Rachel Simon's Blog

Hope you enjoy this holiday e-card. I identify the photos and music below.

May your own holiday be filled with hugs.

This photo collage created with Smilebox

You are seeing:
- 3 photos from our vacation to Scotland this summer – 2 of us on the Isle of Skye and 1 of Hal at the Kelvingrove Museum in Glasgow;
- 2 photos from Reno, NV, where I did a talk this fall – 1 where I’m with Casper, my host’s horse, and 1 where I’m holding quartz I just found at the quarry on Peterson Ridge;
- 1 photo of me with my mother and stepfather, who I visit regularly in Florida as my mother continues her journey with Alzheimer’s;
- 1 photo of me with Zeebee, our resident kitty, who sleeps contentedly beside me as I write but who speaks her mind when Hal comes home, as is illustrated here

You are hearing:
- The Rose In The Heather – in honor of our delightful two weeks in Scotland.

I stood on our front porch, waiting for the vet to arrive. It was a chilly Saturday evening in May, though the wind gusted like November, sweeping old leaves up into the air and down the street, twirling them out of my sight.

Inside the house, our cat Peach lay on the kitchen floor, where she had lain for much of the last day. My husband Hal sat beside her, stroking her fur, cooing consoling words. She was fifteen, and her long-haired, calico coat was as beautiful as ever. But her plume of a tail, once a flagpole of merriment as she bustled down the stairs to greet us hello, stretched flat on the floorboards, and her eyes, which had gazed into Hal’s so many times with a look of unconditional adoration, stared out into nowhere, unfocused.

We didn’t want to believe her time had arrived. Yet even as we hoped the vet would say recovery was still within grasp, even though we knew she wanted to hold onto her life, we knew she would not revive.

Her decline had begun a few years ago. That’s when our cheerful chatterbox with the insistent friendliness and fill-up-a-house personality, whose dainty ballerina turnout, combined with a sashaying gait, made us call her Miss Marilyn Meow, added some new and unwelcome behaviors to her repertoire. She howled loudly, peed outside her cat box, drank water constantly, lost lots of weight, and ran about until she collapsed into the deepest of sleeps.

After many visits to Dr. Coogan, the softspoken veterinarian who, it turned out, every pet lover in our neighborhood called their own, we learned she had hyperthyroidism. Increasingly common in cats, with unknown causes, hyperthyroidism will ultimately lead to kidney failure. There is only one medication that might help, and we tried it in pills, pill pockets, liquid, and a gel we applied to her ears. But it made her sleep all the time, or throw up, or have allergic reactions. So about half a year ago, in the fall, we decided to take her off the meds, and let what would hapen happen.

The wind rushed down our street with a force I hadn’t seen since around the time we made that decision. It tipped potted plants onto their sides and spilled out the dirt. It snapped strong young branches off trees.

Hal came up beside me, and put his arm around my shoulder.

He glanced at the trees on our street, their leaves chattering in the gusts. “Such a windy day,” he said. “Somehow it seems appropriate.”

The graph of Peach’s health had been sloping down for months, but it was gradual. The bottom seemed far away.

Only two nights ago had we reached the steep drop down. We didn’t realize it at first, because she and our other cat, Zeebee, had spent the day romping and sleeping in our small backyard, and in the neighbors’ yards across our side alley. When dusk fell, Zeebee came in easily, but for awhile we couldn’t find Peach. Then we located her, perched on the edge of a neighbor’s tiny fish pond. Since her illness, she’d drunk water from this pond. That night, she wasn’t drinking.

A few hours later, at four in the morning, she woke us with a plaintive cry. We found her in the bathroom, a place where she rarely ventured, and after we brought her to bed to comfort her, she climbed out, made her way downstairs, and laid beside her water bowl. I’d heard that’s one of those bad signs, so we tried a trick we knew of giving her ice cubes and encouraging her to lick. She didn’t lick.

At sunrise, Hal called Dr. Coogan. He’s the kind of old-styled vet who’s cut from a cloth rarely made anymore: he has a gentle, caring demeanor, sees patients the day they need help, and understands that animals have the capacity to enter the souls of those who love them. He told Hal to bring Peach in, where we learned she was severely dehydrated. For a few hours he gave her fluids, then released her. But when Hal brought her home and set her carrier case on the floor, she didn’t move. We urged her out, and saw her legs were wobbling. She laid on her side on the floor. Hal sat in a chair and brought her to his lap. “This isn’t looking good,” we said.

That was Friday. Now it was Saturday. The journey through Friday night had been a march into dread. Will things somehow turn around? When should we call the doctor again? How can we go on without our mirth-making, dustball-producing, quilt-kneading Miss Peachie Pie?

We didn’t sleep, thinking instead about how, when Hal was single fifteen years ago, he found a shriveled, lonely, quivering cat in his backyard in another city. She had a collar but no tags, and somehow, for reasons we would never know, had gotten separated from her home, and taken refuge under a concrete bench outside Hal’s back door. He’d recently said goodbye to his first feline soulmate, Woody, who’d also had hyperthyroidism, and died at age twenty-three. So his house was empty and his heart was ready, and when he lured this lost, pathetic looking creature into his warm kitchen, she moved into his life as well.

She found him, and a paradise beyond any she could have ever dreamed of—shelter and food and rugs and beds and warm laundry and nightly brushie and nuzzly-cuddly-giggly-fur-addicted-nickname-minting-cat-dancing companions—became hers.

There were intrusions in her paradise. Moves to a few new residences, with all the accompanying changes in routines. The arrival of a black and white stray, Zeebee, who Hal insisted we take in a few years ago.

But mostly Peach had a gloriously happy existence. And she repaid us by winning over the hearts of everyone—friend, neighbor, even new wife—who encountered her. They called her “Mouthy” for her talkativeness. Everyone marveled at how she’d speak whenever you waved your arms near her, like the electronic instrument of the theramin. Neighbors discovered her boldly exploring their houses when their back doors were open. They saw her appear on their back porches whenever they were barbecuing, snatching up any morsel that fell from a fork, earning her yet another nickname, The Hamburglar.

Her eyes were smart. She knew her name. When we learned that Delaware had declared our state dessert to be the peach pie, we laughed and said, “It’s true.”

Dr. Coogan circled our block twice before he was sure he was at the right address. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t an older, white van, the kind families take for long vacations. I wasn’t expecting him to get out in shorts, a t-shirt, and a baseball cap. For a moment I wasn’t even sure it was him, except that when he got out, he held a cardboard cat carrier and a leather medical bag—the kind I’d seen only in old television shows, when small town doctors paid house calls.

Who pays house calls anymore? Certainly not doctors. Probably not vets.

Yet when Hal called during Dr. Coogan’s office hours Saturday morning, saying Peach had shown no improvement, and in fact hadn’t been able to hold the fluids she’d received the day before, Dr. Coogan said we didn’t have to make any decisions just then. Yes, his office closed at noon on Saturday, but here was his home number. We could call whenever we needed him over the weekend. Hal asked if there was a chance Peach could come back. Dr. Coogan said it was remote. But, he added, we could wait and see. And if the time came when we felt decisive—and, he emphasized, emotionally ready—he’d come.

So Saturday we sat vigil, waiting and seeing. We began on the kitchen floor. But the morning was sunny and warm, and, aside from being in Hal’s arms, the thing Peach liked most in the world was being in our backyard.

With great care, we carried her outside and set her on the grass. She laid limp. Hal brought out his guitar and serenaded her. She sat up. We called neighbors who loved her. Susan, who’d named her “Mouthy,” came over and stroked her coat. Jen, whose yard backs onto ours and who often found Peach on her porch, said Peach felt like her cat, too. Kelly and Dave expressed sympathy over our shared fence. Hal’s parents called. My father called.

But there was a moment in the midst of all the goodbyes when hope returned. Peach’s favorite place in our yard was the Japanese maple tree, under which she would sleep for hours. And after several hours outside when the most she could do was raise her head, she somehow roused herself to stagger across the yard, jump up and over the foot-high slate border of our garden, and collapse beneath the branches of her tree. There she slept in her beloved spot, and we thought, How was that possible? Maybe she was coming back!

The winds came up then. The branches started snapping.

She crawled out from the tree but could walk no more. “I think she wants to go in,” Hal said.

We brought her to the sofa. I knew the decision had to be Hal’s—he was her true love, and she his second feline soulmate. I was her breakfast feeder and daytime playmate. But I was not the center of her universe.

Hal said, “Let’s wait until tomorrow morning.”

I waited fifteen minutes, and I said, “Why?”

He leaned over and pressed his face into her fur and mumbled their secret language, the one they’d shared since he rescued her from the concrete bench. He had waited a few hours too long when Woody died, and had watched the poor animal suffer in his last breaths. He didn’t want that to happen again. Yet it was clear Peach still loved life. And he—and I—loved her life, too.

Then he lifted his head. “I’m calling Dr. Coogan.”

Dr. Coogan came into our living room. “We’re still wondering,” I said, since I knew Hal could not. “Let me see her walk,” Dr. Coogan said, and when Hal set Peach on the floor, she just settled right where she was.

He said, “Her breathing is labored. She has no more than twenty-four to forty-eight hours left, and they won’t be easy ones. I think your decision is the right one.”

So we brought her to the coffee table and held on. And he explained everything before he did it, and was kind and gentle. And the life left her quickly and easily, because she was already so close. And he closed her eyes, and we placed her in a box. “Now I’ll leave you to your grieving,” he said, and he left. And we cried.

The next morning was cold and the wind was still autumn-strong. Hal dug the grave in the backyard, in a spot close to Peach’s tree. We cried and cried and set the box within. Then he covered it with dirt.

We’d thought of getting a marker of some kind. But then we realized that, sitting across the yard was a very large rock, left over from several tons of stone we used, not long ago, to build a stone wall in our yard. The rock was calico-colored, we suddenly realized, and so Hal carried it to the covered grave and set it on top. “Should we say anything on it?” I asked. We both knew the answer, and as we held each other, crying, we also laughed. “State dessert,” we said, looking down. “The Peach Pie.”

The house is quiet now, and Zeebee is just beginning to search for her friend. We cannot tell her Peach is gone. But just a few moments ago we saw her sitting on the back steps, staring out to the rock.

We look too. The wind still hadn’t settled down, and we’re waiting for May to warm up again. We know we were lucky. Hal had fifteen years with one of the greatest cats of all time, and I had nine. We were given many months, even years, to adjust to her decline. We had the presence of mind to make a decision before her suffering began. She said goodbye to her friends. She spent a final afternoon under her favorite tree. She had a veterinarian who was exactly what a veterinarian should be.

But as much as we wish it would, luck doesn’t balance out loss.

We miss her so, and we always will.

When I got married nine years ago, my husband Hal was deeply connected to Peach, a long-haired calico who had taken refuge in his city backyard several years earlier. Hal is a total softie when it comes to animals, and especially cats, and when he saw her, shivering and cowering beneath a bench in his tiny back yard, he was himself recovering from the loss of his previous cat, who’d been at his side for twenty-three years. So he began a campaign of luring this pitiful creature into the shelter of his warm apartment, and with several bowls of food spread out over a few days, he succeeded.

Soon she trusted Hal enough to let him clean her coat, at which point he discovered that she wasn’t the skinny, blackened tomcat she’d appeared to be, but a slender, gorgeous lady who walked with hips swiveling and paws turned out like a ballerina. He named her Peach, because her white and orange fur looked as luscious as peach and vanilla ice-cream. In no time at all, she’d become his constant companion, except for the moments when his attention strayed, and then she would sprawl seductively on the floor, belly up, gazing coquettishly toward his face until he happened to glance her way. The second his eyes met hers, she’d cross her front paws at the wrist, her final move to melt his heart. And it did; he’d drop to the floor and nuzzle her, and she’d make happy sounds in return.

When Hal asked me to marry him, I knew I’d also be marrying Peach. I too would come home to the ritualistic greeting, when she’d bound down the stairs, squealing with glee, spring up to the top of the sofa, and ready herself to get hoisted onto a shoulder. Then there would be the display of affection and attention-seeking she’d do for guests, when she’d place herself in the center of the action, and roll about with such abandon, Hal’s friends nicknamed her Roly-Poly. And I’d have to get used to the smart look in her eyes, which sometimes struck me as professorial, especially when she’d sit at the back door, head cocked, demanding with a glare that we let her into the yard.

I am not an easy sell with animals. I like them just fine, but for reasons I’ve never understood, I don’t open my heart for awhile. Somehow, I see them as just a cat, just a dog, until they assert their personality, repeatedly and insistently, and charm me into submission.

Peach began right away. To her credit, she didn’t resent my arrival. One of the many virtues of pets is their rather quick acceptance of new situations, and their efforts to make the best of whatever fate has handed them. Another is their ability to pick up on the overall emotion in the household. We were newlyweds, blissfully happy. And so, therefore, was she.

And so she did win me over. It happened in our first week of marriage, when Hal was giving her her nightly brushie. All he had to do was hold up the brush and she’d hurtle onto the bed and catapult herself over to her special brushie chair. Oh, and then the rolling and dive-bombing and chin-marking of every available surface! Oh, and then the sound of ecstasy: rrruh! It was unbridled delight in life, the same as I was feeling. She won me over because she was herself—and also because she was me.

Soon, with the two of us inventing terms of endearment for our fuzzheaded entertainer, Peach became Peachie.

Then Miss Peachie Pie.

Then Miss Peach E. Pie.

And Cleopatra.

And Meopatra.

And, finally, Miss Marilyn Meow.

But they tick to a different clock, pets. Their hearts beat faster, drumming them more quickly through life. Though I don’t see animals as inherently wiser than humans, I do admire their lack of self-consciousness, capacity for forgiveness, assertiveness with affection. It is as if they, with their shorter life spans, somehow know the pointlessness of grudges. Why not just wait right outside the bathroom door in the morning, going Wah wah wah, even if the night before we were too caught up in our own distresses—a call from a hurting friend, problems at work—to do her brushie? Why not jump on the bed for her nightly kneading dance, even if we’d yelled at her ten minutes ago for sneaking onto the kitchen counter to steal a slice of cheese?

Yes, their clocks tick faster—but they reset faster, too. We’re the ones who know life is too short, but they’re the ones who act like it is.

Her decline began slowly. We didn’t know her age when she met Hal—the vet said a year, but it could have been more. So we couldn’t say, “Oh, now she’s twelve, so let’s start looking for middle-aged milestones.” The changes just happened. There were the losses: less running around, less roly-poly, less variety in her vocabulary. There were the mores: more sleep, longer sleep, deeper sleep. There were the unwelcome newcomers: the drop in weight, the urinating at doorways, the howling, the throwing up.

Then began the visits to the vet. After many rounds, he diagnosed her with hyperthyroidism, a condition that afflicts many older cats (though no one is sure why), and prescribed the one medication used to treat it. She wouldn’t swallow the pill. We got pill pockets. She did swallow, but threw up more. The vet sent us to a compounding pharmacy, which reformulated the medication as a tuna-tasting liquid. She wouldn’t let it into her mouth. The compounding pharmacy turned the liquid into a gel we rubbed into her ears. Her ears turned red, the fur fell off her face, and she slept, slept, slept.

I volunteer for hospice. One of the things I was taught in training is that, at the end of life, cure ceases to be the focus. Instead, the effort goes toward palliative care: making the individual comfortable, maintaining a good quality of life.

We took her off the medication. Her ears healed, her facial fur grew back. She woke up.

But the decline didn’t stop. Her weight dropped even more. The howling grew weak, the peeing grew constant.

No more roly-poly. No ritual greeting. No coquettish displays.

During what turned out to be the last snowstorm of this winter, when she couldn’t hold down dinner, I said, “I don’t think she’ll make it until next fall.” Hal, petting her, said, “We can’t know. Why even think about it?”

So we still do the brushie, and she still loves it, in a scaled down way. Sometimes she still does her nightly kneading dance, but not often. When days are cold, she curls up next to a hot water bottle, too thin to warm herself on her own.

The sorrow of watching her decline is made worse by the fear of losing the gifts she’s given us. The laughter, the readiness to drop to the floor and play, the appreciation of her stunning beauty. But more than all of that is the treasuring of the now. If there is only the now, there is no need for hard feelings. If there is only the now, there is no need to be shy about asking for love. Because of Peach, and the other pets we have loved, we see how to revere just one day, one hour, one minute. The minutes will go on after losing her. But how we wish we could grab time, hug it to our chests, and never let go.

So with every day that remains, I hear her in a whole new day. Yes, she still says rrruh! when the brush comes out. And some mornings, she still stands outside the bathroom door and says, in her new, more feeble voice, Weh.

But I now hear the word she and all cats say, the one she’s been saying all along. The one we nicknamed her after.

It is not just the mantra of cats. It is, I now think, the sound of consciousness beating.

Me now. Me now. Me now.

Stay here, me, I think every night, looking at her, and Hal, and everyone I love. Stay here now. Let me come inside the house, and now roll around the floor, and make themselves at home forever.