by Nick Trout
Same Dance, Different Song
When Reggie returned to the wilds of Massachusetts I imagine he must have felt like a lifer from Leavenworth spending a day at “juvie hall.” Finally rehabilitated in what for him was his element, he headed out on a fresh tour of duty, working his latest backyard as if he had already planned a route using Google Earth. Head high, shoulder blades keeping the beat, tail up, he looked almost cocky, the new kid on the block, more than confident—defiant. What could possibly threaten this veteran of desert combat? The chipmunk? The woodchuck? A wild turkey? I imagined him coming across a garter snake and thinking, “Is that all you’ve got?” At the end of his first day Reggie came home with a little Ali shuffle in his stride, enough bluster to let us all know it had been a good day and it was good to be home.
For a while we had a run on classic doormat offerings, which I put down to his desire to show me how much he approved of his new domain. However, it wasn’t long before daily became weekly became monthly, and though Reggie defined feline freedom, it had become apparent that he was increasingly an indoor cat. Open a linen closet any time of day and there was Reggie, third shelf up, curled into a ball and fast asleep. With increasing frequency I’d find him on the children’s beds, in front of the fireplace, at full stretch in a shaft of sunlight. Suddenly Reggie was all about leisure and relaxation. When I picked him up I could feel the extra weight of him. Then it hit me. Reggie wasn’t being lazy or bingeing on too much kibble, he was simply getting old. Reginald C. Cat was starting to bask in his retirement.
“How old is he?” I asked Kathy.
“We’ll never know for sure, but maybe fifteen, sixteen. Something around there.”
I was surprised. He was already at a fine age for any cat. His choice of a sedentary lifestyle seemed to have come upon him so quickly, almost as if, now that he was home, he could let down his guard and succumb to a simpler, less stressful environment.
Sophie appeared equally at home in what, for her, was exotic territory. Unfortunately her comfort zone knew no boundaries, and the backyard was simply a gateway to a new world in which she could ignore all pesky name-calling and explore to her little heart’s content. Improved (and costly) picket fencing took care of any possible aerial perimeter breach, but the terrier in her took full advantage of the rich loamy soil, burrowing for freedom like a prisoner in a World War II movie. Though the house opened onto dense forest and conservation land, the road out front was heavily trafficked. If Sophie was sufficiently motivated to cross the street, the stubborn terrier in her would defy all attempts to stop her getting there.
There are those who argue invisible fencing is a lazy alternative to appropriate training. For me, despite hours of training, it was a necessary alternative to the unthinkable. I could diminish the threat of a tunnel break. I couldn’t make it go away completely. Besides, for Sophie, learning to use a shock collar was easy. She simply watched a bunch of Whitney’s guy friends from high school, intent on mimicking their heroes on MTV’s Jackass. Clutching the collar to their necks they would run into the danger zone, ignore the audible warning, and press on, screaming and visibly surprised to receive an electric shock. They may not have lit up the night sky but Sophie registered their distress. From there on out, the beeping noise alone would make her back off.
Though the assignation of Sophie to Whitney had always been unofficial, the passage of time only served to strengthen and clarify their connection, the two inseparable, like Paris Hilton and her dogs, long before she was a household name. Sophie was more like a girlfriend than a dog—trustworthy, receptive, and guaranteed to never join a rival clique, to never stab you in the back or turn into a bitch. She and Whitney even had the exact same taste in boys. She never hogged the remote because, like Whitney, she loved Dawson’s Creek and The O.C. Now that Sophie was a little older and a whole lot calmer, every night had turned into a sleepover and on weekends she was more than happy to get her toenails painted hot pink. And Sophie loved to get pampered with a shampoo and blow dry, emerging from the bathroom like a greyhound out of the gate, feeling the air through her soft coat as she embarked on a mad dash around the house, cutting around furniture, her Day-Glo nails clicking out a wild staccato rhythm across the hardwood floors.
Contrary to my father’s prediction, I was happy to take her for walks—when she wasn’t wearing nail polish—until one day she bared a side of her whose existence he had long suspected.
When Sophie was a puppy we had gone to great lengths to ensure she was appropriately socialized with both people and other animals. On her first birthday she had hosted (thanks to Whitney and Emily) a party to which all the neighborhood dogs were invited. There had been some chowing down of “cake”—a frightening concoction the kids cooked up out of dry and canned dog food—plus games and toys and swimming, all without gnashing of teeth. Okay, so one fine Saint Bernard named Chantelle plowed straight through a screen door in her excitement to join in the fun, but what I witnessed was a feisty terrier who integrated well with other dogs.
While Sophie maintained exemplary social graces with humans, so long as you consider rolling on your back and splaying out your crotch as acceptable, the wind was changing when it came to other members of her species. As part of settling into her new home, I anticipated she might become a little ill at ease, a little territorial and protective of the property entrusted to her care. I just wasn’t prepared for her to take this attitude to the streets.
Funny how walking the dog can make you realize that it’s not as easy to be a good pet owner as you thought. For years I had been criticizing my father over the way in which Whiskey and Bess insisted on dislocating his shoulder joints. And apparently I was no better as fifteen pounds of determined terrier drove me forward, angled low, ignoring all my attempts to bribe or cajole her to come to heel, fanning back and forth as if she were divining for water. Like so many dog owners who don’t take enough time and make enough effort, I was held hostage to a dog determined to take me for a walk. If only my father could see me now.
They were at least a hundred yards away when I spotted them, headed in our direction, no more than stick figures. In seconds, distorted black lines in the fading daylight had transformed into a man and some kind of a dog, fairly large, I thought, perhaps something the size of a golden retriever. I knew Sophie had spotted them on her radar because she had stopped tugging on her leash and stood at rigid attention with her short tail sticking straight up, flashing a warning.
“Easy, Sophie.”
I reached out to calm her, but as I did she rushed forward again, stretching her leash, grumbling and growling, pawing at her collar. I always knew Sophie was smart, but I have never been able to find her opposable thumb or figure out what slick sleight-of-paw she used to get that collar off. Without skipping a beat she was charging toward the other dog, barking her head off with that insistent, determined, formidable terrier savagery. I don’t think the dog, a chow chow, as it turned out, ever saw what hit her. One moment she’s happily, innocently bouncing down a hill, her master at her side, the next she’s hit by a furry white bullet. Naturally I offered chase, Sophie selectively deaf to my cries, the effect of my pursuit only adding to the drama as the two of us rushed toward the two of them. With hindsight, Sophie’s lunge at the poor dog’s neck was a tad theatrical, the action appearing to unfold with something of a Matrix slow-motion quality. Within seconds, I had grabbed her and pulled her off the chow and only then did I realize my dilemma. Oh, it wasn’t the dog, who couldn’t have been more passive. It was the owner, and it wasn’t that I knew the owner, more that I knew of the owner. The man responded in exactly the appropriate manner, appalled and flabbergasted, attentive to his own dog as I secured Sophie, tethering her to a lamppost. Strangely, the savage edge had left her, as if she had won the fight and wanted to make sure the other guy, KO’d on the canvas, was still alive. It was as if the terrier taste for blood had been satiated, only when I inspected her muzzle, there was no blood. I hurried over to the victim, embar
rassed, and offering a sincere apology.
“You had best check her over,” said the stranger, conveying the message: “Yes, I know what you do for a living, as well.”
My knowledge of the man was gleaned through rumor, innuendo, and snippets of conversation overheard at girls’ basketball games, on soccer sidelines, and at school plays. He was a lawyer, of course, inclined toward personal injury, and what he lacked in altitude he made up for in a grim sneer recognizable as his habitual facial expression. With minimal effort he tweaked his countenance into a frosty glare and I couldn’t help but feel like he was already practicing for the moment when he called me to the stand, swore me in, and took my testimony apart.
The chow lay on her side, more out of choice than incapacitation, and, despite the assault, she was calm and remarkably easy to work on.
“The skin’s not broken. There’s no blood and I can’t see any puncture marks.”
By now the light was poor so I couldn’t be certain, but I was hopeful Sophie had only aimed for a love bite and nothing more.
“I’m assuming that dog is fully vaccinated.”
“Yes, of course,” I said. The chow chow got to her feet, and out of the corner of my eye I could see Sophie starting to get agitated, but in a good way, doing the dancing deer move, eyes locked on their target, all four feet making small synchronous vertical jumps. She wanted to come over, this time to say hello properly.
“Look, if there’s a problem you discover when you get home or over the next few days, don’t hesitate to give me a call. My number’s in the phone book.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll be sure to call,” he said, and I sensed he enjoyed this last word, this open-ended possibility that the next time the phone rang at my house, he might be on the other end suggesting I speak to my insurance company or “lawyer up.”
As it turned out, I called him. He may not have been a client, nor was the chow chow officially a patient, but professional experience has taught me that I often fare better after a thorny encounter if I use preemptive communication. My inquiry as to his dog’s health caught him off guard but, begrudgingly, he sounded somewhat grateful for the follow-up.
“So far, so good” was as much as he would relinquish with regard to the lack of physical findings, as though there might still be consequences from which he could derive financial remuneration.
What disturbed me most was the unpredictability of Sophie’s behavior and my failings as an owner of my first dog. Not only was I unable to rein her in on a walk, but now she was demonstrating the same kind of aggressive behavior I had witnessed as a kid with our German shepherd, Patch. I had been critical of my father’s dogtraining abilities and here I was committing the sins of the father myself. What next, getting up at four in the morning for walks to avoid meeting other dogs? All I needed was the flat cap and the walking stick and I was there!
While I was thinking about ways to address the problem, other, bigger pet quandaries came to light, the most devastating of which concerned Reggie.
All of us knew Reggie was getting old, slowing down, his neediness as endearing as it was unusual. Recon missions were still an integral part of life, but they seemed abbreviated, as though they were becoming a chore, a duty he no longer enjoyed. Then, one evening, at feeding time, the tinkle of dry cat food on metal failed to set off the lumpy thud of a cat dropping from a shelf upstairs.
“Anyone seen Reggie?”
The obvious answers ricocheted around the kitchen—“He’s probably still asleep in the closet,” “He might be trapped under the bed,” “I thought I saw him outside.” Common and uncommon hiding places were explored to no avail.
I called his name out the back door.
“Anyone notice anything wrong with him this morning?”
Head shaking and looks of confusion. None of us had picked up on any signs of sickness. He had eaten well and had been seen drinking from his water bowl, acting fine.
We let a couple of hours pass during which I imagined and investigated a number of improbable hiding places, places I had never seen him frequent but felt better checking out all the same. Then I grabbed a flashlight and hit the backyard, sweeping the beam back and forth, waiting for the glowing green dots to come bounding out of the undergrowth. But there was nothing. Though I told no one, I went out in front of the house, up and down the road, rooting around in the scrub and leaf litter along the sidewalk, just in case.
Nothing.
“He probably wandered off, got lost, and now he’s working his way home,” I told the kids. “Don’t look so worried. This is Reggie. This is ‘the Man.’ He knows what he’s doing. If he’s hungry he’ll just eat a cow. If he’s tired, he’ll hitch a ride or jack a car. Massachusetts is a cakewalk. There’s nothing out in these woods for him to be afraid of.”
The kids seemed troubled and upset, but they trusted their cat, the invincible daredevil who always escaped insurmountable danger, bursting into the spotlight at the last moment. He had always been a part of their lives. In the absence of illness how could that possibly change?
There was still no sign of Reggie the following morning, and by the following evening, after Sophie had eaten his food for the second night in a row, a fog of gloom and resignation was beginning to settle, with trembling lips, tears, and snappy emotional outbursts resistant to my fading optimism.
I checked in with neighbors, put in a call to the local police department, but Kathy and I began to prime the kids for the possibility that Reggie wasn’t coming home.
All the credible scenarios were considered. Attacked by a wild animal, maybe a raccoon or a coyote—possible but deemed unlikely. Reggie’s feline reflexes may have been past their prime, but he never lost his street smarts. In the same way I found it hard to believe he was clipped by a car or mistimed a sprint across the road. I would have discovered evidence of trauma, his injured body by the roadside.
The kids favored a cat-napping, a theory I neither encouraged nor discouraged—disappearance with a remote possibility of return. It was always referred to in the manner of a mistake, not an abduction, as though some Johnny-on-the-spot had whisked him away just in case he was lost and Reggie was enjoying a temporary vacation, a brief retreat with “good people,” from which he would return refreshed and revitalized, ready to play down all the fuss.
Personally, I had a different theory, but one I believed, knowing Reggie, melded perfectly with his independent spirit and innate dignity. I was thinking about the famous British explorer Captain Robert Scott, who led an ill-fated expedition to the South Pole in 1912. Not only did Scott discover the Norwegians had got there first, but he and his men were not prepared for the challenge of the return journey and one by one the entire team succumbed to cold, starvation, and death. Notably, one particular officer, a Captain Lawrence Oates, suffering from severe frostbite, knew he was a burden, slowing down his colleagues, reducing their chances of survival. One day, in the middle of a blizzard, he turned to the others and rather famously announced, “I am just going outside and may be some time.” Oates stepped outside his tent and was never seen again.
This suicide was always hailed as the mark of a courageous man and in the same vain I believe Reggie made a choice, took control of his destiny, took us out of the equation and chose to die on his terms. If I had been more astute perhaps I would have found a note in the form of a warning, of subtle clinical markers of failing health. Of course Reggie could have been injured, he could have suffered some acute illness, but I tend to think he had known something wasn’t right for some time. I think he got his affairs in order and said his goodbyes, and we never knew it. He trotted off on his final patrol with no regrets, never once looking back, grateful to have lived as an independent spirit, and fully intending to die as one. This remarkable creature knew how to live. Why should I doubt his capacity for knowing how to die? If he had wanted to be nursed, treated, or cured, don’t you think he would have asked for help? Reggie went old school, with pride and dignity, find
ing himself a cozy warm spot where it was quiet and safe. There he curled up, closed his big green eyes for the last time, and went to sleep—the perfect end to the perfect feline life. We never found his body because I believe Reggie didn’t want it to be found. I think he discovered a way to leave behind one more reminder of how he lived. By going missing in action, he allowed us to believe he’s still out there somewhere, still busy doing what he does best, using up lives and having fun doing it.
It would have been easier to have a body. With no burial or cremation, there was no formal conclusion to Reggie’s life, no physical location where we could pay our respects, conjure his image, and recount memories. I recognized that Reggie’s open-ended departure felt just as frustrating as being unable to visit Patch’s final resting place.
It wasn’t long after Reggie pulled his “Amelia Earhart” that I received another sad phone call from my father informing me that Bess had been put to sleep.
“She’d been declining for some time,” he said, and I could sense he had seen this coming in a way he never had with Whiskey.
“It was the right thing to do, what with her incontinence, and then a stroke.”
I hadn’t mentioned it when Dad had been talking about Whiskey, but what we tend to think of as strokes in people are really quite uncommon in dogs. I hesitate to second-guess the diagnosis of a colleague, especially when I’m not there to examine the dog, but apparently lightning had struck twice. I don’t doubt the severity of the ailment that floored poor Bess. I imagine the veterinarian used the term stroke as a way of helping my parents appreciate the abrupt and terminal impact of Bess’s sudden deterioration. In the end, what does terminology matter? It was just semantics. Besides, once again I was in no position to argue, silently berating myself with “You weren’t even there.”
“I buried her with Whiskey. Back together at last. By heck, she missed him after he was gone.” He drifted with the memory of the two of them and I could tell he took solace from knowing they were back together, as though losing Bess had been hard but offset by the certainty that she would be reunited with Whiskey. “Reckon we’ll get a proper headstone for them both one of these days.”