About a Cat
"Bisco," supposedly, is a Spanish term meaning "cross-eyed," which the kitten my brother brought home one day certainly was. His early life was one of daily torment administered by our older cat, who saw Bisco as an intruder. Bisco found a hiding place in the torn upholstery beneath our family sofa, and we would often have to fish him out of the couch's interior.
Though this was perhaps not an ideal beginning in a new home, Bisco eventually came to outlive the older cat. In fact, he outlived a great many things and preceeded many more components of my life, including college and marriage. Other than family members, there are few people I have stayed close to for as long as Bisco has been around. We certainly came to know him as well, or better than, any human: his yowls, the curious way his eyes would transform before he went on one of his manic attacks--biting feet and running across furniture, his insistence on being escorted to his food dish before eating.
In later years, he was shuffled around a bit as our family scattered apart. For a time, he was under my "care" at the same time I was going to school and working full-time. It was during this period that he lost most of his remaining teeth. But he survived this indignity, as well as the stress of changing living conditions every six months or so with my mother as she struggled to find a home. In the end, he belonged to her more than anyone, but my brother and I freely claimed him as our own whenever we saw him. His personality, his attitude, his expressions were as recognizable to us as any human's.
Though often surly, he was well-loved. I often compared his personality traits to my own. In an e-mail to some friends, I once wrote:
". . .my cat is so deranged that I'm sure he would bite me (albeit with a toothless mouth) if I ever tried to put anything on him. My cat is old and crazy and doesn't have any time for anyone who doesn't have an open can of food in hand. My cat doesn't even bother to chase birds or mice anymore. He just immobilizes them with a look of complete contempt and disdain, as if to say, 'It's not worth my time to deal with you, you douchebag bird.' My cat is a thankless self-absorbed bastard, and I think I would put him in a home if we weren't so much alike."
Bisco was a constant source of amusement and an occasional source of unconditional, mutual love. He was more reliable company than most people I know, and shared my uneasiness with strangers.
He was put down yesterday after 22 years. 22 years! Human/animal age comparisons are usually spotty, but even this credible-looking chart only plots cat age up to 19 years (86 years to you). I've known that cat longer than pretty much anyone I hang with now.
I feel about pets (dogs and cats) the way some people feel about children (usually their own): it seems inexplicable to me that one would want to live without them. In a way, it also seems selfish. I've had pets since I was a child, and Bisco was my last. Life without them, him, seems needlessly empty and sad, like an unplayed instrument.
I once read a great story by Connie Willis titled "The Last of the Winnebagos." It's been a while since I read it, so the plot details are spotty in my memory, but I vividly remember one of the background details of the story. In the near-future world in which the story takes place, dogs have become extinct due to a virus. Most of the characters in the story carry around photos of dogs and cats they had as children, before the virus struck. Near the end of the story, two of the characters exchange a few lines that go without explanation, but the context of the conversation is immediately clear. The first line of the conversation is, "I miss them."
I miss all of my pets: the dog that jumped from the back of a camper onto a busy highway, the dog who was taken to the shelter because we couldn't take him where we were going, the cat that vanished one day and never returned, the cat that left white fur all over my records, the dog that was killed in front of my house, the cat that bit my foot and yowled outside the door and who survived any number of transitions that would have destroyed a lesser animal. Maybe you know what I'm talking about. Maybe you miss them, too.
Go 'side, Bisco. Go play.
Though this was perhaps not an ideal beginning in a new home, Bisco eventually came to outlive the older cat. In fact, he outlived a great many things and preceeded many more components of my life, including college and marriage. Other than family members, there are few people I have stayed close to for as long as Bisco has been around. We certainly came to know him as well, or better than, any human: his yowls, the curious way his eyes would transform before he went on one of his manic attacks--biting feet and running across furniture, his insistence on being escorted to his food dish before eating.
In later years, he was shuffled around a bit as our family scattered apart. For a time, he was under my "care" at the same time I was going to school and working full-time. It was during this period that he lost most of his remaining teeth. But he survived this indignity, as well as the stress of changing living conditions every six months or so with my mother as she struggled to find a home. In the end, he belonged to her more than anyone, but my brother and I freely claimed him as our own whenever we saw him. His personality, his attitude, his expressions were as recognizable to us as any human's.
Though often surly, he was well-loved. I often compared his personality traits to my own. In an e-mail to some friends, I once wrote:
". . .my cat is so deranged that I'm sure he would bite me (albeit with a toothless mouth) if I ever tried to put anything on him. My cat is old and crazy and doesn't have any time for anyone who doesn't have an open can of food in hand. My cat doesn't even bother to chase birds or mice anymore. He just immobilizes them with a look of complete contempt and disdain, as if to say, 'It's not worth my time to deal with you, you douchebag bird.' My cat is a thankless self-absorbed bastard, and I think I would put him in a home if we weren't so much alike."
Bisco was a constant source of amusement and an occasional source of unconditional, mutual love. He was more reliable company than most people I know, and shared my uneasiness with strangers.
He was put down yesterday after 22 years. 22 years! Human/animal age comparisons are usually spotty, but even this credible-looking chart only plots cat age up to 19 years (86 years to you). I've known that cat longer than pretty much anyone I hang with now.
I feel about pets (dogs and cats) the way some people feel about children (usually their own): it seems inexplicable to me that one would want to live without them. In a way, it also seems selfish. I've had pets since I was a child, and Bisco was my last. Life without them, him, seems needlessly empty and sad, like an unplayed instrument.
I once read a great story by Connie Willis titled "The Last of the Winnebagos." It's been a while since I read it, so the plot details are spotty in my memory, but I vividly remember one of the background details of the story. In the near-future world in which the story takes place, dogs have become extinct due to a virus. Most of the characters in the story carry around photos of dogs and cats they had as children, before the virus struck. Near the end of the story, two of the characters exchange a few lines that go without explanation, but the context of the conversation is immediately clear. The first line of the conversation is, "I miss them."
I miss all of my pets: the dog that jumped from the back of a camper onto a busy highway, the dog who was taken to the shelter because we couldn't take him where we were going, the cat that vanished one day and never returned, the cat that left white fur all over my records, the dog that was killed in front of my house, the cat that bit my foot and yowled outside the door and who survived any number of transitions that would have destroyed a lesser animal. Maybe you know what I'm talking about. Maybe you miss them, too.
Go 'side, Bisco. Go play.
Labels: Goodbyes
posted by Chazzbot at 2:12 PM
2 Comments:
My dog, Bud, a beautiful Sheltie, died on March 15 of this year. He was 12. The last few months of his life were incredibly painful to hear about: slow descents into deafness and blindness, arthritis that was slowly twisting his left front paw into a shepherd's crook, and at the very end, seizures that would leave him flailing in his own watering bowl.
I missed all but a few days of this as he stayed with my parents when I moved up to Canada. But I did see him in early March, only a week or so before the end, and I think he knew as well as I did that he was slowly dying. I spent as much time around him as possible, and I'd like to think that he understood why.
The last night I was home I took Bud for a walk after dinner. Well, "walk" probably isn't the right term, since he could only manage to be on his feet for twenty minutes at a time. "Bathroom break" might be more appropriate. Regardless, the two of us went out into my parents' backyard and strolled about, with me trying desperately and unsuccessfully to think of anything other than how this was probably the last time I'd see my dog.
We spent a lot of that walk simply staring at each other. I had no words left in me. And, in fact, it was Bud who finally spoke: after a particularly long staring session he turned around and began limping towards the house, then stopped after a few feet to turn around and look at me. I will swear to my grave that he said, as clear in my head as my own thoughts, "We both know what's happening. Let's not drag this out." And then he limped the rest of the way to the door.
He led me home that night; I couldn't have found my own way back, though I was only twenty feet from the porch.
When Bud was younger he was so hyperactive that he'd try to bite your hands whenever you'd reach for him, and I remember telling my father how nice it would be to have a dog we could pet.
How naive. Bite all you want, boy. There's a good dog.
Some of the best expressions of the incredible bond that can exist between a person and his pet came to me from Ken Brewer. Here are two of my favorites, shared here in honor of Bisco.
WHY DOGS STOPPED FLYING
Before humans,
dogs flew everywhere.
Their wings of silky fur
wrapped hollow bones.
Their tails wagged
like rudders through wind,
their stomachs bare
to the sullen earth.
Out of sorrow
for the first humans--
stumbling, crawling,
helpless and cold--
dogs folded their
great wings into paws
soft enough to walk
beside us forever.
They still weep for us,
pity our small noses,
our unfortunate eyes,
our dull teeth.
They lick our faces clean,
keep us warm at night.
Sometimes they remember flying
and bite our ugly hands.
--K. W. Brewer
Providence, Utah
RETURNING THE GAZE
The good dog Gus and I
Stared into each other’s eyes
as I spoke to him about
when I leave, and that I did
not mean to Cheyenne, he
will need to be Bobbie’s best friend.
After saying that, I looked deeper
and realized my human weakness
to believe I needed to speak in words
to this superior being, to explain
what he already understood in
the silence of our eyes.
--K. W. Brewer
Providence, Utah
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