Transitions

Hopefully, this blog is therapeutic for me.  This time around, kind reader, forget any observations on media or reading war stories about the film and television business. And it’s less of a blog and more a full chapter.

I preface this because Shubert, a rescue cat who for thirteen years was a part of our lives and our home, has moved on to his next and greater journey. These things happen and it was not unexpected.  Last autumn he was diagnosed with a condition called Protein-Losing Enteropathy (PLE) which has no cure. The most cruel aspect of PLE is that it destroys the body’s ability to absorb protein and nutrients. Rather than sustaining the body, they instead get eliminated, as if waste.  He ate and ate... all high quality, fresh protein yet lost pound after pound. It took about four months to go from sleek and svelte to boney and emaciated. In the end, he resembled a large walking zombie cat.  He’d lost half his body weight despite daily feedings every two to three hours, dropping from 13 to barely 6 pounds in just a few months.

In 2004, we picked him out as a very young kitten on a planned visit to Angels With Paws, an organization that retrieves stray and feral felines and makes them available for adoption.  This particular young fur ball was part of a litter reportedly recovered from a cardboard box in a Denver alley after their mother disappeared for reasons unknown. The meet and greet facility at Angels With Paws had several fully glassed enclosures, “get acquainted” rooms with soft, cushioned benches that allowed a more open “out of box” interaction with the many adoption candidates.  Two stood out to Lynne and myself, both domestic short hair tabby kittens, nearly identical and probably litter mates.  Rambunctious, hyperactive, kitty ADHD tendencies with climbing and leaping all over the space.  Both displaying a “no fear of strangers, let’s play!” spirit.  Difficult, tough yet wonderful choice, we finally selected the scamp with the more dramatic coat markings, strong stripes and dots resembling a wild savanna cat. The full series of shots and neutering, pay the adoption fee, and our wild child came home with us.

He was not our first cat, as Lynne brought with her Sushi, a Russian Blue, when she moved to Colorado. On my side, as a young boy there was a cranky older cat I called Smokey.  For no other reason than consonantal alliteration, we wanted a monicker to continue the “S word” naming tradition. Since our young one came from an Denver alley, and I had a professional background in live theatre, I hit upon “Shubert” after the famous “Shubert Alley” historic narrow alley in the heart of New York City’s old  Broadway theater district. The name stuck immediately. Some years later came a third and final arrival, who we christened “Salomon,” but that’s another tale.

I soon came to realize Shubert’s personality and psych makeup was absolutely identical to mine. Sure, most pet owners “get to know” their companion’s wants and can eventually predict responses.  But for me this was deeper and different. I’d never before shared such a complete karma connection with another species.  We’d look at each other and just “know.”  The same exact likes...  the need for an anchoring place, paleo diet, warm quiet spots on sunny days, fascination with motion graphics on the cable news weather channels.  Shared similar dark sides... obsessive yet precisely structured grooming process, aversion to any change in routine, full avoidance of all conflict unless cornered, reluctant bravado regarding things that go bump in the night and, as Lynne would recognize in both of us, a poorly masked facade regarding comfortably accepting affection.

Shubert and I both could go obsessive-compulsive on the details of project or task.  When “in the zone” we both were capable of obsessing for hours and hours to make every little thing “just so.” Shubert had this favorite kitty toy when he was younger, something called a “rattle mouse” that made a strong clicky-clacky sound when tossed about. This cat loved his rattle mouse... he was obsessed with it.  When I’d leave in the morning for work he’d be chasing it around the front room.  That evening when I got back home, I’d still hear him down on the lower level.  Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack.

And as I do, he had the tendency to take leaps of faith based solely on what worked before, rather than seeing any fresh or dangerous differences surrounding a new jump.

I remember one summer evening when the builders were nearly done with the two-story workspace we were adding to the back of our house.  The upstairs loft was already framed and walled, with a large rough-opening for an arch window that was scheduled for installation the next morning.  Facing out to the west, Lynne and I sat on the loft’s subfloor, looking out at the twilight through the open second-story bay and discussing some construction details.  Suddenly there was a scrambling sound and a thump and there was Shubert in open window frame.  Down below he’d heard us talking and leapt 15 feet vertically, up the exterior stucco wall, to join us.  Back to my “leap of faith” comment... several days later Shubert came into the house, one of his front canines knocked loose and hanging by the root.  We later found a small blood smear on the outside of that same second story window, by now unfortunately for him fully glazed and sealed.

Over the years, Lynne and I went through a full declension of the name "Shubert":  Affectionate variations included Shubie, The Shub, Shubster, Booster, and sometimes just plain Boo.  At times he was even the “Hoover” due to his instinctual imperative to clean up every last bit from food bowls for all three of our cats, leaving no leftovers.  That applied to our own human plates and tableware, when we allowed it.  I share his trait to a fault, having been brought up around a midwest family farm with their “waste not, want not” culture.

And if he could, Shubie would have read food labels, as do I.  The more the stuff was processed, the further filled with all the toxic additives and stabilizers and thickeners the food science industry could foster, the greater his refusal to even taste, let alone consume. Near the end, the vet prescribed some very expensive and specially formulated medicinal wet cat food in tiny cans at five bucks a pop. Shubert wouldn’t go near the stuff.  He’d see the can being opened and leave the kitchen entirely.  The label of ingredients was so long and the ingredients so complicated to pronounce, the can required the addition of a small paper “open here” label stuck to the side to finish out the chemical list.

But chop some fresh tilapia or crumble some raw ground beef in his dish, and he’d suck down three, sometimes four helpings. Yet another similarity for us both... he derived such great life pleasure in a wonderful meal. For all the good it did, because of his terminal PLE... remember?  Yeah, I know that animal experts advise going “full raw” may not be healthy for any domestic pet, but in his case, what more harm could be done?

Thirteen years as a lifespan is a conundrum of time. Cats often live longer than that.  And yet, while going back through the hard drive with all our images of Shubie, I’d forgotten what a long and glorious and complex life those fulfilling baker-dozen years were for both him and for us.  Lynne and I will now confess that we lied to adoption agencies and even to the vet about one thing... because we gave Shubert free access to the whole outdoor world through his unlocked kitty door. He could live as his wild ancestors had, running and hiding and stalking and hunting. Which he did, and although he successfully mastered catch-and-carry back home, he never really learned kill-and-consume.  So Lynne and I spent endless nights over countless years cajoling and capturing victims of Shubert’s trophy presentations, using boxes and bags and rubber gloves in all corners of our house to return to the outdoors all manner of mice and mole, rat and vole and bunny and bat. Yes, we even had to deal with a live bat, on the wing inside our home.

How Boo snagged that flying mammal and got it in through the kitty door, we’ll never know.  Eventually I trapped the thing under a large soft towel when it landed on one of our venetian blinds, carefully carried it out into the neighborhood night, and with a one grand toss launched it high in the evening air where it caught the breeze and took a long, climbing path upward, crossing beneath the beam shining from a city street light and off into the dark sky, like some bizarre cross between “Lassie Go Home” and Bela Lugosi’s “Dracula.”  When there were no live trophy kills to present us, Shubert brought home “found” objects. Seriously. He dragged home items such as used band-aids. Empty cigarette packs. Nerf darts. Even a single, worn out gardener’s glove.  Once on July 5th, several spent cardboard firework casings. He was both Hunter and Gatherer.

In the end, this disease became too much. It’s strange to watch a living thing slowly disappear, ounce by ounce.  Shubert’s insides were being destroyed by his sickness. The day before the end, he would no longer eat, only sit and stare at his bowl that once brought him so much comfort and pleasure. His kitty soul torn, perhaps, between the desire to sustain and all those ugly internal signals that when he ate... something, somehow, was terribly, terribly wrong. Several nights of losing bodily control, bringing spills and stains and uncleanliness that at one time would have been utterly abhorrent to such a meticulously clean creature, but was now uncontrollable and unavoidable. And it was oh, so difficult. God, it was awful. I called the vet’s office and made the final appointment.

The last evening with us, his eyes reflected more exhaustion rather than curiosity.  He spent the evening in our TV room, on my lap asleep on his favorite blanket, kitten-curled and paw on nose, as Lynne and I streamed reruns of “Battlestar Galactica.” Before bed, I talked to Shubert and tried to convince him that it was time, that letting go during the night was perfectly all right. But true to form... and once again reflecting my own traits back to me... Shubert strolled away in the middle of our conversation, still listening, but knowing full well that “it just wasn’t going to happen that way dude, because it's gotta be my idea, not yours.”

I didn’t sleep the entire night, although mental exhaustion took over sometime before Lynne got out of bed to make morning coffee.  Nearly an hour later she shook me awake, asking gently if it was denial or exhaustion keeping me from getting up. The previous day’s snow storm had cleared, the sun out and sky brilliant blue.  A good day to... well, you know.  I got dressed, we tried to have coffee as usual. Shubert would not eat, although he drank a bit of milk from a saucer.  Lynne and I decided the short trip to the procedure would not require the zippered pet carrier that Shubert so despised.  He was so weak, down to six pounds.  I’d be able to wrap him securely in his favorite woven blanket and keep him under control with me in the passenger’s seat while she drove.  Shubert always hated being in a car.  But this time was different.

For the first time in his life he wasn’t sealed up blind, traveling in that carrier, instead up in my arms he could see where he was actually going.  And what a vision!  Always attracted by instinct to any quick motion, now he witnessed trees and leaves and houses and homes all flying past, each bit of movement triggering that feline track-and-follow instinct. But so much to see!  His body untensed and with eyes wide as saucers, his little ADHD brain awash in image and motion, I watched his glances dart from sight to sight, trying to take it all in. Here, in this moment, with his face poking out the top of the blanket wrapping, he was so close I caught a whiffs of kitty breath. I peered deep and once more we connected and I knew exactly his thoughts. His soul was on a contact high, drugged by the glorious display of light and color and motion whizzing past. Too much!  He never squirmed for the rest of the once-dreaded automobile trip. Shubert’s last car ride was a wondrous make-good for every miserable thing on four wheels he’d ever endured.

At the vet’s, Lynne and I waited with Shubert in their quiet room while preparation happened elsewhere.  On the countertop sat a mid-sized aquarium with blue rock gravel and green plants and a single Black Molly fish swimming lazily.

Shubert had never before in all his thirteen years seen an aquarium.

His eyes caught the flick of fin and tail, and he jumped down from my lap, crossed the room and stretched full length up the lower cupboard, straining and reaching.  He was too weak to jump, though once that hop would have been kitten’s play.  Lynne walked over and gently lifted, placing him on the countertop next to the tank.  Shubert stared transfixed.  He patted at the glass with paw.  One last time, his feral hunter instinct swelled inside and his eyes widen.  He paced back and forth, checking the tank for any access. The aquarium's filter pump made a dull vibrating sound, exactly like our cat’s trickle drinking fountain at home. He could hear the gurgling. He could see the prey slowly drifting and mocking and daring him to strike.

Then he nosed near the top of the tank.  There was no lid!  His head shot forward, his mouth open.

And he drank.  He lapped water from the tank.  The fish drifted safely away.  As a stickler for the rules, without thinking I blurted, “don’t let him do that, he shouldn’t drink that water.”  “Why not?” countered Lynne, and my response was true to form.  “Well, it might make him sick,” but she quickly pointed out what would soon happen and we both smiled a bit at my absurdity.

The doctor and the assistant arrived and we got Shubert settled back in my lap, again resting atop his favorite blanket.  The details of his final moments, at least for this part of Shubert’s journey, are not important here. And my stories and memories could pour out forever.

Let me wrap by confessing that growing up with a farm background was supposed to instill a hard, pragmatic view of life.  Don’t get too attached.  But of all animals that I’ve ever had the privilege to spend time with, Shubert was the only one to share with me such a deep and remarkable invisible bond. For whatever reason, we were two peas in a soul pod with the same basic loves, same hates, same motivations and exasperations. Why did the universe bring me, as a grown man, together with something so different in form with four legs and a tail, yet we'd end up being so completely alike?

Shubert’s off to his journey now, a shadow cat on to a new and endless big backyard on the other side. Although there can never a good time for these things to happen, it was for him the right time. His thirteen years with us, and how he lived it, became both an example for me to witness and at the same time, my inner reflection bouncing back. A mystical cat who became my model for what’s noble and a mirror in which I review my own self.

Hell of a ride, Boo. Hell of a ride.