What Remains
by Leslea Newman
SEPTEMBER 16, 2008 TAGS:
Every time I open my underwear drawer, I think about death.
It’s not that there’s anything inherently morbid about my lingerie. It’s that there’s something hidden at the back of the drawer, a place my mother warned me about when I was a child: Don’t hide your jewelry in your underwear drawer; it’s the first place a burglar will look. But any thief in search of gold will find something I consider much more valuable tucked behind piles of my sensible white cotton briefs and not-so-sensible black silk thongs: a pair of polished, rectangular, mahogany boxes that look like miniature coffins and contain the ashes of two pet cats.
The remains of Couscous and P.C. (short for Perfect Cat), have taken up much-needed drawer space since 1994 and 1995 respectively. And until recently, I had a perfectly good reason for this: my spouse and I and our new cat, Princess Sheba Darling, were living in a rented apartment. And though our landlady allowed Mary and me to have a large garden in the backyard, I couldn’t bring myself to bury our beloved pets there, knowing that someday we would move and be forced to leave them behind. Only when we owned a home and backyard of our own would I consider burying our cats.
Well, last January, Mary and I bought a house, a cute little Cape on a quarter-acre of land. Between the packing and the moving and the unpacking and the settling in, we had so much to do that interring the cats’ ashes was the last thing on our minds. Besides, it was winter and the ground was frozen and covered with snow. Then spring came.
One Saturday morning, Mary looked at me across our new kitchen table and asked, “Do you think it’s time to bury the cats?” Her tone was casual, as if she were asking, “Do you think it’s time to wash the car?” Mary knows what a delicate subject this is and had decided that a calm, rational approach was the best way to bring it up.
I burst into tears.
“Never mind.” Mary held up both hands in surrender. “I guess it isn’t time.”
Why do I feel that digging a grave for the remains of our cats or scattering their ashes over our newly planted flower garden would be like losing them all over again? Even though P.C. and Couscous have both been dead for more than a dozen years, their presence is still very much with me. So much so that when someone recently asked, “Do you have any pets?” I answered, “Yes. Three cats. One living and two deceased.”
When I think about my two dearly departed, I think about their deaths as much as their lives. P.C. lived to be 22. He lost his hearing, his eyesight, and most of his body weight, but he never lost his dignity. So what if it took him ten times as long to eat, clean himself, and walk around in a circle three times before collapsing in a bony heap for one of his many daily naps? P.C. accepted the changes old age brought with infinite grace. His ancient presence was so awe-inspiring that when a new friend was introduced to him, she bowed down before him in a full-body prostration, declaring, “This is the wisest being I’ve ever met.”
On the very last night of P.C.’s life, Mary had a hunch, and suggested we stay up with him. We sat on the kitchen floor, while P.C. dozed beside us on an old woolen blanket. At midnight, he yowled loudly, arched his back dramatically, and pedaled his two front paws as though he were riding a bicycle. “He’s having a seizure,” Mary said, and in the time it took to utter that short sentence, P.C. grew still. Now his breaths came slowly, about 15 seconds apart. We stroked him, spoke to him, told him he could go. Soon he opened his mouth and exhaled for the last time. He was gone.
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But a week later he was back. When the vet called and said, “P.C. is ready to be picked up,” I felt the great weight of my grief lift. P.C. was coming home! Granted he was in a different form, but still, being handed that plastic bag of ash and bone gave me more comfort than I ever could have imagined.
Couscous died a different death. When she turned 16, she developed a laundry list of health problems: rapid heart beat, enlarged thyroid, a cancerous mass in her belly and another on her thigh. The vet presented us with a myriad of options, none of which were appealing: Amputate her leg? Force a dozen pills down her throat every morning? Give chemo followed by radiation? We knew the kindest thing was to simply let her go. And so we took that last dreaded visit to the vet’s office. While Mary drove, Couscous sat on my lap more alert than she had been in weeks. She purred loudly, which gave me hope though I knew better: Cats purr not only when they are content, but also when they’re in pain. Couscous hadn’t eaten or moved much in the last several days. It was time. I held her while the vet stuck the needle in, and as she collapsed, so did I. During the days that followed, I moped around, inconsolable. Until her ashes arrived.
Several months ago, Mary came home from her work with the sad news that a colleague’s old Chihuahua had died. Knowing how attached this man was to his pet, I asked Mary what he had done with the dog’s body. “It’s in his freezer,” she said. I didn’t blink an eye. Now, every few weeks I ask Mary, “Is the Chihuahua still in the freezer?” and she replies, “Are the cats still in your underwear drawer?”
We both know the answer.
Lesléa Newman, the poet laureate of Northampton, Ma., writes frequently for Obit.
It’s not that there’s anything inherently morbid about my lingerie. It’s that there’s something hidden at the back of the drawer, a place my mother warned me about when I was a child: Don’t hide your jewelry in your underwear drawer; it’s the first place a burglar will look. But any thief in search of gold will find something I consider much more valuable tucked behind piles of my sensible white cotton briefs and not-so-sensible black silk thongs: a pair of polished, rectangular, mahogany boxes that look like miniature coffins and contain the ashes of two pet cats.
The remains of Couscous and P.C. (short for Perfect Cat), have taken up much-needed drawer space since 1994 and 1995 respectively. And until recently, I had a perfectly good reason for this: my spouse and I and our new cat, Princess Sheba Darling, were living in a rented apartment. And though our landlady allowed Mary and me to have a large garden in the backyard, I couldn’t bring myself to bury our beloved pets there, knowing that someday we would move and be forced to leave them behind. Only when we owned a home and backyard of our own would I consider burying our cats.Well, last January, Mary and I bought a house, a cute little Cape on a quarter-acre of land. Between the packing and the moving and the unpacking and the settling in, we had so much to do that interring the cats’ ashes was the last thing on our minds. Besides, it was winter and the ground was frozen and covered with snow. Then spring came.
One Saturday morning, Mary looked at me across our new kitchen table and asked, “Do you think it’s time to bury the cats?” Her tone was casual, as if she were asking, “Do you think it’s time to wash the car?” Mary knows what a delicate subject this is and had decided that a calm, rational approach was the best way to bring it up.
I burst into tears.
“Never mind.” Mary held up both hands in surrender. “I guess it isn’t time.”
Why do I feel that digging a grave for the remains of our cats or scattering their ashes over our newly planted flower garden would be like losing them all over again? Even though P.C. and Couscous have both been dead for more than a dozen years, their presence is still very much with me. So much so that when someone recently asked, “Do you have any pets?” I answered, “Yes. Three cats. One living and two deceased.”
When I think about my two dearly departed, I think about their deaths as much as their lives. P.C. lived to be 22. He lost his hearing, his eyesight, and most of his body weight, but he never lost his dignity. So what if it took him ten times as long to eat, clean himself, and walk around in a circle three times before collapsing in a bony heap for one of his many daily naps? P.C. accepted the changes old age brought with infinite grace. His ancient presence was so awe-inspiring that when a new friend was introduced to him, she bowed down before him in a full-body prostration, declaring, “This is the wisest being I’ve ever met.”
On the very last night of P.C.’s life, Mary had a hunch, and suggested we stay up with him. We sat on the kitchen floor, while P.C. dozed beside us on an old woolen blanket. At midnight, he yowled loudly, arched his back dramatically, and pedaled his two front paws as though he were riding a bicycle. “He’s having a seizure,” Mary said, and in the time it took to utter that short sentence, P.C. grew still. Now his breaths came slowly, about 15 seconds apart. We stroked him, spoke to him, told him he could go. Soon he opened his mouth and exhaled for the last time. He was gone.
But a week later he was back. When the vet called and said, “P.C. is ready to be picked up,” I felt the great weight of my grief lift. P.C. was coming home! Granted he was in a different form, but still, being handed that plastic bag of ash and bone gave me more comfort than I ever could have imagined.
Couscous died a different death. When she turned 16, she developed a laundry list of health problems: rapid heart beat, enlarged thyroid, a cancerous mass in her belly and another on her thigh. The vet presented us with a myriad of options, none of which were appealing: Amputate her leg? Force a dozen pills down her throat every morning? Give chemo followed by radiation? We knew the kindest thing was to simply let her go. And so we took that last dreaded visit to the vet’s office. While Mary drove, Couscous sat on my lap more alert than she had been in weeks. She purred loudly, which gave me hope though I knew better: Cats purr not only when they are content, but also when they’re in pain. Couscous hadn’t eaten or moved much in the last several days. It was time. I held her while the vet stuck the needle in, and as she collapsed, so did I. During the days that followed, I moped around, inconsolable. Until her ashes arrived.
Several months ago, Mary came home from her work with the sad news that a colleague’s old Chihuahua had died. Knowing how attached this man was to his pet, I asked Mary what he had done with the dog’s body. “It’s in his freezer,” she said. I didn’t blink an eye. Now, every few weeks I ask Mary, “Is the Chihuahua still in the freezer?” and she replies, “Are the cats still in your underwear drawer?”
We both know the answer.
Lesléa Newman, the poet laureate of Northampton, Ma., writes frequently for Obit.
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The Undertaker wrote on March 16, 2009 8:25am
This is precious article and the photos are adorable. Oh, the grief of our pets is so real, sometimes more real than the loss of a human. They are there for us everyday; we feed them, house them and spoil them. The loss of a pet needs to be acknowledged, may I suggest funeral services, urn, obituaries, all of it! Our pets and our grief deserve it. [Report Comment]
Ursula Marney wrote on January 14, 2009 12:13pm
I have 3 beautiful wood boxes, a small copper urn and a small metal box. My 5 long gone buddies reside on a full shelf of one of my bookcases. I think they will always be there as long as I am here. Every week, when I dust, I tell them what is going on in my life. [Report Comment]
