The Rainbow Bridge

I picked up Winnifred's ashes from the vet's a couple of days ago.  A little faux-wood coffin; this vet is classier than the one who cremated Jammer -- then, we only got a tidy cardboard box.  In the photo, Fred is on the left of Jammer (who died in 1999) and Jersey is at the back/on the right. (Yeah, I know what you're thinking. The ones we carry with us. For those who think that it is more creepy than loving to keep the ashes of my deceased pets in my closet, comfort yourself that it's Halloween.)

The box comes with a folded piece of faux-parchment attached to it with rubber bands  The fold is off-center, so that the title is exposed of whatever is written on the paper: Beyond the Rainbow in suitably overwrought, Victorian-style font.  I keep looking at it -- the paper is sitting next to my keyboard as I type this -- I had intended to copy it out for your amusement -- but I can't bring myself to unfold it.

When we got Jersey's ashes back last winter, I unwittingly pulled open the faux-parchment similarly attached, and read it. I was prepared to be amused, because we had already received a well-intentioned, but misguidedly form-filled sympathy card.  That card, with a cover showing people playing with their pets (dogs, cats, horses) in muted, respectful, colors, reads:

Dear Amy,

The College of Veterinary Medicine recently learned from [our vet] that your cherished cat, Stray Cat, passed away.  In recognition of your loss, Dr. D-- S-- made a generous donation to the Pet Memorial Program at the Oregon State University College of Veterinary Medicine...

Companion animals are dear members of our families; their loss hurts. We can't replace the bond between you and Stray Cat, but we hope you will find some solace in knowing that the friendship and feeling you shared with Stray Cat [is] being extended to other animals through the Pet Memorial Program.

I giggled when I read it then, and I giggle still. So, I expected the folded faux-parchment on Jersey's coffin to be a similar poignant absurdity, like a Monty Python sketch.  It was called The Rainbow Bridge, and I read it expecting an extended pablum banality about unicorns and pink ponies.

The Rainbow Bridge

There is a bridge connecting Heaven and Earth. It is called the Rainbow Bridge because of its many colors.  Just this side of The Rainbow Bridge there is a land of meadows, hills and valleys with lush green grass.

When a beloved pet dies, the pet goes to this place.  There is always food, water and warm spring weather. The old and frail animals are young again. Those who were maimed are made whole again. They play all day with each other.

There is only one thing missing. They are not with their special person who loved them on Earth. So each day they run and play until the day comes when one suddenly stops playing and looks up. The nose twitches! The ears are up! The eyes are staring! And this one suddenly runs away from the group!

You have been seen, and when you and your special friend meet, you take him in your arms and embrace.  Your face is kissed again and again and again, and you look once more into the eyes of your trusting friend.

Then you cross The Rainbow Bridge together, never again to be separated.

 - author unknown

Which it is. Carefully non-denominational, nothing specific as to species of "special friend" or even gender. Personally, too, I don't even believe in heaven, animals allowed or not.

But, boy, does this little story make me sob -- maybe because it doesn't hesitate to pull out all the stops and be, simply, what it is. It should have been particularly, cynically, funny in Jersey's case, since he never had a special person, and his final hour was hissing and clawing at the humans who trapped and ultimately chose to kill him. But in that magical land at the foot of that bridge, Jersey would, I tearfully suppose, be trusting, and happy, and grateful for the heat and food we accorded him against his better judgement.

And Winnifred's joy, as she runs towards the base of the bridge, might be alloyed when she notices, also bounding away from the group, all of the other pets I've had through the years. She was not a cat who liked to share her special people or her space with other cats. But that inconvenience, too, might be alleviated by the Bridge's magic.

Cattus Dommus Catticide

I'm not sure how long Jersey has been living on this block. I have a photo (which I can't find) that I took that first winter I met him, which was, I believe, during my Christmas visit the year Girl-Child was born -- hence, he's been around since at least 2000. He was eating just outside the front door, with snow behind him and a full, thick winter coat that plumped him up to twice the size he appeared in the summer.

Since then, the years have shown. Fighting and possibly ear mites lost him his left ear about 4 years ago. The last couple of years, his winter coat has been full, but less groomed, deeply matted. And he has shed all that winter coat in one go -- looking literally like someone has shaved him down to the skin, but then left just enough attached to his back legs. You'd see him racing down the driveway in late March, a pink and white chihuahua of cat, dragging a pair of felted of black and white sweaters behind him like oversized fur accessories.

Over the years, we've tried to catch him a few times, but he's been too wary to even approach a trap, and too strong to be caught by it. It is estimated that there are over 20,000 feral cats in this city -- the weather is temperate enough that they easily survive the winters. Around 2005, Al, who lived next door, took some care to make friends with Jersey, taming him more successfully than any of us, so that for the first time ever, the cat would let you within 10 feet rather than running away on sight. Al's goal was to tame him completely and have him move inside, but then Al died.

(Jersey outside and Tasha inside)

We took over. I have mentioned building a little blanket-lined shelter for Jersey just outside my window, next to the cat door. In the last two winters, Jersey could often be seen curled up outside, enjoying the heat leaking through the window. When I didn't put food out for him, he would wait until the room was dark and I was asleep in bed (or at least, not moving), and creep in to eat the food I keep just inside the window. He often spent additional time in the warmth of the room, drowsing there next to the escape hatch of the cat door.

Just this winter, Jersey has been feeling safe enough to creep into the room when I was here working on my computer, 10 feet away. He would eat his fill -- as long as I didn't get up or move towards him -- and creep out again. I am been able, a couple of times, to sort of pet him through the cat door flap. He didn't seem to mind, but he didn't seem to know it was supposed to be comforting. Usually after a moment, he'd jab an experimental claw at my hand -- not in defense, but more in curiosity.

When I awoke yesterday morning, he was sleeping on the blanket outside the window, as is not uncommon. But this time I noticed that his collapsed ear was bloated and oozing with an abscess, and he was looking a little rougher for wear. We discussed it, made plans, and then the four adults in the house carried out an Ocean's Eleven style distract-and-catch, resulting in Jersey wrapped, hissing and clawing, in a wool blanket at the bottom of a wicker basket.

It didn't occur to me until we were on the way to the vets that Jersey could have anything more serious than an infected ear. And probably mites and fleas. Maybe a tape worm or two.

He was carrying Feline Leukemia, the AIDS of cats, as the veterinarians refer to it, since it mirrors AIDS in so many ways -- it's an autoimmune deficiency, spread through saliva and other bodily fluids. I had a cat, Jammer, years ago, with FeLV, who lived a fairly long and healthy life -- but indoors, without other cats around. There was no way Jersey was ever going to be an indoor cat, and no way we could allow him to live free to continue fighting with other cats in the neighborhood, potentially spreading the disease to pets. (He was also "unaltered" such a nice euphemism, but we could have had him neutered.) So, less than two hours after triumphantly capturing the poor sick cat to have him healed by human kindness, he was dead. Ah, hubris.

I know it was the right thing to do, according to my philosophies. Other philosophies -- No-Kill, for instance -- would have kept him in a cage for the remainder of his life, but I think that would have been more cruel than this end. I suppose still others would have healed and released him, but I don't think that is kind or responsible to all the other cats in the neighborhood, or to their owners, either.

Jersey was a sweet cat, so wary, but so dependent. And he has been a part of our lives for many years. He lived a pretty good life (at least 8 years), and probably a much longer one than if we hadn't been providing for him. Yet I feel like the worst kind of betrayer, even if ideologically pure.