Gift

My mother’s maiden name was Gift. My father teased her unmercifully about it - as he did all of us about so many things - because the definition of the German word is “poison.” Odd. I believe if you took a poll among us four siblings, you’d find she didn’t live up to her name.

There are times in life when things don’t go as you would like them to. Sometimes the sum of little annoyances gets the old fight or flight reflex popping off at inopportune times, causing you to start taking after your crabby grandmother.

Sometimes, the sum of griefs takes away sleep and sunshine and the promises of spring and of all the self-help books you’ve ever read.

In November, our elderly Maine Coon cat Kittery succumbed to kidney failure at the respectable age of fourteen and a half. We still had Tart and Danny and Hathaway and Burnaby and the three chins, but cats are no more interchangeable than people are. We cry over each one, and long afterward we see the soft ghosts disappearing around corners just beyond our reach.

We got home from a great Christmas visit with family to find one of our chinchillas, Moon, lying on the floor of his cage. It looked as though he had pulled something in through the wire and eaten way too much of it. In tears, I woke Robert at five the next morning to tell him the wee furry was gone. Not long after, I was calling 911 and following the ambulance to the hospital because Robert had chest pains. Eleven hours later, we knew that he had not had a heart attack, and that his coronary arteries were in very good shape, and that the chest pains were caused by stress-induced high blood pressure. I stayed home from work the next day and buried Moon alongside Thistle, our first chinchilla.

We had noticed in the midst of all this that Burnaby, our two-year old Norwegian Forest cat, was very thin and not his usual pouncy bouncy self. We took him to the vet and found that he had one very enlarged kidney and was dehydrated and feverish. He didn’t respond to antibiotics, so we took him to a specialist for an ultrasound. They found that he had a large cyst on his kidney, as well as fluid in his abdomen. They suspected FIP, a fatal feline viral disease, or cancer.

I have to explain Burnaby. We go to cat shows now and then. It’s a great way to learn about different kinds of cats and get to know breeders. We fell in love with Wegies in this way, and determined that one day we would have one. When Kittery’s brother Rangeley died a few years ago, I started doing some research and found a breeder not far from where we live. We got to know her, and eventually bought a brown tabby kitten. We searched baby names just like any new parents, and settled on Burnaby, Norwegian for “from the warrior’s estate.” He grew into a wild-looking young cat with huge feet, great long whiskers, a long puffy tail, and a gloriously patterned coat, lush and glossy. He had a quiet but winning personality, and the coolest pounce you ever saw on a cat. He and the two Turks played wild chase games through the house.

Burnaby had surgery to remove his kidney, and while we waited for the results of the biopsies, we had to tube feed him and give him medications for pain and nausea. He rallied for a few days, but then I noticed his breathing was gradually becoming faster and shallower. I was afraid fluid was bulding up around his lungs. He quit purring, and became less responsive to my petting. Finding out he had FIP was not much of a surprise. Now, I have to tell you, Robert was out of town. Burnaby had let me know he was ready to go. Waiting for three more days would have been a selfish serving of our own interests over his. I called my good friend Maura to tell her what was going on, and she asked, “Do you want me to come over?” I hesitated - how could you ask a friend to go through something like this? - and said yes.

She came to the vet with me, and we both stood and petted Burnaby while we waited for them to be ready for us. She stood and petted Burnaby with me as he passed peacefully into heaven, and she stood and cried with me and petted Burnaby afterward. Then she came home with me, bought groceries for me, made me meals, and stayed with me until Robert got home. Her care and friendship, and her husband’s willingness to have her stay with me during this wrenching time, are the first part of the gift.

Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention that, a few days after we got the initial diagnosis on Burnaby, my full-time salaried job was turned into a half-time hourly job with zero benefits. So the vet bills we had just amassed added up to 5 months’ salary at my current rate. I was grieving over the job, too, because I love what I do.

I had been keeping Burnaby’s breeder apprised of his condition via email because I knew she would be interested, so of course I let her know when and why we had to have him put to sleep. She was horrified to hear what had happened. I got another email from her as I sat on the couch while Maura puttered in the kitchen. Did I mention Maura is a marvelous cook? Anyhow, it turns out Patti, the breeder, offered us a seven-month-old Norwegian Forest cat that she had just had neutered, if we would pay for the neutering. Now, we’re talking rare purebred kittens that go for $800-$1200. I hesitated because, at that time, I didn’t have even the $125. So Maura and Stu offered to pay for the kitten.

At this point, having pretty much figured that nothing good would ever happen to us again, I had what Maura poetically terms a “come-apart.” I was crying harder than I had cried at any time during those last awful weeks, and laughing at the same time. Maura and I went to see Patti that evening, and came home with Cooper, a little red and white cat with a ready purr and the biggest puffy tail you ever saw. He is named for his godmother, Maura Cooper, my Jewish mother. Her love is the gift that has brought my heart back from darkness.