I can't really think of a question or topic, but I have a feeling that some of you will have experiences of your own to share. Here's your chance.

-- Anonymous, August 17, 1999

Answers

*sigh* When Shara birthed her kittens, one of them was stillborn. We named it Sacrifice and it made me sad, but not in that gut-wrenching way. In fact, since Shara had given birth to a total of nine kittens, Sacrifice's early death wasn't toom uch of a surprise. There were after all eight live little fuzz-balls competing for Shara's teats in the box, so it wasn't that hard to lay Sacrifice to rest.

Of the remaining kittens, five were tabbies like their mother and three were black and one tuxedos of indeterminate gender. Sabs decided that he wanted one of the tuxedos to keep and he picked one out that I though was probably a boy.

It and one of the tabbies seemed a bit spindlier than the rest, but in a litter that large I'd expect a runtling or two, so we thought about getting a nurser.

24 hours after they were born, the kittens already had nick-names. Sabs called his little one Mephisto. I was beginning to worry about both Mephisto and the one dubbed Tiger, for the way he'd attacked his mother's teats upon being born. Both of them had kind of oddly shaped heads, mewed a lot and had trouble hanging onto a teat.

I kept lifting them up to a teat, but they'd only hang on for a little while and give up. I resolved to pick up a nurser ASAP.

The next evening, when we got home, I rushed into the apartment to peek into the box. My heart fell like a rock into my shoes. Something was wrong with Mephisto. He lay all stretched out in one corner of the box while the other kittens roiled and tumbled alongside Shara's tummy.

I reached in a tentative finger. He was completely cold already and stiff with rigor mortis. I called out to Sabs in a grief stricken voice and he came running.

He sat with me as we both cried over the teeny tiny cold body, an adorable kitten we'd both given our hearts to if only for a brief time. We buried him, quite illegally, in the woods at the park. I didn't want to just throw him in the trash -- I felt like he deserved to go back to Mother Nature, but not the municipal dump along with the rotting tea bags and ripped egg-cartons.

I wrote about it in my journal that night. A part of me still grieves. I don't know how I'm going to handle the eventual deaths of the four kities who wound up staying with us: Shara and three instead of only one of her kittens. I love them all as if they were my children.

And now we've rescued another little girl from the street: Pearl, who does not get along with Shara and must be kept apart from the others. Pearl who only weighed 4.85 pounds at the vet last week and perhaps has gained a half pound since then. Pearl, all white with elfin-green eyes and the sweetest disposition. Pearl whom I am already beginning to love too, but whom I simply cannot keep. Shara just won't stand for it. And I worry and worry that we will not find a home for her.

But I'd rather deal with her and Shara fighting at night -- paws reaching out beneath the door jamb, than put her back out on the street.

-- Anonymous, August 17, 1999

We went on vacation this year to finally see my family after two years. When we go away, we leave cat food and water in the house and the garage door opened about 8 inches at the bottom so our three cats can go in and out. When we got home only two cats came running. The third, the one I'd had for 11 years was missing. I didn't find out what happened until three days later, after I'd called the animal shelter and the SPCA and all the other animal organizations I could find. I went out the animal shelter a couple times to look even though they told me Neko wasn't there. Finally, one day I guess the neighbors were tired of me looking for him and told me what happened. Two boxers up the street had gotten loose. The owner usually keeps tight control over them because of the way they are. Anyway, they had gotten loose and Neko was in our front yard. He has no claws. He didn't have them when I got him. The dogs trapped him on my front porch and I was told that they played tug of war with my cat. Another neighbor beat them off with a baseball bat and took Neko to the vet but his back was broken and he had a lot of cuts and lacerations. He would have lived except for the back. They put him to sleep and were just going to let me think that he had just disappeared. They thought it would be easier on me. I don't know. The whole thought that I wasn't there to take him to the vet makes me sick. I don't think I could have stopped the boxers myself but I just kept feeling that I should have been there. I know how you felt and I know how you still feel. I still cry everytime I think about him.

-- Anonymous, August 18, 1999

About two months ago I brought a new kitten home we named him Charlie. It took about two weeks but everyone finally adjusted and became almost fond of one another my big cat even started cleaning him and the dog absolutely adored him, although I think it was just because he finally found someone smaller than him. Every night I would rush home to be with my three boys and all weeekend I would spend my time playing with them. My girlfriend who was against having another one finally started to weaken and gave her heart over as well. Then one Sunday about a month ago I could not find charlie I looked all over and when I did find him he was having seizures so I called the animal hosital and brought him in apparently there was nothing they could do he had some sort of virus in his brain and we had to put him down he was in too much pain and had alot of brain damage. Afterwards I felt like the worst peson in the world I rode the train home in tears the whole way with my big empty cat box on my lap and all these people trying to peek at whatever might be inside but ofcourse it was empty and that just made it worse. Cecil (my dog) has finally stopped waiting for Charlie to come home and I am finally starting to be a good mommy again but I still miss him alot even though we only had him for a month he wormed his way into our hearts. I donated all of his leftover food to the pet store last week for the kittens they have for adoption and that helped but I still have his favorite toys exactly where they were hung up before he died and my other boys won't go near them almost out of respect I think, well I would like to think.

-- Anonymous, August 18, 1999

All this reading about pet loss is bringing back some really bad memories.

We didn't have pets until I was about 11 or 12. Then, my sister got a dog (a toy poodle), and I got a cat. A domestic shorthair, grey with white feet and a white bib. Named her Mittens. (Not very creative.) She was a beautiful cat. We brought the dog and cat home on the same day -- Christmas Eve. We have pictures of them curled up together, asleep, two little balls of fluff.

Mom had always said that she didn't like cats, but Mittens was more her cat than mine. She would crawl up and sit on Mom's shoulder, or curl around her neck like a feline scarf. I trained her to walk on a leash. She was an indoor/outdoor kitty, but she never strayed very far from home.

We came home from the movies one night, and my sister was waiting for us, crying. Mittens had been hit by a car. It was just devastating. We had her little yellow collar, which I kept for a long time.

I can't imagine what it must have been like for the person who hit her. I've never hit an animal and hope that I never will.

Those little fur people sure can wrap themselves around your heart. It took me a long time before I wanted to have another pet around.

I have good friends who have horses. Basically, they run a retirement home for horses. I go out and ride almost every weekend. I had a horse that was basically mine -- Ginger. We rode together for years. It broke my heart when she had to be put down. I still go see my friends, but I don't ride much anymore. My heart still hurts from the last time.

-- Anonymous, August 18, 1999

All of these sad kitty stories remind me of my very own sad kitty story.

I'd always wanted to have a black cat, and once I moved out of my parents home, I finally got one. We found her in a mall pet store window right before Halloween, and decided she needed to come home with us. (Our reigning Queen Cat of the Household didn't agree, but that is another story in itself) I called her Rhiannon, after the Stevie Nicks song ("...She is like a cat in the dark, and then she is the darkness..."), but we called her Rhi (pronounced REE) for short.

Rhi was twelve and a half years old when we started to notice that she wasn't quite as chubby as she usually is, but since all seemed normal and she was eating well, etc., we let it slide. Then, I found a small lump under one of her front legs when I picked her up one evening. Immediate trip to the vet, where he aspirated the lump with a syringe, examined the fluid under a microscope, and said that she had a "granuloma," a an old sore or lesion that had grown a tough coating of scar tissue over it, but nothing to worry about. I was to keep an eye on the area, but she didn't require anything further unless there was some sort of change in the lump.

I annoyed Rhi by checking her lump all the time for a couple of weeks, and it didn't seem to change in any way, so I relaxed and started to check just once a day. Sometime in the third week, I was shocked to find a whole new lump next to the old one, albeit a tiny lump. Back to the vet's office the next day, and this time for surgery to remove both lumps for biopsy. They sent them away to the lab, and I took home to recover from her surgery, hoping for good news.

But it wasn't good news. My beautiful cat had BREAST cancer! I still can't quite believe that. There's actually a quite famous animal oncologist in our area, and we took Rhi there, hoping to be able to save her with chemotherapy or radiation or whatever other options might be available. They were willing to take her on as a patient, but they didn't know if they'd be able to stop the cancer, since it had already spread once. When the vet said, "If she makes it through the chemo...," that's when I knew I couldn't put my darling friend through that. The chemo sounded so horrible, and she only had a 50/50 chance of surviving it. How could I do that to her?

We had a good four months after that. She had every treat imaginable, and I spoiled her rotten. She had baked chicken or tuna or sardines in olive oil for every meal. She got to eat any time she wanted. And she got my undivided attention every time I had it to give her. We had a great time, when you could forget about the fact that she was dying.

They'd told me that she would lose her appetite when it was too much for her, and that was how I would know it was time to let her go. Well, she never did quit eating ... in fact, she ate a 6oz. can of tuna on that fateful last trip to the vet's office! But there were other signs, and it was time. She died seven days short of her thirteenth "birthday." (We'd always celebrated it on Halloween.)

It has been five years now. She's buried in the back yard, wrapped in one of my old sweaters, a catnip mouse alongside. I have a circle of decorative rocks to encircle the spot, and daffodils grow there in the spring. And every Halloween, I go out and talk to her, hoping that the Wiccans are right ... that that's when the veil between our world and the spirit world is thinnest, and those on the other side can hear us. I'd like her to hear me; I'd like her to know how much she is missed.

-- Anonymous, August 18, 1999

I'm not going to share an experience of my own, because reading these entries has already made me cry enough for one day at the office, but I did want to thank you, Beth, for writing about Annie. It made me think of a part of The Accidental Tourist that has always struck me as particularly poignant. Early in the book, Macon recalls an incident when his son was very small and was almost run over by a car. In the split second before the accident was averted, Macon envisioned his son dying and saw himself live on afterwards -- an immeasurably sadder, drier, emptier life, but still a life. And later, when his son is killed (no, this is not a spoiler, if anyone hasn't haven't read the book), Macon thinks that that moment of imagined loss years before makes the second loss almost superfluous. He had never permitted himself to fear for -- or truly love -- his son or anyone else again. He had let his son die years before he actually did, and it keeps him from living at all. That passage has always meant a lot to me. Reading your writing about Annie made me think again about how precious and extraordinary it is to be able to love -- and lose, and suffer. How much bravery it takes to be able to love when you know that loss is possible -- is, in fact, inevitable. And how much honor there is in loving with full knowledge of all of the beloved's fragility. Beth, as always, you have given me a chance to remember and empathize and imagine. Thank you once again.

On a related note, I mentioned in Pamies forum that there is a wonderful story about the death of a cat by Lorrie Moore. It appears in her outrageously smart and funny and sad book Birds of America, and can also be read online at http://www.nytimes.com/books/ 98/09/20/specials/moore-bert.html. Its one of the best things Ive ever read about cats, and about loss (and features a great feckless therapist).

-- Anonymous, August 19, 1999

I have hit an animal with my car.

I was driving down the street, early evening so the sun was still setting and it's kind of hard to see. A little dog and family about a block from my house were outside, and the dog ran out in the street. I never saw it.

I stopped and got out to see if there was anything I could do, but he died within a few minutes. And the 10-year-old girl had to watch it.

I came home, sobbing, and went online to try to find someone to talk to until anybody came home.

I still cringe when I see little dogs running around in the street, and I wince every time I drive by that house. And it happened over three years ago.

-- Anonymous, August 19, 1999