Befitting his species-neutral given name, Frank established himself quickly with the boys as “the other brother.” He was always available to them without condition or stint for real, adolescent play. To be sure, he enjoyed “fetch the ball” in that maddening, “I’ve got it now. Come get it, sucker!” dachshund way, but right from the start he was always “we,” not “they.” While he acquiesced to being a love object for us adults and extended family, including my “Auntie Mame” mother-in-law, Ginny, he was all about Trevor and Bevan to the end of his life. In combat, they both did him the favor of shrieking and flopping around on the floor while he vanquished them at the wrist with his mouth.
Frank adapted himself to their disparate personalities. Trevor was his favorite family-room snuggle buddy because, unlike Bevan, he didn’t become so absorbed in MTV’s The Real World that he neglected his petting and treat obligations. Because he was generally more aggressive, Bevan had to be reminded on occasion of his size-ratio boundaries with a growl or nip. When they were out, Frank waited vigilantly at the front window for them to return. The boys took to calling him Ma Bell because from the shoulders up, with ears elevated, he looked like an antiquated telephone set.
Almost Zen-like in disposition, Frank was made anxious by only three things: going to the vet; fireworks; and water, whatever evil form it took. He handled doctor visits with Gandhi-like civil disobedience, having to be carried and manipulated by hand. We learned to avoid fireworks altogether after taking him with us to watch the legendary National Mall Independence Day celebration from across the Potomac, at the Pentagon, when he was just a year old. He was content in Geri’s lap until the first flash bang; then he disappeared—under her blouse. I remember her saying, “I think he’s trying to mate with my spine!” From then on, he stayed home. And water? Total freak-out. When the boys were sledding or tubing, he’d run alongside in full cry, biting at the carriage. If the boys were swimming, he’d circle the pool, shrieking and biting the water. The first and only time he encountered the Pacific Ocean, he alternated between running away from the incoming surf and snapping at it on its way back. It was clear to him, and not lost on us, that we were being protected.
Frank never met a guest or a lap he couldn’t conquer, without so much as a bark or a whine—in large part because he could stare down the Sphinx without blinking. He’d confront his intended victim and, if not invited aboard immediately, settle in and engage for as long as it took. At their first encounter, my baby sister, Carol, was wary of Frank meeting her husband, Don. She revealed, “He doesn’t like whiny, yappy little dogs.” It was less than fifteen minutes, door to sofa, before Frank was inside his very happy new friend’s shirt.
In short, Frank was not just ours, he was us, in whatever incarnation required. He was embarrassed by the whole dog butt-sniffing ritual and considered other canines’ loud, energetic curiosity about him undignified. In fact, his only acknowledgment of another’s very existence was a cursory woof, uttered after that other creature was safely out of range. For fifteen years, until his brothers had graduated from college and it was the late summer of 2000, he was the perfect relative and ever-accommodating host. Bevan was competing in the Olympic trials, trying to win a spot in the sport he’d excelled in at college—decathlon. Dozens of family and friends passed through our house to offer encouragement. Frank was already in decline, and the sheer numbers of kneecaps and laps simply overwhelmed him.
On the day Geri and I carried him to the vet for his final injection, it was we who were anxious—upset and tearful. We held and caressed him; as he sensed and yielded to the phenobarbital, he regarded us one last time with that calm, transcendent gaze. “Don’t grieve for me,” he seemed to say. “It was a good run, but it’s time for my karma to be reborn.”
Good boy, Frank.
Little Orange
Trina Drotar
I first saw the cat one late spring evening, and he seemed to say, “I’m here, and if you can spare a bite to eat, I’d be most appreciative.” Of course, he didn’t speak those words. In fact, he didn’t meow or purr or make any other sound.
When I returned with a bowl of food, he stepped left into the hydrangeas and camellias. I waited for him to approach. He waited for me to leave. I went back inside and peeked at him through the peephole. He sat and ate without greed.
He returned several times, usually in the evening, over the next few weeks, and we formed a sort of dance. He always led. I’d step out, squat and speak to him before extending my hand. He’d take one step back, always remaining just out of arm’s reach.
I’d check each evening for Little Orange, calling his name, even though I wasn’t sure that he knew he had a name, much less what it was. I’d walk to the sidewalk, searching for him; I’d sneak peeks through the front door peephole; and I’d even check the backyard. Days passed. I was called out of town for two weeks. The caretaker didn’t spot Little Orange.
Days and weeks passed, and then one sunny morning, when I pulled the blinds in the living room, I saw him sunning himself in the backyard. “Little Orange,” I yelled. I placed some food and water on the back patio. We danced. We kept that appropriate distance. He spent the better part of the day in the backyard, first in the grass, then under the azaleas near the fence. It was much cooler there, in the dirt, under the shade of the evergreens, the red maple and the Japanese maple. He left sometime before dinner.
I looked daily for him. Scanned both yards, looked up and down the street, called his name. I peered from behind curtains and through the peephole, but there was no sign of Little Orange. That was nearly two months ago.
About two weeks ago, on a Monday morning, when I was headed to the store, I saw an orange/yellow presence on the back patio. I ran to the door. The cat was limping, favoring the left side of his body. He was thin, much thinner than the cat I had danced with. I opened the door and went to him, forgetting that we’d never actually had physical contact. He turned his dirty head and hissed, but he didn’t run. I backed up, told him he was safe, and assured him that I’d return with food and water.
He hissed as I placed the bowls on the cement. He hissed again as I backed up. He wobbled to the bowls. He didn’t sit to eat, as he’d done before. He stood. I also stood as I watched him eat all the kibble in the dish. I stood as he drank from the water bowl. I wept. Where had he been these past months?
“I need a towel and the cat carrier,” I said.
I waited until Little Orange had finished drinking before I approached with the towel. I figured that I’d wrap the towel around him in case he tried to bite or scratch. Just then, another stray entered the yard and a chase ensued. I screamed. I cried. I chased both cats. The other cat had been friendly toward me and had a companion, but I was worried about Little Orange.
Thinking they had both jumped the privacy fence, I ran to the front. One cat. Not Little Orange. I went back through the house to the backyard and spotted him. He ran with all that he had, hobbling and favoring that left side. He leapt at the back fence. I knew we’d lose him if he crossed it. He clung to the top, unable, or as I’d prefer to think, unwilling, to pull his body up and over. I placed the towel around him and brought his toweled body to the house. With my roommate’s help, I placed him in the carrier and closed it.
Whatever Little Orange had experienced, I’d never know, but his ordeal increased with the visit to the vet’s office where I’d taken my pets for more than two decades.
I’d advised the desk personnel that the cat was feral, that it was injured, and that it was undernourished and probably dehydrated. I gave his name as Little Orange and completed the necessary paperwork before being shown into an exam room. The tech opened the carrier; Little Orange popped his head out, eyes crusted black, burrs on his head; and the tech tipped the carrier. She didn’t want to handle this little cat. Still frightened from the earlier chase, Little Orange fell from the exam table before my roommate or I could catch him. The tech simply stood. Little Orange scrambled for the door,
hissing.
My roommate picked him up. The tech insisted on taking Little Orange to the back for the exam. We said we’d carry him.
“You’re not allowed back there,” the tech said.
In hindsight, we should have left then, but we were both exhausted. We allowed the tech to take Little Orange, and then we paced the exam room until the doctor appeared.
“That cat is out of control. He is an unneutered male, and he scratched me and tried to bite me,” she said and continued to call him everything except pure evil.
My roommate and I looked at one another. He’d never been that way, not even when I pulled him from the fence. The hissing, I knew, was his only defense. The doctor suggested this test or that test, but only after we badgered her. Her first suggestion was euthanization. Immediately.
“Can we be there?” I asked.
“Absolutely not,” she said, adding that she’d give him a sedative first.
“Absolutely not,” we said in unison.
We spent the next thirty minutes phoning a friend who works with feral cats, another who loves cats and yet another who is known for having a solid head. One said that we needed to have the basic tests for HIV and feline leukemia done. Those would inform our next step. The tests came back negative. Good news. One friend then suggested we take the cat to the SPCA for medical care.
The next step was a complete blood panel to rule out kidney and liver disease, which we would have the SPCA do. Another thirty minutes passed before we told the vet that we would take the cat to the SPCA. It took ten minutes for them to retrieve Little Orange.
“He’s much calmer,” the tech said.
We drove away, intent on going to the SPCA. Turned out that it was closed on Mondays. We took Little Orange home and quarantined him in the spare bathroom. We put blankets and towels down, a litter box, food and water. He didn’t jump out of the carrier, as my other cats always did. He remained there until later that night, when I tipped the carrier. I helped him onto the bed we’d made for him out of towels and blankets. Little Orange was covered with burrs.
We made additional calls that evening, with the intention of bringing him to the SPCA the next morning. One friend suggested we try her vet. I phoned Dr. K’s office the next morning. We took Little Orange to the office. He hissed once at Dr. K. After the exam, we asked about blood tests. He ordered the tests. He told us that the cat was very ill. He suggested fluids for Little Orange.
We took Little Orange home, his neck fuller because of the subcutaneous fluids he’d received. He licked my finger clean of the canned food I offered and let me know when he was full. We purchased additional bedding for him.
Partial test results that evening indicated no kidney or liver problems. That, combined with the doctor’s proclamation that Little Orange had a strong heart and strong lungs, gave us hope. With fluids, food, rest and safety, he’d grow stronger, like another cat I’d rescued several years earlier.
For the next few days, we changed his bedding at least twice daily, fed him by hand and checked on him. When he refused the cat food, we searched for something different. We brought home baby food instead. Beef and beef gravy had the highest iron count. Dr. K’s main concern was Little Orange’s anemia. His red blood cells were not being replenished. Dr. K indicated that the anemia went beyond the cat’s flea infestation. We purchased flea medicine and applied it to his already ravaged body. Flea dirt, we soon discovered, covered nearly every part of his tiny body. He’d likely been lying in the brush for a long time. There fleas had set up house and multiplied and used the already weak cat for their own nourishment and procreation.
On Wednesday I thought he’d died on the trip from Dr. K’s office. Little Orange lived. I moved him onto the bedding when we got home. That was the day I began stroking his body. I’d touched his head a couple of times. He’d flinched. He seemed to enjoy the stroking of his fur. I began, also, to cut away the burrs that had wedged their way into his fur.
Thursday seemed to mark a turning point. He raised his head and turned toward the bathroom door. Three times. The baby food, which he continued to lick from my finger, but only after sniffing it each and every time, and the subcutaneous fluids seemed to be working. We had been prepared to take him to the vet that morning. He wasn’t ready.
I spent nearly every day, nearly every waking hour with Little Orange during that week. I brushed his fur with an old soft-bristle pet brush. He purred. I doubted that Little Orange had ever been touched by a human, ever been brushed, ever been held. When I changed his bedding, I held him. I pulled his frail, limp body close to mine so that he might feel my warmth and my heart.
Friday brought another injection of fluids. Dr. K reminded us that the office was open Saturdays in case we needed anything. Although there’d been indications throughout the week that Little Orange was getting stronger, Dr. K told us there might be some brain or spinal cord injury, things only specialists could diagnose. Dr. K never once treated Little Orange as a feral—only as our pet. He suggested a cortisone shot, saying that the shot was usually recommended by specialists.
We returned home, and I spent most of Friday with him, brushing him and trying to feed him, changing his wet bedding, removing burrs from all parts of his body. He needed to retain some of the dignity he had exhibited when he came to us. As much dignity as a cat unable to stand on its own could.
Little Orange, or Orange, as we affectionately called the peaceful orange/yellow tabby, refused to eat late Friday night. That refusal continued through Saturday morning. He refused to drink. He was unable to lift his head, his torso or his limbs. I held him, cried, told him that we loved him. He demanded nothing. He never fought.
We agreed that only Dr. K could tend to Orange. The office was officially closed when we arrived, but Dr. K ushered us in. I cried tears for Little Orange, for the life he had never had the chance to experience, for the love we’d shown him, for the other cats who had entered and left my life, and for me. I wanted to save him, wanted him to grow stronger. After all, he had strong lungs and a strong heart, and his kidneys and liver and pancreas were healthy. Years ago, a doctor told me that I’d know when the end was near.
I held Little Orange in my arms as I carried him to the exam room. Dr. K examined him again, said this was best. My roommate and I stroked Little Orange. He never convulsed.
We wrapped his body, blessed him and placed him in a hole we’d dug in front of the azaleas, under the Japanese maple, shaded by the red maple, near the spot he’d rested two months earlier. We marked the spot with a white fence, autumn leaves and a ceramic garden hummingbird.
The Old Barrel Racer
Elaine Ambrose
By the summer of my twelfth year, my parents had already decided that I was a problem child. There had been too many calls to the school principal’s office to discuss my noisy and disruptive behavior in class. (Obviously, they failed to appreciate my spirited, creative nature.) And my teachers had complained that I daydreamed too much. (Couldn’t anyone recognize a potential writer here?) And my parents were weary of my fights with my brothers, noting that the boys never questioned the rigid rules of our home. (My brothers later suffered from painful ulcers and other health ailments; however, I did not.)
I grew up on an isolated potato farm near Wendell, Idaho, a nearsighted, left-handed, goofy girl with wrinkly hair and absolutely no ability to conform. Outside of farm chores, the only activity for youth in the farming community of one thousand was a program called 4-H. Desperately hoping it would help me focus, my mother enrolled me in a 4-H cooking class, with the admonition that I behave and not embarrass her. I failed both assignments. When it came my turn to do the demonstration in front of the group, I dropped a dead mouse into the cake batter because I thought it was a brilliant way to spice up the boring meetings. But the leader, one of the town’s most prominent women, thought otherwise, and she called my mother and told her I was never welcome in her home again. My mother is still mad at me more than forty years la
ter for the public humiliation.
My great escape from the chores and challenges of life on the farm was to ride my horse, Star. As we galloped through the forty-acre pastures, I hollered with delight when she jumped the ditches and raced to the far end of the field. Sometimes I would lean over, lace my fingers through her long white mane and push my boots against her flanks until she ran full speed, ears back, nostrils flared, with a force of freedom that no bridle could control. When she finally stopped at the top of a hill, her sides were heaving and covered with sweat. Her entire body shivered as she calmed down, and I would jump off and loosen the cinch on the saddle. For me, the exhilaration was worth the fear of falling.
Star was a big white horse, over fourteen hands high (almost fifty-eight inches from the ground), and had been trained as a prizewinning barrel racer. My father had acquired the horse from a man who owed him money, and the horse was all he had to give. At ten years old, she was past her prime for the rodeo, but I didn’t care. She was my passport to liberty, and I loved her.
During the summer of 1964, I worked in the fields during the morning and rode my horse every afternoon. I knew how to catch her in the pasture, bring her to the barn and put on her bridle and saddle. I would be gone all day, and no one ever checked on me. Probably, they were just as eager to have me out of the house as I was to leave. After every ride I brushed Star’s hide and fed her oats. Sometimes I brought her an apple or some sugar cubes. My brothers referred to her as an old gray mare, but to me, she was a gorgeous white horse who could run like the wind. And she was my best friend.
One day I learned about a 4-H club for horses. It took expert negotiation skills and outright begging to convince my parents to let me join. “No more dead mice!” I assured them. With the help of the club, I learned how to ride my horse as she raced around three barrels set in a dirt arena. She knew what to do, and all I did was hang on for dear life. She loved the full gallop after rounding the third barrel, and within weeks, we were the fastest team in the club.
The Dog with the Old Soul Page 6