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Sophie
Wednesday, June 25, 1997
Tonight I lost a loved one. My cat Sophie was born right in front of me on April 17, 1994. I had never seen anything born in front of me and I missed the birth of her two littermates later in the night. Today is June 25, 1997, so she lived for 3 years and two months. For those three years she was my baby. I have had her and her littermate Mirabelle this whole time. I used to hate cats. I used to fear black ones when I was a child: the one superstition that I ever confessed to or thought about. In 12th grade, in biology, my lab partner and I had to dissect a black cat and I always felt guilty, wondering if one day I might "own" one just like her, though who truly owns whom is hard to understand when it comes to humans and cats.
For three years and two months I did. Or more accurately, she owned me. It's funny writing a requiem for a cat. I'm not supposed to be someone who gets affected easily. Normally I quietly wonder how people can grieve as they do for pets. Seems crazy. Now I know.
When she first started walking three years ago, or rather trying to walk, we realized that she had a split pelvis. She would crawl on her forepaws and her rear would drag along the carpet. We didn't think she would make it. But my then girlfriend Lil's sister Anne, the physical therapist, proved us wrong. She taught us to hold Sophie's little rear end as if she was walking around and after a week or two, that seemed to do the trick. So that also made her extremely special to me. She was a fighter who beat the odds. And from then on, she was super-healthy.
Until now. I had her and Mirabelle spayed two days ago. I brought them both home afterwards on Monday evening. Sophie never seemed or looked at ease. They both teetered around trying to recover from the anesthesia, but Mirabelle was able to lie down and get comfortable. Sophie wasn't. Her suture bled a little and her lower abdomen was all puffy.
Tuesday night I took her back in. She ended spending the night there, all alone. Without Mirabelle for the first time in her life. Without anything that was familiar to her. Just the cold metal cage. That was yesterday.
Dr. McFarlane from Pet Smart's clinic called me this evening at 6:30. "I've got really bad news. Sophie went into a seizure. We tried to revive her and she looked like she was going to be okay, but then she crashed..." The doctor went on for about four seconds before I reacted to her words and abruptly interrupted her. "She's dead? She can't be. I just saw her a few minutes ago." I couldn't believe the agonized sound of my own voice. I had been at the clinic just a little while earlier, spending about 45 minutes petting her to try to ease the suffering that I hoped wasn't real. Nonetheless, she was recovering fine from her second surgery the night before which was to fix the internal hemorrhaging which was somehow left over from the first surgery. She was brought in and put on one of the smooth aluminum tables on a towel. She was weak, but still managed to move over a foot so that her body was next to me while I stood at the end of the same table. She sat up groggily. We tapped her on the nose to which she reacted normally, blinking her eyes and wincing reflexively. I wish that I could remember Dr. McFarlane's exact words, but they basically promised that I could come back in an hour and a half and pick her up to bring her back home.
"Yes, I'm so sorry," she said, crying on her end of the phone. I almost dropped mine. She started going over my options and talking about a necroscopy. But it wasn't the time... They said that they had only lost one cat at the clinic in this procedure. And Dr. McFarlane told me that she has done three or four thousand. How could this happen to Sophie, so vivid and lively?
"Do you want to call me back later?"
"No, I'll just come in a few minutes." I could hear the sadness in my own voice.
I went to the clinic where they put me in one of the little examination rooms. Dr. McFarlane came a few minutes later and filled me in on the details. "I just want to see her."
Five minutes later, she entered the room with the lifeless body of my poor little cat draped in a blue towel. Her mouth was open a centimeter wide, her fur was matted around her mouth. And her stomach was shaved from the two surgeries required to spay her and then for the hematoma, which was the complication that made me take her back in yesterday. But other than that, she almost looked like she was asleep.
I petted her on the table for ten fifteen minutes before I finally picked her up and cradled her in my arms like I have done so many hundreds of times during the past three years. I wanted to open her eyes, to see the beautiful, innocent rounds that have charmed me so many times in the past. It didn't work.
This was the sweetest cat in the world. She never once bit me. She followed me around everywhere the way a puppy would. As a matter of fact, she was always the center of attention. Even my father, who appears to loathe cats, was thrilled any time she sat behind him on the sofa while he read or watched TV. She loved light or reflections generated from CD cases, the CDs themselves, the flashlight and reading glasses. She would chase the reflections endlessly until we would stop because either we were laughing too hard or because she was panting so seriously. She would stand on two legs against the wall trying to touch it. If anyone in the house were to run an electric shaver or a hair dryer, then she would come, stand on two legs against the cabinet and be totally mesmerized until the show was over. Bring either of those two appliances two close to her and she would hiss or try to bat the offending object.
She loved all her toys. The little furry cardboard snake on an elastic band and the little mouse on the springy one were her favorites. She would do complete 360 vertical somersaults jumping in the air to try to get them as I zinged them back and forth in front of her. If I didn't drop treats to her, she would stand on her rear legs and grab my hand with her forepaws to get the treat. And now her body was lifeless.
My standing order to Shomit was that in case of fire he was to save himself, save the cats and save the slide photos, in that order. Anything else could be replaced. Now she's gone and I wonder what I will do. I have never had such mutual co-dependency with a pet or almost anyone.
Sophie would knead on me at night or in the morning or whenever she wanted to do so. It hurt since I refused to have her claws removed. But it was worth getting the attention of this little sweetheart. In the morning, she would watch me. I could sense her doing so even with my eyes closed, her weight shifting gently near my face and upper body. And she would leave me in peace until I opened my eyes. And then she would talk. I can't describe her talking. She chirped while running. She made little chirpy groans while landing after jumping from two feet or more. She made a funny chirping "khak-khak-khak" sound to bless me if I sneezed or if she was trying to communicate with the CD case reflection cast high up on the wall or on the ceiling. Maybe she thought it was God. Who knows?
Mirabelle, the other one, has been a brat for most of her life. They are so different in so many ways. Mirabelle is gray to Sophie's black. Mirabelle is anti-social. But not Sophie. Mirabelle likes to be alone and comes around to be with others the most when she's in heat. But that won't happen any more for either her or for the love of my life. Sophie is gregarious and always sits in the center of the room where there are the most people in the house. She never complained about anything except for not getting enough attention. Dr. McFarlane said the same thing, that even when she was gasping for air in her last few moments, she wasn't complaining.
Now the house is going to seem different. She won't be there to greet me every day when I come home, sitting at the mouth of the little corridor that leads to the bedroom. She won't be lying on the sofa, her favorite perch, looking out the living area window. I won't see her chasing Mirabelle up and down the stairs, through the corridors, up on to the ledge above the kitchen and stairs. I won't be able to give her any more treats. She won't ever again follow me into the bathroom and sit on the toilet seat waiting for me to get back out of the shower. She won't be around any more to watch the water go down the drain of the bathtub or of the kitchen sink while Ma does the dishes. I won't see her piled in Shomit's clothes. Or on the foot of the bed. She won't come running into the kitchen any more any time I open a can. Now a little of her fur is on my khaki pants and it's all I have left.
I held her, on her back, in my arms at the clinic with her head against my right shoulder. A few times her head slipped a little, like she was still alive. I patted her little body as if she was asleep. Bubbles rippled underneath her skin like she had had some gaseous reaction with the anesthesia. I suppose that the necropsy will tell us what really happened.
As I write this in the near darkness brought on by nightfall and the onset of stormy weather, I realize how miserable this makes me since I can't seek any spiritual solace like most of my friends and relatives. I can't bring myself to believe in souls and have faith in reincarnation. So to me she is gone. Forever. I will never see her ever again. It's so final. And abrupt. Here and normal two days ago with not a single care in the world beyond food, attention, grooming and water. Here and in recovery one day ago, all balled up ignoring food and water and unable to sleep next to me like she always does. Yesterday I left her in the bedroom. I found her not having moved more than six inches 11 hours later. This evening, I thought that she was on the way to recovery. I stroked her gently like I always do. And she reacted without moving except for once when she got up, moved off the towel and lay down at the end of the table next to where I was standing. I have totally personified her and think of her and her bratty sister as my daughters. It was my daughter that I saw seeming to enjoy the caresses of my fingers three hours ago. And gone now. All I can think is that I let her down that maybe there was something else that I could have done. .
Until she died tonight, I have never had touched the cool skin of a loved one or cradled something so lifeless in my arms. Before she was born in front of me, I had never seen a live birth recorded with my own eyes. So the cycle has come to a full circle.
I had just seen her an hour ago. I went to go visit her on my way home from work, confident that it would make her feel good and that this way she wouldn't feel abandoned. She must have wondered where I was, why I wasn't with her these last two days. She must have wondered why she wasn't at home, the only place that she ever spent the night before last night. Dr. McFarlane had practically promised me that I would get her back home tonight and that I could come back at 8 PM to pick her up. Well, now it's 8:15 and she's never going to be alive in my arms again.
Monday, June 30, 1997, 6:20 PM
This evening, I picked up Mirabelle, who has also been in the hospital. Her neck swelled up Friday morning and she's been in Dr. McFarlane's care ever since, at least until about an hour and a half ago.
Sophie came back from the autopsy covered in dry ice. I held her for ten minutes or more with incredible sadness, and felt incredible saddness, something which I fought all day and will fight again as the dirt starts to go on top of her grave.
Angie and I dug a hole in back, behind the garage. Angie coached me and dug herself. And I found out that I'm not good enough to quit my day job and become a ditch digger.
We placed Sophie in a plastic box, about 2.5' x 1.5' x 1' on her favorite purple towel, all folded up, that she would sleep on when on my bed. Inside the box, we taped several photos all around the sides. The pictures included one of me and Angie, one of Lil and the two kitties, one of the two kitties by themselves, one of Ma, Baba and Shomit which I took in Madras in December of 1993. This way all of her loved ones are around her for any journey to the afterworld. We also put a one gallon milk jug top, the little zip that holds the tops in place, her pink flea collar, her favorite mouse toy which she would do somersaults chasing, several little toy balls and the two fluffy balls that are tied together. And, of course, we also put an empty CD jewel box. There was a can of treats too. Salmon flavored which was her favorite. I would have loved to have put her favorite flashlight, but decided against it at the last minute. We placed a single pink carnation over her body, curled up as if asleep. Finally, we taped a copy of this and my business card to the sides as well.
It took us five to ten minutes to actually set the box in the ground and to then cover it. After piling dirt on top of the box, we added several small 10-15 lb. rocks and then a single yellow carnation.
Farewell and sleep well, sweet Sophie. For three years, you were the the wonderful companion of my life and made me very, very happy...
Narayan