Our Broken Hearts

 

For the last three years of his life, Catmandoo was a dog. He changed his name to CatmanDog, and wouldn’t answer to anything else. He did dog things – peed on strangers’ tires, herded gaggles of wild turkeys out of the yard and glared them down, scared deer out of the yard, went for short rides in the car, terrorized and chased dogs who foolishly entered his space – even ones he’d known for years and never held any bad feelings towards.

 

He was bigger than most small dogs, both in weight and in length, and had the attitude of a (mostly benevolent) Lord of the Universe. On July 2^nd, his current reign came to an end, after nearly 19 years. His kidneys had failed, and he told me he was done. He’s now buried in our animal cemetery plot, next to a nice patch of catnip, next to Bunny, my white cat who he helped nurse through his last days by bringing him freshly-killed mice to eat, and flanked by the Barkie Boys, who finally agreed to let me bury their ashes in the plot now the third dog was there. On one side, there’s the blueberry plot. On the other, the Gryphon and the Dragon – now all the dogs are together again and fiercely guarded – and, probably, guarding.

We, on the other hand, are still crying and lonely.

Big dogs have big personalities, and even before Catman became a Dog, he was a Dude – handsome, mostly benign, opinionated, and in control. Not overly bright, but wicked clever – there was not a cat harness or dog harness that he couldn’t get out of in 3 seconds flat, without a struggle. He disciplined errant dogs by smacking them across the snoot with his big paws – loudly, one could hear the smack from the next room - but never used a claw – and maintained discipline by passing the Boys on the stairs to bed, then sitting on a step half-way up and daring them to go past him. They never did.

He was gentle with the other cats in the house, and allowed Beastreau (who I call Biscuit), the little black stray who he was at least twice as big as, to stick her head under his chin when he was eating and steal food. He always looked surprised and shocked that she’d dare try it – because no one dared be that rude to the Dude; but he also always let her do it. In return, she’d spend hours licking his head for him, which he loved. NO ONE got to touch his flanks, but his head – and his elegant mane – was a loved scritchy brushy licky spot. I brushed his mane regularly, and he’d lift his massive snoot straight up in the air so I could get at the part under his chin and on his chest, purring, purring, purring very quietly. Touch the flanks, however, and get bit. Mama, however – that’s me – was able to nibble the edges of his ears. He liked that.

Catman was a Maine coon cat, with tufted ears, a long snoot, a really elegant mane, and giant paws, easily three times the usual cat-paw size. He was typical coon-cat colors, so he blended nicely into the outdoors – you could be standing next to him outside and not see him. He was an excellent hunter, and ate every part of everything he caught, including guts, feathers, beaks, tails. When he was young, he could jump straight up to the top of the refrigerator, and screened windows were not a barrier – one claw swipe usually opened them, and if not, his giant paws could open any unlocked door.  Until he was old and lost his hearing, he didn’t talk much – the purr was almost internal, there was never a meow. In his old age, he purred loudly and his meow was as loud as a bark.

He also decided, in his old age, to become a gardener, and would spend hours twice daily trimming his many catnip bushes. I don’t know how he did it, but he managed to plant at least nine huge catnip plants without my help. I tried to keep them down to three, but as soon as I dug up one, I’d find another he’d recently started. No one, even Biscuit, was allowed to trim his catnip plants if he was around to see it. He reluctantly allowed me to pick some to bring to Lou, the local vet clinic’s cat, once in awhile.

Catman scared dogs and other cats, and most people. One dear friend who was living with us for a time, a giant of a man with strong muscles and tall, came to me one night and said, please, come move Catman. He’s on my bed and won’t get off, and I need to go to sleep.  Catman wasn’t sharing. But his mom and dad could move him, and when he was older, one of his favorite things was to have us flip him over on his back in our arms, kiss his belly, and carry him around the garden, or to wherever we were working in the yard. He’d become a lover of humans, aged to a perfect sweetheart, from the semi-wild being who mostly just tolerated us when he was young. In age, he craved company; he wanted to spend hours leaning on his person, watching tv, or reading. Catman preferred action movies and mystery books. He’d occasionally tolerate Biscuit curling herself around him. He did not sit on laps – he was perfectly happy to be held, but only if he was up in the air.

 

I don’t know what Catman’s philosophy on life or theory on death was. When he helped nurse my Bunny, who had diabetes and eventually died from it, he brought the fresh-killed mice for many weeks; when he stopped bringing them, I knew Bunny was too ill to recover. Catman tolerated thyroid medicine for his own illness for years, up until a day before he died. After gobbling his pills in the morning, the night before he died he rejected them, rejected his treats, rejected his favorite food. He was done, and told me so. 

 

The thing is, though, that he was still a dog. The day we had him put down, he wanted to spend the early part of it outside, lying in the sun, peeing on stuff. We sat with him; we carried him when he couldn’t walk; we moved him to shade when it was too hot. It took a dog-sized dose of muscle relaxer when the vet administered the final grace. CatmanDog  went out in style, just as he’d lived his life. He was amazing.

And yet, we’re still crying.

 

All photos Deb Marshall or Charley Freiberg