And
so, Sim Sim joined our family when Emma was young. She is the elder cat in our
home now, still queenly, still watching, aloof but so kind. Whenever Emma was
sick as a young child, Sim Sim sat near her, watching over her, sensing the
illness before we could.
When
Emma got bigger and more responsible, I told her she could add a kitten to our
menagerie, a small animal that could be hers to love and name and hold and
sleep next to. She ran for a calico kitten at the back of that shelter room as
I got stopped by the big paw of a young black cat, with a deep full coat. He sat
looking at me, his big paw extended as if to shake my hand, his movements slow
and languid, his eyes knowing. He was a gorgeous being, not to be ignored as he
slowly moved his paw to hold me there with him. For some reason, it was clear
to me that he needed me.
Emma
found her Callie, a small calico kitten she named after the young woman who
worked in the main office of her elementary school; I found my Tycho, the
slow-moving black kitten who, even young, showed signs of bigness and
connectedness and sheer, sheer love.
John
shook his head slowly, knowing that no amount of reason would limit us to one
of those animals. We paid, we crated, we left for big adventures with these two
cats, now three at home.
From
the beginning, Tycho was special. He was named for astronomer Tycho Brahe, a fact that
would later thrill Emma even more as she became enamored with the idea of being an
astronomer herself. While Callie was a playful, jumping kitten, Tycho
seemed slow. He would sometimes sit and watch his shadow for hours. He appeared
to have some kind of developmental slowness; he was a lumbering giant of a
kitten, then cat. And with it came sweetness, an unutterable sweetness. He is the
cat who always greets us, walks with us, winding around our legs to trip us up
at times. He’s always there for us, like a dog more than a cat. On “Spongebob Squarepants,” where I get all
my inspiration and philosophical meanderings, he is Patrick, the sweet and
simple starfish. When the cats send a Mother’s Day card, for example (what?
Yours don’t do that?), Tycho’s signature is always the simplest, biggest, most
heartfelt one. There is no barometer in Tycho’s mind; he is pure, hot love,
full throttle.
Several
years later when we lost our minds again and got a dog at the animal shelter,
Sim Sim and Callie actively showed their disdain by hissing and ignoring him.
Tycho, bless his heart, took a slightly different and unique approach: he
became stealth cat.
A
boundless package of a Jack Russell terrier and Saint Bernard mix (no, I don’t
know how his father and mother managed it and stop trying to imagine it, let’s
move on with the story), our dog Blue didn’t know what to make of these
strange, hissing animals. Sim Sim and Callie were aggressively unfriendly,
while all eighteen pounds of Tycho was mystified. We watched, stifling peals of
laughter, as Tycho “snuck” past Blue to get a closer look, walking so slowly
that it was almost impossible to see the movement, as if his bulky form would
be invisible if slow. Not surprisingly, soon Blue and Tycho were playing,
wrestling, and sleeping together, best friends across a species divide.
Tycho’s
the most gentle of the three, with a patience that allows kids to pick him up easily;
he moves through his day nudging all the humans around him, as if touch is his
lifeblood. He is always the one admired by guests—“he’s so gorgeous!” they say.
And yes, he is.
When
Tycho moved, he moved slowly and even as slowly as he moved, sometimes his walk
was interrupted by a sudden sit, as if he could go no further. It was clear
that Tycho enjoyed life in that slow motion pace as if below water, watching
life go by and reaching out to it periodically.
People
don’t tell you they’re hurting, sometimes, until it’s too late. There might be
signs—withdrawal, irritability, a change in habits, loud sighs, but if you’re
not open to seeing the signs, it’s easy to ignore, overlook, explain them away,
complain rather than investigate. I saw it with my stepfather who died 37 days
after his diagnosis of lung cancer. He had been sick for some time, it is now
clear—cancer doesn’t kill you in 37 days—but he didn’t tell anyone. Instead, we
saw the shortness, the irritability, and we whispered about him being more
ornery than usual. It all came clear when the diagnosis arrived, and the death
37 days later: he was hurting.
Hindsight
hurts with its finiteness.
And
so it is with pets, too, even more incapable of saying. They keep their pain
from us—to protect us? Because they can’t understand what pain is? Because we
are too busy to see, too self-absorbed to pay attention, too much more
important?
As
I sat working at the computer last Monday morning, I heard a thumping sound,
over and over again. John must have put Emma’s Converse tennis shoes in the
dryer, I thought to myself. She’ll need them for school—I hope they dry in
time. And yet, the sound got louder and louder, as if the thumping was
approaching. “Oh God,” I heard John wail, “Oh God, it’s Tycho.”
Thump.
Ka-thump. Ka-thump. And to my horror, I saw our large black sweet cat trying to
walk, but unable to. The thumping sound was his horrible, awkward ballet,
dragging two useless back legs behind him. I wanted to run from him. What
happened? I screamed! What happened? He looked like he had been hit by a car,
but he hadn’t been outside. His back half was oddly still; valiantly, he
struggled to move as if even he couldn’t believe it.
Walking
one moment, unable the next. Walking one moment, unable the next.
John
and I stood motionless for a moment, stunned by what we saw and couldn’t
comprehend. Tycho tried to pull himself up the stairs, frantic for something—a
space to go to, someone to tell him what was wrong, a quiet dark place to sort
through all this new information? It was all too sudden; I couldn’t go toward
him; I was paralyzed with the horror of what I was seeing.
John
picked him up and raced with him to the emergency animal hospital, since it was
a holiday. He called me hours later with just two words that changed
everything: “bone cancer.”
Emma
had spent the night at a friend’s house; after bringing Tycho home, John picked
her up. She was sobbing when I opened the door. She ran to Tycho, lurching
toward him in her speed to get to him.
She
ran toward him. This is what it means to have a pure soul full of love, I
thought, remembering my own revulsion and impulse to run from Tycho, to pay
attention to my own fear rather than to comfort him. She ran to Tycho; by this
time, he was silent in the corner, his black fur brilliant against a dark pink towel.
Squeezing between the chair and the wall, she held vigil with Tycho for hours,
drawing him and her broken heart, though I only knew that later.
We
held Tycho until late in the night. The next morning, we called our vet’s
office. Surely there had been a mistake; this was all wrong. Emma chose to go
to school; I think she needed the distance. She said her goodbyes on our porch,
holding Tycho for what might be the last time: she knew that and he did, too.
It was a beautiful morning.
Bone
cancer.
That
means Tycho had been in pain long before this final failure of his spinal cord.
The cats’ food and litter boxes are in a “mudroom” at the back of our house,
accessible by hopping over a small door. Tycho loved to eat. He would often
stand by the door and wait until someone happened by—“what a lazy, big old
cat,” we would say. “Look at him—too lazy to even jump!” we’d laugh, then open
the door and let him in—or not. Recently,
he would drink Blue’s water, this side of the mud room door. A few days before,
we had found poop on the family room floor—we blamed our dog, Blue. It was a
sign from Tycho—he could not jump that door any longer. It wasn’t because he
was too big, too lazy, too dumb. It was because it hurt too much. I’m sure he
tried until he could no longer. He simply couldn’t.
Is
it so, sometimes, with people too? Perhaps when they are doing the equivalent
of pooping on your floor or eating your food or refusing to jump, it isn’t
because they are mean or idle or stupid or arrogant or lazy. Sometimes, I
learned from Tycho, it is because they are in pain of one kind or another.
He
must have been in so much pain. That jump must have been so, so difficult for
him—for how long? Imagine his confusion, his pain, his silent anguish. It
breaks my heart to think of it.
And
yet, how did this happen so quickly? On Sunday he was meeting me at the door to
lead me to his food; the next day he was paralyzed. A day later, he was dead.
“Is this the end of Tycho?” little Tess asked, wisely, as we held him that
night. I was struck silent by her question. From where does this question arise
in a 3-year-old’s mind?
John
answered later by telling Tess that Tycho was going to a big fantabulous cat
farm to live, a place where he would eat big cat dinners, play with his furry cat
friends, and nap on big, big beds as big as cars. She seemed satisfied with
that answer and as much as I am inclined to bare the truth to even small ears,
I must admit that I preferred the Cat Farm answer to the alternative. Even I
couldn’t bear the thought of telling the truth about Tycho, so I was happy
about the farm version, in the vainest of hopes that perhaps it was true—I
mean, really, after all, who I am to say that it isn’t? Or if not a farm, then
perhaps my Kiwi friend Richard had it right: "the feline spirits are even
now gathering across the world to escort Tycho to the heavyside layer."
In
that small room at the vet’s office, the eventuality made painfully immediate, John
held Tycho; I held Tycho’s head to comfort him, though there was no amount of comforting
that would make this right for him or us. It was too sudden—too sickeningly
sudden—would it be any less so if it were 37 days or years? No.
Pets
are not less a love than any human. Love is love. And if you have
responsibility for another, it is damned hard to live with the feeling that
you’ve let them down, as I felt, looking into his eyes for what would be the
last time. It seemed cruel that I knew his end was near, but he did not—or did
he? As in the Tsunami, when animals made their way to safety, I believe that
animals know more than we do—Tycho knew, but when? just as he knew when he
picked us out all those years ago.
He
figured into our lives in ways that only now we know fully, a knowledge writ
large in this vacuum that his loss has brought us. His looks of love and
satisfaction and pure adoration are—quite honestly—hard to come by in humans.
And
as if life weren’t circular enough, the circle circled yet once more: as
before, those years ago, he lay looking at me, his big paw extended, as if to
shake my hand, his movements slow and languid, his eyes knowing. He was a
gorgeous being not to be ignored as he slowly moved his paw to hold me there
with him. For some reason, it was clear to me that he needed me, especially
now.
And
then he was gone.
We
had to leave him, a silken black cat with one paw extended, just as he had
extended it to capture me in his heart before. We folded the quilted teal pad
gently around the rest of him, its color a beautiful contrast to his fur. Even
in death, he was gorgeous. We stayed with him for a long time, sobbing—don’t ever let anyone tell you how you
should grieve, or for how long, or for whom. We picked up his crate, now
forever empty, opened the door to leave, and stood looking at him one last
time, tucked into his last sleep. I had a nearly irresistible urge to scoop him
up and run, like Calvin from the comic strip Calvin & Hobbes once ran, so
fast that Calvin—dressed as Stupendous Man—reversed the rotation of the earth
and made time go backwards. The table was too hard for him, the lights too
harsh; I turned them out to ease his rest.
Tycho’s
ashes will be spread in a special place, perhaps near a stream in the woods, a
place we can go back to when we need to.
I feel
not only great loss, but guilt: I should have known. He counted on me to know,
to take care of him. I failed Tycho.
And
I am left with one overwhelming thought: I should have opened that damn door.
He must have really hurt each time he jumped over it, just trying to make his
way to food, drink, litter. It hurts me to know how arduous each of his last
meals must have been.
We
cry in unlikely places: today it was the dentist’s office, me and Emma. We let
the dental technicians think we were overcome by the very thought of fluoride
treatment; that wasn’t it. Emma draws to process grief; we all do it somehow because we must.
The shadows now moving around my wooden floors are
not Tycho. They are a black diaper bag that I see out of the corner of my eye
and my heart skips a beat at the mistaken thought that it is him. Wherever he
has gone, Tycho is not here where I want him to be. Nor will he ever be. My
home’s visible soul is missing.
As my buddy William Faulkner wrote, “Given a choice
between grief and nothing, I’d choose grief.” Feel.
~*~ 37 Days:
Do it Now Challenge ~*~
Please open
the mudroom door for Tycho, where “mudroom” equals “whatever you can do to make
life more humane and comfortable and easier” and where “Tycho” reads “important
person or being in your life.”
When Daddy
died, those many years ago, he asked for a piece of Shoney’s strawberry pie
the night before he died. We reminded him that the doctor said he needed to
lose weight—yes, he said with a crooked smile and sweet resignation, he
remembered. Daddy died the next day. We couldn’t have known, could we? but I’ve
sure thought a lot about that piece of strawberry pie in the 26 years since.
Get the pie, open the door, do the things that you don’t want to look back on
and regret, those ones, the sometimes simple ones. Sometime, you see, we will all be walking one
moment, unable the next. Who will run toward us, and who will run away from us?
Read the signs before you, not behind you, not after
you. People act differently when they are in pain—look for causes, not blame. Hold open the door for someone today, and
every day.
There
is a shadow in my house.
From
the beginning, Tycho was special. He was named for astronomer Tycho Brahe, a fact that
would later thrill Emma even more as she became enamored with the idea of being an
astronomer herself. While Callie was a playful, jumping kitten, Tycho
seemed slow. He would sometimes sit and watch his shadow for hours. He appeared
to have some kind of developmental slowness; he was a lumbering giant of a
kitten, then cat. And with it came sweetness, an unutterable sweetness. He is the
cat who always greets us, walks with us, winding around our legs to trip us up
at times. He’s always there for us, like a dog more than a cat. On “Spongebob Squarepants,” where I get all
my inspiration and philosophical meanderings, he is Patrick, the sweet and
simple starfish. When the cats send a Mother’s Day card, for example (what?
Yours don’t do that?), Tycho’s signature is always the simplest, biggest, most
heartfelt one. There is no barometer in Tycho’s mind; he is pure, hot love,
full throttle.
A
boundless package of a Jack Russell terrier and Saint Bernard mix (no, I don’t
know how his father and mother managed it and stop trying to imagine it, let’s
move on with the story), our dog Blue didn’t know what to make of these
strange, hissing animals. Sim Sim and Callie were aggressively unfriendly,
while all eighteen pounds of Tycho was mystified. We watched, stifling peals of
laughter, as Tycho “snuck” past Blue to get a closer look, walking so slowly
that it was almost impossible to see the movement, as if his bulky form would
be invisible if slow. Not surprisingly, soon Blue and Tycho were playing,
wrestling, and sleeping together, best friends across a species divide. 
Tycho’s
the most gentle of the three, with a patience that allows kids to pick him up easily;
he moves through his day nudging all the humans around him, as if touch is his
lifeblood. He is always the one admired by guests—“he’s so gorgeous!” they say.
And yes, he is.
She
ran toward him. This is what it means to have a pure soul full of love, I
thought, remembering my own revulsion and impulse to run from Tycho, to pay
attention to my own fear rather than to comfort him. She ran to Tycho; by this
time, he was silent in the corner, his black fur brilliant against a dark pink towel.
Squeezing between the chair and the wall, she held vigil with Tycho for hours,
drawing him and her broken heart, though I only knew that later.
John
answered later by telling Tess that Tycho was going to a big fantabulous cat
farm to live, a place where he would eat big cat dinners, play with his furry cat
friends, and nap on big, big beds as big as cars. She seemed satisfied with
that answer and as much as I am inclined to bare the truth to even small ears,
I must admit that I preferred the Cat Farm answer to the alternative. Even I
couldn’t bear the thought of telling the truth about Tycho, so I was happy
about the farm version, in the vainest of hopes that perhaps it was true—I
mean, really, after all, who I am to say that it isn’t? Or if not a farm, then
perhaps my Kiwi friend Richard had it right: "the feline spirits are even
now gathering across the world to escort Tycho to the heavyside layer."
We
had to leave him, a silken black cat with one paw extended, just as he had
extended it to capture me in his heart before. We folded the quilted teal pad
gently around the rest of him, its color a beautiful contrast to his fur. Even
in death, he was gorgeous. We stayed with him for a long time, sobbing—don’t ever let anyone tell you how you
should grieve, or for how long, or for whom. We picked up his crate, now
forever empty, opened the door to leave, and stood looking at him one last
time, tucked into his last sleep. I had a nearly irresistible urge to scoop him
up and run, like Calvin from the comic strip Calvin & Hobbes once ran, so
fast that Calvin—dressed as Stupendous Man—reversed the rotation of the earth
and made time go backwards. The table was too hard for him, the lights too
harsh; I turned them out to ease his rest. 
Please open
the mudroom door for Tycho, where “mudroom” equals “whatever you can do to make
life more humane and comfortable and easier” and where “Tycho” reads “important
person or being in your life.”
Hello Patti,
I still have 11 cats with me. I sometime lost count how many of them shared my homes. I have rescued them from the streets, backyards ... through the years. 4 of them were born in my tiny bedroom (when I was a student) by their strayed mother.
Most of them moved with me around the US 13 times, as I was constantly searching for a bigger place for all of us. And finally we took the biggest trip (we left behind Grumpy, Baby, TIger and Ke-Ke in the US. They took a different trip to a special place before us) and moved with me to NL.
Most people would not understand why I refused to give them away even when I myself was very sick (still is). It is difficult to explain to some of my human friends the pure love my cats give me.
2-1/2 months ago I had to put Wei-Wei to sleep after a long fight with . I can still see him running towards me, jumping ontop of the coffee table, then on to my laps, and waiting for me to comb him. Nor could I forget the shock when Whisky dies so suddenly and unnecessary, or Brandy with a tumor under her tongue, Snoopy eventually gave up with a bad heart, Timber with stomac h cancer, Zhi-Zhi, Alison, Bolleje, Maxi ...)...
I still have 11 heartaches to go ...
Posted by: cindy | 15 September 2006 at 06:50
I'm so very sorry for your loss.
Posted by: terrilynn | 15 September 2006 at 08:15
We had to lay our beautiful Rufus down for his final sleep just yesterday, and I don't yet have the words. Thank you for saying them for me.
I will try to hold that door open in remembrance--and celebration--of my big red dog and your big black cat.
Posted by: Sue Pelletier | 15 September 2006 at 09:48
Patti:
I was wondering where you were, why you hadn't shown up in my inbox for more than a week. And here you are, coping with sadness.
My mom ate strawberry-rhubarb pie as part of her last meal.
My 18-year-old puppy had the same red-heart tag Tycho wore. She died when my daughter was one and a half; my puppy taught me the responsibility of caring for another being, preparing me for Meg (and now, her brother Philip).
Opening our hearts to grief helps us open them to the love that surrounds us, as we appreciate more than ever the dear ones who can make any mundane moment special.
Be well.
Posted by: Sally | 15 September 2006 at 09:55
Sorry for your loss. Blame is a stage of grief.
Does part of you know that you couldn't have known something before you know what to look for? Thousands of pieces of data come in. They look like clear warning in hindsight (but only when you know the ending.) Then you can erase away all the times when you thought they were clear signs, but were just imagination drawing out the possibility.
But just the same it *is* useful to look with compassion for other reasons why human beings or furry beings are doing what they are doing. I hear that too.
Posted by: Pearl | 15 September 2006 at 09:56
I'm so very sorry for your family's loss. I'd grown very lost during the night, but this morning Tycho has helped me to find my way back. Thank you.
Posted by: Marilyn | 15 September 2006 at 10:10
So sorry to hear of your loss. I too have suffered the loss of two cats this year, just months apart. My little cat, Bunny Rabbit (yes, that was his name), died of bone cancer too, but his cancer was in the bones of his skull. I knew he was sick for a long time, but he seemed so eager to live, eat, play, be petted for awhile... On his last day, it was clear that he asked me to end his pain. I miss him so much; I had him for 20 years. Then, Mr Mom, a friend's cat for whom I was caring while they lived in London, developed lymphoma by his kidneys. He also was old, 19. He truly was a special cat. I know how we often personify our pets, but he was more human than some humans I know. His loss is deeply felt, even by those who never even met him but only experienced Mr Mom through stories.
Please know that we grieve along side you and your family.
Posted by: Elizabeth | 15 September 2006 at 10:39
oh patti, i'm so sorry for your loss. thank you for this beautiful tribute to the purest of loves. emma's drawing of the angel tycho is also heartbreaking.
Posted by: eliza | 15 September 2006 at 11:30
Oh, Patti ... and John, and Emma, and Tess: there are no words. Opening yourself up to love another soul in this world means eventually it will hurt your heart to say goodbye. You are better for the loving. And better for the lessons. But still hurting, anguished, empty, in a way that no language I speak can assuage.
I sit here, thousands of miles away on a hilltop where my only companions are animals, with tears streaming down my face. I can see that paw, reaching out, the purest of connections. And I'm so very, very sorry.
Posted by: Viaggiatore | 15 September 2006 at 15:26
If it would help, the tears would be sent to you. So far away, there are only these keystrokes to convey the heartfelt sympathy for you and your family at this time.
The call to action is a good one: I will open doors with a new story to tell.
Posted by: Steve Sherlock | 15 September 2006 at 20:16
I think that I can see to type through my tears. I'm so sorry for your loss, and since losing Max, I completely understand. I still cry unexpectedly even after 10 months and after getting another dog. I remember those first few days; I asked myself the same questions you are asking. Did we wait too long? Did he know? Does he forgive us? You already saved Tycho once with your love. The way you and John and Emma and Tess hold him in your hearts now saves him forever.
Posted by: Gay | 15 September 2006 at 20:38
Patti, I am so sorry to hear of this fresh sadness, and so glad to have a chance to get to know Tycho a little bit.
In times of pain, be kind to yourself.
Posted by: Shelley | 15 September 2006 at 21:10
Ah, so sad. I cried to read your post. So much love. I am so very sorry for your loss!
Posted by: Andrea | 15 September 2006 at 21:22
Most of your posts give me something to think about. This one has me sobbing as well as thinking. I'm so sorry for your loss. Pets are also family members, and I cry that you have lost Tycho.
There have been times in my life where I have not metaphorically opened the door, or brought the pie. I'm going to work to change that.
Thank you.
Posted by: MonkeyPants | 16 September 2006 at 02:45
What an incredibly beautiful post ... I cried as the story came to its painfully sad conclusion. Thank you for the reminder, the challenge, at the end that encourages compassion & 'holding the door open' ... absolutely lovely.
Posted by: Deborah | 16 September 2006 at 09:21
I am sorry to read about the loss of Tycho even as I was happy to hear about how much joy he brought. On behalf of shelter cats everywhere, thank you for taking him home and loving him.
Posted by: M | 16 September 2006 at 13:11
Beautiful Tycho. How could you have known? I'm so sorry for your loss. Even through the sadness and tears, thank you for a story of compassion and tender love that is so rare in today's world.
Take good care of yourselves.
Posted by: Joy K | 16 September 2006 at 19:14
My dear friends - you have all heard from me in personal emails, but I wanted to post a public and heartfelt thanks for your words of support, condolence, love, and connection-- they have really helped me (us) and I appreciate it so very much, more--in fact--than I can adequately say. I have never even met most of you, which makes your reaching out to me in such a remarkable outpouring truly uplifting and meaningful. My thanks to each of you. Love, Patti
Posted by: patti digh | 16 September 2006 at 22:31
I knew how this story would end as soon as I saw the cat. The feeling of grief started immediately and still lingers. What ever grief or regrets you may have about Tycho, the love you shared was and will always be more important.
There is a lovely poem about loss by Longfellow that helped (and still helps) me after the death of my cat three years ago. It has nothing to do with cats but it reminds me of his continued presence in my life.
"Goodnight, goodnight
as we so oft have said
beneath this roof at midnight
in days that are no more
and shall no more return
you have but taken thy lamp and gone to bed
I stay, a little longer,
as one stays to cover
up the embers that still burn."
Posted by: jasper | 17 September 2006 at 13:14
Jasper - Yes, there is a sadness about Tycho in that photograph, isn't there? A knowing. It is, in fact, the very last photograph ever made of him, taken just before we left for the vet's office. We wanted him to be on the earth and feel the grass for a while before we went. The poem is exactly, exactly what I needed and I thank you for knowing that.
Posted by: patti digh | 17 September 2006 at 13:18