall and very hippie-like and talked in creepy under notes so that you had to strain to hear him. Well, he was a benign kind of guy, but the kids didn’t know that, and David asked us to hit the hippie trail. That was long before email, so phone numbers changed, addresses shifted, and hence, my last recollection of Dave was me blasting out of his driveway with two deadheads in the back seat of my dad’s Buick LeSabre.

Yep, embarrassing. So embarrassing that only two glasses of pink wine into the soiree, Dave says, “Hmm, I don’t really remember the exact last moment I laid eyes on you.”

What? “Was it in Toronto, or Niagara, do you know?” And that’s when it dawns on me that Dave had been plastered, as teenagers often are at parties, and didn’t even recall the weird encounter with Night of the Living Deadhead. He did not even recall meeting this brief amour of our mutual pal, Julie Ann.

And that, too, was a small gift. All these years I’d wondered why Dave’s last memory of me had to be this drama, however small. But it was forgettable drama, and he had, in fact, forgotten.

Now I am off to christen spring with a merry assortment of droll cats, including my favourite Crinkled Old Bat, Al, the hairdresser, and not one but two other meth widows. It’s good to have good peeps. It’s already been a great spring. Every little thing is magic. Sunny days ahead.

Visit writer Lorette C. Luzajic at www.thegirlcanwrite.net.
Buy her book, the one Dave raved about on his blog, above, or online through indigo or amazon.

Zoe’s Christmas Carol

I always fall for the bad boys, much to the chagrin of family and friends. Whenever it happens, they bite their lip and think, here we go again. Every since John Bender mesmerized me during The Breakfast Club’s detention, my heart has belonged to the underdog, the prisoner, the roughneck with the heart of gold. But I’m not alone, of course- many ladies of much higher stature than I can hope to attain love the bad boy, too, from Danielle Steel to Lady Diana. Even Grace leaves Will briefly to date a prisoner who melts her heart.

Well, thank God it wasn’t the Don Jail this time where I fell in love. Leo was in a different kind of prison, not far down the street, at the Toronto Humane Society. Quite possibly the ugliest of all the cats there awaiting a home, he had my heart instantly. Scruffy and ripped up, this wild thing was not laying contentedly inside his litter box like the others. He was desperate to get out of the cage, and his distress was palpable. Just as I was considering letting this home wrecker wreak havoc in the life of my three once-orphaned pampered felines, Mr. Once-Were-Warriors looked me straight in the eye through a menacing hiss. That’s when I saw he was missing an eye. A wave or revulsion went through me, as if he was a living piece of taxidermy. The concave dent of the face where an eye should have been looked sore and probably was, once, and I wanted to take the pain poor Cyclops had living in those alleys and give him a place of fluffy towels and endless tins of tuna.

But alas, half my life is already spent changing the litter box and looking after Bert’s lesion-producing skin condition and cleaning cat hair out of my keyboard. I can’t have another cat, and certainly not a boy of this ilk, one whose brute appeal will be short lived. Leo, however, would be great for a garage mechanic with a grouchy disposition, slinking around tools and catching mice. He’d be fine for a lonely old lady with a garden, who is also half blind, and just hopes for some porch companionship and wants to scare the neighbourhood rottweilers away.

I wasn’t here to adopt, anyhow. It was my friend Miss Mel who decided to expand her family by rescuing an adult cat in need. For 13 years, it was her and her own Leo, a cheery, loyal redhead of a dog, nothing like the cantankerous old cat I fell for. Leo’s getting on in years and Mel thought he would relish the company of a friendly and comedic cat, a pal he could tell jokes with and wile away the late afternoon hours in the sunny window. After quickly perusing the endless cages of cats, she decided to adopt 32 of them, but I told her the legal limit is six. I’m not entirely sure on that figure- it may be a by-law I read once and now quote with feigned authority. Regardless, you have to pick just one, I told her.

It was a hard decision- each abandoned kitty, whether cheery and personable or aloof and catty, had its charms. The needier ones pulled our heartstrings, but Mel had to eliminate from the selection any with major diseases. While willing to take on any necessary vet bills, she’s just not equipped to fund more serious and known disabilities. There are many cats with feline AIDS- please consider adopting one if you do not own other pets and can afford some extra care. Mel also eliminated the cutesy kittens: reasoning that they are more easily adoptable, and that she’d like to rescue an older cat as companion to her older dog.

The happy ending for Ned is just wonderful. He’s a bumpy looking orange and white boy who didn’t even go haywire upon entering his new apartment. He immediately let Leo the Dog know who would rule the roost from here on in, and promptly lay down on the couch in a little ball after eating, posing for the photographs of the new addition. One happy ending.

But this story is not really about Ned and how lucky he was. It’s about the other Leo who got left behind, and Ned’s next-door cellmate. It’s about Little Elvis, whom we almost chose, and the tiny little black and white girl with the crazy long hair on her paws. It’s about the giant grey and white feller with the swollen face and difficult breathing, and the sassy little bundle of orange stripes who purred so loud we could hear her over the din of mewing beasts down the row. The story is this: FIX YOUR BLOODY PETS. The story is this: DON’T LET YOUR PET WANDER AROUND IMPREGNATING OTHER PETS.

The Toronto Humane Society takes in nearly ten thousand pets every year. Most are cats and dogs, but they also have adoption programs for birds and reptiles! They care for wild animals if injured, and return them to their habitat, if appropriate. Only a very small percentage- usually less than 15%- of animals are put out of their misery. “We will only euthanise an animal that is severely ill – with no chance of recovery – or extremely aggressive with people and other animals. We never euthanise animals based on space constraints or because the animal has been here too long,” they state online.

The Humane Society began in the late 1800s in defense of children and animals. In February 1887, a fellow named John Kelso presented some ideas to the Canadian Institute about rescuing children from abusive homes and workhorses from inhumane conditions. The term Humane Society was chosen to be broad enough to encourage humane treatment of all living beings. Children’s Aid societies and other philanthropies proceeded, and the Humane Society eventually became the animal rescue and care we know of today.

So what can you do? And why should you, when children are starving and soldiers are missing limbs? Well, my friend, if you are buying artificial legs for soldiers, land mine victims, and other amputees, and you are funding food and medicine for Darfur refugees, you are exempt from Toronto’s pet problem: unless, of course, your pet is not neutered. Then get he to a neuteree!

If you are not yet sharing your savings with Haitian hospitals, homeless Vancouver addicts, or AIDS orphans at home or afar, then please help Leo, Ned, and Fido this year. Like me, you may not be in a position to adopt, but you can still help. Here’s how:

FIRST THINGS FIRST. Spay your pet. You can wax philosophical over the morality of whether your pet can consent to a monk’s life if and when you can afford to pay the vet bills, food bills, and housing for each and every stray animal in the world. Until then, shut up and head to the cutting board.

SECOND THINGS FIRST. As an act of charity, and animal defense, pay for your neighbour/friend/wayward brother to neuter his or her pet. Some annoying friends do not neuter. Some loving homes took an orphan and share their food but do not have an extra cent to neuter. Some are irresponsible and should be neutered themselves until they are capable of seeing the need. That’s for the Big Guy to sort out. But you can help by taking matters into your own hands.

Adopt a pet. If you are flush, take one of the pets who need more medical attention. Adopt an older pet. Adopt an older pet for an old lady friend you have (make sure it’s fine with her first!) Let your Auntie look after the pet she can’t afford but would love, and you pay the vet bills and food. This way, even if you can’t have a pet, due to allergies or lifestyle or whatever, you can help a pet and a human at the same time. Many shut-ins would love some companionship but can’t afford to adopt. Help them.

If you can’t adopt because you are moving to Taiwan to teach English next year, you can FOSTER PARENT. Through the humane society, you can temporarily provide love and shelter. This is hard on the heart when you fall in love with a pet, and it is heroic.

You can’t adopt because you have six pets already, or because you work long hours and your condo is too small for a dog. Fair enough. You can DONATE money to the humane society. Why not give up that silvery holiday blouse and donate the money, which will help neuter, feed, or provide medical care or shelter to all kinds of creatures? Stay in and have rum and eggnog at home for one party. Send over what you save on fancy martinis and greedier party splurges- you know I’m talking about that exorbitantly-priced baggie that you don’t effing need. Then you’ll feel extra festive at the next party, and really enjoy it instead of pretending to.

Don’t know what to get those nieces and nephews who are drowning in junk? Give the gift of philanthropy. You can make a donation in their name, and commit to working with them over the next year on a schedule and budget that they can contribute to. Kids love critters, and you can give your time by taking them down to see the unloved cats and dogs. This will help them love and care for their own pets more responsibly, and be eager to help share their allowance for a good cause.

Finally, you can donate IN MEMORY of a loved one who has died. Perhaps Uncle Frank was a real dog lover before that fateful snowy night when he drove over a bridge. Your beloved daughter loved animals before she tragically developed leukemia. Donating in memory of an animal lover is a wonderful way to keep their warmth with us, and to do something about the things we can change. We can’t bring our loved one back. But we can pay it forward.

Over Thanksgiving when my beautiful sister Zoë Nickerson tragically passed away, I wanted to bring her back so badly that I’ve been sick ever since. I dreamed of being a millionaire and setting up the Zoë Nickerson Centre for Fibromyalgia Research or any elaborate, outlandish project that would bring her spirit back to earth where I think it belongs, though perhaps Zoë or God don’t agree. I can’t do any of that, and it was killing me. But yesterday as I fell madly in love with a cat with one eye, I thought of Zoë, who had a similar penchant for heartbreaking hotties. That said, the love of her life was a giant boxer named Eva who thought she was a cat, and would climb accordingly onto your lap, though she weighed more than you do. This year, for Eva, I’m donating a day’s wages to the Toronto Humane Society in memory of Zoë Nickerson.

We can’t change the world, not really. The mittens I’m taking to the mitten tree at church will keep one kid’s hands warm this winter, but will not solve the hunger and homelessness of the millions. One cause seems like it’s not even worth bothering for- why build a house for someone when another flood is coming? Why give mittens when some kids need a new liver? Why help refugees when another war is coming? Why visit a lonely old lady when the old folks’ homes are busting at the seams? Why bother donating to cancer research when diabetes and depression take the lives of millions? Why advocate against violence or for mental health patients or against torture in Slovenia or for local food drives or against carbon emissions when there are more than six billion people clamouring for some need?

Because God commanded it. Because you cannot change the world but you can most certainly provide one child with mittens or one Fido with dinner.

Because you can, that’s why.

www.thegirlcanwrite.net