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Jasper - 7.17.96 to 1.13.09

Death has come as an unwanted guest to our house for the third time in less than a year. Each visit more sudden and brutal than the last.

I’ve been at the same address for almost 28 years - more than half my life. You experience a lot in that span of time. Joys, sorrows, accomplishment, loss. The last twelve months have been particularly cruel.

Desirée, named for the lead in Sondheim’s A LITTLE NIGHT MUSIC, saw me through so much. The ends of my first and second marriages, changes in career, and meeting Ron and starting the best of my life. She was born in this house. Her mother was young, too young, and I midwifed the litter of three grey fluffballs. (There was a fourth, but he came too late and despite the best nursing we could offer, he didn’t make it. I called him Rocky.)

A year into our relationship Ron started to do the puppy dance. I had always been a cat person and I had three at the time we met. In defiance of his allergies, Ron was the best stepfather to matriarch Grizabella, mother Anastasia and daughter Desirée. (I’m a show queen. Sue me!) Ron was a dog person and after much negotiating, Jasper came into our life, quickly followed by Skeeter. (There were also Harvey, Oscar, Miss Phredde and the mischkas, but that’s another story, another post.)

The dogs and cats formed an initially uneasy alliance, but the seven of us traipsed along for several years, until a warm sunny day when Grizabella went to sleep on the deck and never woke up. She was 18 and to be forgiven for her decision to go to the [2] Heaviside Layer. Annie, as we called her, loved to prowl the alleys. It’s how she got knocked up in the first place. As she got older, she would disappear for days, then weeks, but always returning eventually for food and loving. Each time I thought it might be the last and then she would surprise me. But the surprises stopped.

So Desirée was my last “little girl” and she became a great companion to Rosemarie, my mother, who came to live with us five years ago. She also trimmed up - we used to call her Meatloaf - and became something of a dog. When Ron prepared dinner, she would line up with the boys and beg scraps. They even sharted sharing beds and food plates. In her last months, even as her hips started to give out, she’d rise up on her haunches and snag a piece of cheese. (Despite certain similarities, I am still talking about the cat at this point.)

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Last March, it was clear that Desirée was reaching the end of her life. It was not a surprise. She was almost 20 and, for a cat, that is a long time. On her last day, she still had the will to eat, but not the ability. I wiped the food from her face and we took turns holding her into the night. When sleep became a necessity, we cranked up the heat for her comfort and put her to bed near the vent. I said goodbye because I knew she would not be there when I awoke. She had a good long life and it was her time.

In May, my mother had cataract surgery. Complications ensued and she died on the 11th. I am brief in writing this here and now because there is still too much that is raw in that loss. Still too much to process and I am not ready.

Just before noon yesterday, Ron took Jasper to the doctor. He had been sluggish for several days, without his usual sparkle, cocked ears and wagging tail.  He was admitted to the hospital with internal bleeding and surgery to remove his spleen was scheduled. There was also a tumor and x-rays were taken. We went back around 4:00 to visit him and learn the results of the tests. Tied to a transfusion machine, he hopped up and perked his ears when he saw us. The tail that had been tucked under for days wagged furiously. The doctor told us there was a 70% chance that the tumor was cancerous and could have spread to other organs.

Jasper had cheated death twice already. Before he came to us, the shelter holding him wanted to “put him down” because of kennel cough. He was rescued by the now-closed Hearing Dog Program at the SF SPCA and trained to work with the deaf. (Skeeter came from the same program.) Jasper was too timid to be an effective guide dog and came to us in 1997. Two years ago, he became very ill and two different vets could not effectively treat him. Fortunately an excellent doctor at [4] San Francisco Veterinary Specialists was able to dignose his condition - by feeling his ankles, no less - and got him on a quick road to recovery. Jasper had to be third-time-lucky. He had a 30% chance. Things happen in threes.

We held him and loved him as much as we could in that sterile room with other animals and medical staff coming and going. He trembled and wanted to leave with us. As the time for surgery drew near, we went home. The doctor would call and update us. The thought that he might have only moths instead of years settled in my mind. Then came the thought that I might never again see his beautiful and inquisitive bright eyes looking back at me. I pushed it away. It was just NOT going to happen that way. If we only had weeks or months then we would make them the best.

At 7:10 the call came. The spleen had hardened and attached itself to other organs. Continuing would have been extremely difficult and it was not likely that he would even survive the operation. At the moment he was sedated and pain free. Waking him up to “say goodbye” would have been cruel. Ron and I stood by the speaker phone. We told the doctor to administer euthanasia and then crumbled into each other with long and bitter tears. The thought I tried so hard to push away did not budge. We lost our boy.

The progression of death has become increasingly fast for me. With Desirée we were aware to weeks that she was getting weaker and would likely leave us soon. The stages of decline for my mother were rapid, but paced themselves over several days. Yesterday, in just seven hours, we went from worry to grief.

If it is true that things come in threes, then I’d like to be done with death for a long, long time. My plate is too full. There are too many times when I want to tell my mother something. Too many times when I listen for the sound of that rusty-hinge that was Desirée’s greeting cry. And now we hold Skeeter close and look for Jasper in the corners of every room.