The Meeting
I am a military
wife. My husband was sent to Korea for a
year while my newborn son and I stayed behind.
It was a decision we made together because with the Air Force, spending
a year in Korea is a mandatory sort of “rite of passage.” We thought it best he do his tour while our
son was too young to remember his being gone for so long.
We lived in
Florida where I had no friends and family and decided to go home to my parents
for a few months, my son was eight months old and being alone was hard. Summer in Louisiana wasn’t an easy choice,
but at least it wasn’t so lonely. My
parents owned an antique store and for the first week of July, they always had
a sidewalk sale to move inventory around. My son stayed in the playpen in the
air conditioning inside the store, while I manned the outdoor tables.
Early morning
was slow and most people hadn’t ventured to town yet so I sat in the blessed shade while it would last, munching on donut holes from my favorite bakery watching the feral cats
in the alley alongside the hardware store across the street. They chased butterflies, lazed on the
concrete, but one in particular noticed me.
He was still young, about eight months old, and this knowledge came from
growing up on a farm.
A deep
reddish-orange on top, white underneath, he looked like a can of paint had
dropped on him. He sat beneath a porch
swing mewling at me. Always a cat lover,
I clucked my tongue and invited him over, but he just stayed there watching
me. This game went on for a couple of
hours. His wanting me while I tried to
bring him closer. Customers came and
went, traffic on the street increased, but still he watched me from the porch
of the hardware store across the street.
As lunch rolled
around and the streets thinned in the heat, he braved the crossing and came to
me.
Golden eyes looked at me in longing and I could tell he was
hungry. Gaunt, a gash on his ear where a
small piece was missing and dirty, my heart melted. My dad had gone to get shrimp po-boys for
lunch and at the time, all I had were a few remaining donut holes, but I
offered him one just the same. To my
surprise, he ate it, and then three more.
My mother
emerged from the front door of the shop and brought my sandwich. Scared by the
intrusion, he bolted back across the street and hid beneath the steps of the
porch. I pointed him out to my mother.
“See the kitty under
the porch?” I asked.
“Sure, the
owners of the hardware store allow them to stay because they keep the mice
away.” She answered.
“He just ate
four donut holes.” I informed her.
“Well that’s a
strange choice for a cat, but you can share some of the shrimp on your sandwich
if you want.” With that she went back inside.
I ate my
sandwich, careful to pick out half of the shrimp just in case he returned and
placed them on a napkin. I continued to
sell antiques, rearranging as needed and towards late afternoon, with the
tables mostly empty, I noticed the cat again.
He sat upright with his tail wrapped around his feet on the porch
watching me. When I looked at him I told
him “Hi” and he meowed at me in return.
Then he took a long slow walk across the street and came over again.
I put the napkin
filled with shrimp on the ground and he voraciously ate every scrap while I
stroked his back. While he licked the
paper napkin in hopes it would somehow produce more shrimp, my mom came out of
the shop with my son in his stroller. My
son immediately pointed and started babbling, “Buh, bu, b-b-b-b.” Since I was a guest in my mother’s home for
the time being I gave her my best pleading eyes and asked the question she
always dreaded.
“Can I keep
him?”
As an only
child, my mother barely hesitated before suggesting I find a box to put him in
for the car ride home, else he’d probably claw our eyes out. The details of bringing him home aren’t
important, because the point is, I did, and all the way home we tried to pick
out a name. My son still babbling his
B’s, had us starting in that direction.
Mr. Beasely? No.
Buttercup? No, he’s a boy. Bacchus?
Bailey? Buford? Boudreaux? Then it came
to me. Every Southern woman knows the
name of a true man. From a book as well
read as the Bible in the South, Margaret Mitchell’s timeless classic: Gone With
the Wind. Captain Rhett Butler, so we
called him Red Butler. Or just Butler.
Being close to
the same age as my son, we gave him the birth date of November 1st, All Saints
Day, because his coming into my life was such a blessing in easing the
loneliness, surely the Saints must have sent him.
The Introduction
I only had the
opportunity to talk to my husband once a week, for fifteen minutes in those
days,
and when I received that week’s call it didn't go the way he
expected.
“I met someone.”
I hinted.
“What?” he
asked.
“He’s got red
hair, golden eyes, he’s super sweet to me, and Bear (our son) really loves
him.” I explained.
“What?” he asked
again.
This is when I
giggled and explained I’d adopted a cat off the streets. To this day he still doesn't forgive me for
the scare of letting him believe I was leaving him for another man.
We had him de-clawed
and neutered, the cat not my husband (his only demand) and he became an indoor cat and never
seemed to mind leaving his freedom of the outdoors behind for a full belly,
warm bed, and a family that loved him.
As the year’s
end came and my husband would soon be returning to the States, we packed and
moved back to Florida, me, my son, and Butler.
That’s when the real fun began.
Butler slept in
the bed with me. Actually, Butler did
everything with us. He would watch from
the toilet seat as I bathed my son, he would lie in the toddler bed with Bear
during nap time; he rode in the stroller with our son around the house. The most important thing was that he became
my hero for killing all of the giant cockroaches in the house because they are
the only things I am afraid of to the point of paralysis. He even tried saving me from the terrible
water by latching on to my big toe with his teeth and pulling me out of the tub
when I was bathing.
When my husband
first returned, Butler didn't like him at all.
He would sit at the end of the hall crying for me at night and I would
have to get up to sleep in the guest room with him for six weeks before my
husband put his foot down and Butler had to learn to share the bed.
The jealousy
went on for years. If my husband dropped
his clothes on the floor Butler would spray them showing dominance so my
husband had to learn to put them in the hamper and not leave them on the floor,
but not before threatening to toss him back on the street.
We moved from
base to base over the years and Butler learned to adapt. Sort of.
We learned he had severe separation anxiety where I was concerned and he
had to ride in my lap in the car. He
usually christened each new home by urinating on something my husband owned and
always giving my husband what he referred to as his “plotting to kill me in my
sleep” stare. Where my son and I were
concerned, we were his family and the usurper could leave at any time,
preferably immediately.
My husband, ever
indulgent of whatever I wanted, put up with it until the day Butler started
calling me Momma. If he was asleep on
the sofa and we went to bed, he would wake up alone and start yelling,
“Momma!” If he just wanted to know which
room I was in, he called for me. Dinner
time, snack time, nap time, didn't matter.
He called for me specifically and it drove my husband nuts.
We added to our
family by adopting a dog and another cat, but Butler knew he reigned supreme and
was never jealous because he never believed he was an animal. My husband on the other hand believed as
bread-winner, he should hold the title of Master of our household. Butler did everything he could to show him
otherwise.
If my husband
came into a room I was in, just to talk, Butler would sit in my lap or on my
chest. If my husband talked to me on any
subject, Butler always interrupted and need to be picked up and held while we
conversed. My husband swears he was
sneered at with squinty eyes from the demon cat, but I just laughed it off.
If my husband
tried to get into bed with me, Butler would run around the edge of the mattress
trying to prevent him from lying with me and he would even steal his spot in
the middle of the night if my husband got up to use the bathroom.
Eventually they
both came to realize that neither would be moving out and had come to accept
each other. They would even nap together
on the sofa and it always melted my heart to see them pretending to hate each
other while my husband would pet him and Butler would purr.
The Beginning
Butler was what
we termed our “problem child”. If a
suitcase came out he’d stop eating and drinking. He went through a phase where he started
ripping all the hair off of his forearms.
We had him on kitty Valium for a while, but it didn't help. If a door that was usually open was shut, he
would freak out and start screaming. He
didn't like to be locked in anything. A room, a cat carrier, didn't matter; he would bloody his face trying to
escape. We once tried a pheromone
plug-in to try and calm him down, but the only thing that ever worked for him,
was my staying home with him.
When we moved
from Utah to North Carolina, he spent five days riding in my lap because he
didn't want to be without me in times of stress. It made for interesting stops for fast food
along the way.
We all grew
older, my son too busy as a teenager to care much for a cat and my husband
always deploying to parts unknown, but Butler and I depended on each other to
get through the long nights, the depression, the stress of our family’s
constantly changing structure as well as location.
Butler had been
a part of our lives for fifteen years before I noticed something wasn't quite
right. He was getting thin and I was
worried. My husband told me to stop
worrying about the cat that always ate people foods (deli meats, boiled
chicken, and cheeses, not to mention ice cream).
“He eats better
than I do; besides, he’s the Anti-Christ and will never die.” He always
complained.
It made me laugh
because I knew no matter how much he complained, there had to have been a part
that cared after all these years or Butler wouldn't still be part of the
family.
Family. That’s what we were. I had a terrible health scare that led to the
fact that we couldn't have any more children after our son, so our furry
adopted pets became the children I couldn't have. So when I suspected something might have been
wrong, I took him to the veterinarian.
We found out he
had a heart murmur and I knew he had one canine left in his mouth that I was
worried needed to be removed because I had been told once by a former
veterinarian that anesthesia after the age of ten was dangerous for a cat,
especially one with a heart condition.
He was a few months shy of fifteen at this time.
The heart murmur
had me crying because the man doing his residency at the clinic scared me half
to death with his animal illness jargon.
I called another specialist for a second opinion and after reading the
notes from Butler’s file was told that the stress from the ultrasound and
forcing him to take medication daily would be more stressful than helpful for
something that isn't significant enough to worry about at this time.
That was good
enough for me. Butler once had a urinary
tract infection for a year because we couldn't get the medicine in him. He was getting older and we accepted that,
like us, he had good days and bad. Some
days he slept more than others, but then I was usually napping with him on
those days so I wasn't concerned.
The Decline
We had been
through a rough patch in our lives, one of which was my car being destroyed in
a hail storm, leaving me from driving my beloved SUV to a small car that
stressed me out to shop with because getting groceries out of the back of that
thing required the help of a magician to call forth the bags so that I could
even reach them.
I returned from
the grocery one day and after putting all the bags away I had two eager faces
patiently waiting to see what kind of goodies I had purchased for them. Our dog, Darby an Australian Shepherd wagged
his tail when I finally stopped to notice them.
Our other cat Comet, a Maine Coon, just meowed and that’s when I knew
something was wrong. Someone was
missing.
Going to the
store and the rustling of plastic bags always brought Butler in first because
he knew as I purchase new things, in order to clear out the fridge to make
room; they got lots of deli meats. I
spoiled them this much.
Butler didn't come
when I called so I went on the hunt. It wasn't completely unusual for him not to be there if he was in a spot of sun on
the carpet and didn't want to give it up so I searched for him. After the usual places were found empty I
went into the guest room and he was curled up in the blankets. He was so spoiled my husband began sleeping
in another room so that he could have the other half of the king-sized bed I slept in,
so he was curled up in the unmade bed.
“Hey, Sweetie!”
I greeted him as I walked in the room. His eyes half open, his barely audible
mew reached out to me. I dropped to my
knees for a closer look. His fur was
unkempt, he was frothing at the mouth a bit and although I have no other way to
describe it, he smelled like death. Like
puppy breath to some, the sweet smell of his fur was something I never got
enough of in my life. He would sometimes
share a pillow with me and I would bury my head in his side and breathe deeply
and get a calming effect from it. Now
something was wrong.
He tried to
stand up and fell over before getting his legs under him. I carried him into the kitchen and set him
down. I opened the fridge and got out
some deli turkey, the good kind that costs ten dollars a pound. I dished some out to all of the pets keeping
an eye on Butler. He looked and sniffed
at it, then slowly walked away.
While he did
this, my mind was transported back to the day before when he turned down the
ham I put out for everyone’s afternoon snack.
Flashes went through my mind like snapshots rapid-fire and a sick
feeling came over me. I have two cats
that eat out of the same bowl so how would I know how long it’s been since he
ate? At least two days I can
pinpoint. I remembered a time when he
squinted his eyes, he pawed at his cheek while he tossed his head side-to-side
like it was that tooth. That last
canine, was all I thought.
I called my
husband at work, hysterical and crying, while I laid my head next to my baby on
my bed. He told me not to worry; he
probably just isn't feeling well, but I told him it wasn't that, something was
terribly wrong and he told me to call the veterinarian for peace of mind.
I called the vet
and explained every detail to the desk clerk. I said he needed a tooth
extracted immediately. I was told they
would do blood work the next day and if need-be, the tooth would be pulled the
day after. That was not good enough for
me. I didn't know how long it had been
since he had eaten and I wasn't waiting another two days to watch him get
sicker.
We have an
emergency animal hospital in town that opens after hours and I was waiting in
the parking lot with my precious kitty ten minutes before they opened. I was crying and I was broke, but I would
have sold my soul to help out the one that has helped me through everything
that has ever gone wrong in my adult life.
In my head while the seconds ticked by I added up what jewelry I had,
anything I could sell, credit card balances, any amount of money I could come
up with.
When the door
opened, I rushed in and went through the whole process of explaining his
symptoms and actions. Paperwork had to
be filled out. Paperwork always needs to
be filled out in a crisis and I barely remember signing anything, but as long
as Butler was saved, I didn't care the cost.
The ER veterinarian came in and we went through the process, blood work
needed, yes, his mouth was obviously tender, probably x-rays, definitely needed
fluids, and so on it went. I was told it
would take about an hour after they took him back.
While I cried in
the lobby, my husband showed up. Never
expecting to see him there, we held each other and waited four hours for a
prognosis. We paced, we cried, we sat in
silence, but all the while, we prayed.
Something he always does and something I never do, but if I was ever
willing to find God and beg forgiveness it would be for Butler.
He had a part of
his heart enlarged, a toothache, was malnourished and dehydrated, crystals in
his kidneys, but overall nothing they wouldn't expect in a cat that was fifteen
and a half years old. In the end, they hydrated him, gave us antibiotics, and
told us after a few days of the medication, we should take him to his regular
veterinarian for a tooth extraction. I
was relieved and exhausted from the stress of it all, but still managed little
sleep as I watched his steady breathing all night long.
The Week
That was a
Tuesday night and the following Monday, he had surgery. Everything from the ER was faxed to our usual
vet and they took care of him right away and by two in the afternoon he was
resting peacefully at home, while I was given stronger antibiotics for him.
Monday he didn't eat, but I wouldn't either if I just had a tooth pulled. He seemed to be drinking normally so we weren't too concerned. Tuesday he wouldn't eat. I tried everything we had
in the house: turkey, ham, chicken, canned cat food, and tuna. He took a bite of tuna and left to go
sleep. Wednesday I bought baby food and
tried that, but he just sniffed it and walked away, again I tried everything we
had, but nothing would tempt him so I pulled out my last stop. Shrimp.
Once we had a
big birthday bash and boiled shrimp as we lived on the Gulf Coast and we could
get it fresh. Forty pounds went further
than we thought and the leftovers were in the refrigerator. I woke up the next morning to find the
refrigerator door wide open and what looked like a million shrimp heads all
over the house. I don’t know if it’s
because it was the first real food he ever ate, but shrimp was his all-time
favorite food.
So I defrosted some shrimp, broke the tails into tiny pieces
and he ate maybe a half of one. My husband
said, “He’s hurting,
give him time.”
And I tried.
Friday night we
both laid on the kitchen floor hand-feeding him raw chicken because we
discovered that not only was that the only thing he would eat, but whenever he had
taken a bite of any foods that week, he’d thrown it up immediately and for some
reason the raw chicken stayed in him so I would take whatever I could get as
long as he ate something. He ate maybe
half a tender’s worth, drank some water, and then slowly eased himself onto the
pet bed next to ours in the bedroom.
We originally
bought the pet bed for our dog, it’s a giant orthopedic foam mattress from the
pet store, but all three of them liked it and Butler’s favorite red fleece
blanket was folded on half and he curled up on it and went to sleep.
Saturday, May 26th, 2012
The night before
I mentioned to my husband I felt like a pimple was coming on my chin under my
lips so I put extra cleanser on it before bed.
When I woke up Saturday morning, my face felt funny and I rushed out of
bed, before getting to the bathroom he asked,
“What’s wrong?”
“Something’s not
right!” I told him in a panic.
When I looked in the mirror, half of my mouth and cheek were
swollen and I told him, “We have to get to the ER. NOW!”
We left a note for our son and left in a hurry.
My prognosis was
some sort of bacterial/staph infection, two different kinds of antibiotics, and
Benadryl. I should expect my face to
swell worse and if it gets too bad I’ll have to see a plastic surgeon to have
what he thought was a boil lanced on my face.
Not feeling all that hot, we came home and in the darkened bedroom,
Butler was lying on a pillow on our bed.
I smiled at him, murmured an “awww” and walked into the bathroom to
check on my face.
(My husband calls me Reg, short for Reggie)
“Reg,
something’s wrong with Butler.”
I came to him
quickly to assess what he meant and I saw it.
He was covered in blood.
“Oh my God! Oh
my God. Do you think it’s his tooth?” I
begged more than asked.
“I don’t know,
maybe he busted it open”, was his guess.
I got a wet
cloth and started to wipe his paws while my husband turned on the light and
then I could see it. It was
everywhere. The blood. The bed, the pillow, as well as his fur. It was coming out of his mouth, his nose, and
even leaking from his right eye that was half closed by his inner eyelid. I started to panic and my husband calmed me
down,
“We’re taking
him to Emergency, can you carry him or do you want me?”
I wouldn't let
him go no matter what, we wrapped him in his favorite red fleece blanket and we
got in the car and drove as fast as early morning traffic allowed. Butler studied every detail outside of the
window flying past while I tried to keep him calm talking to him, assuring him
he would be fine, over and over again as tears rolled down my face from staring
into his bloodied one.
We got into a
room immediately at the Emergency care and I was inconsolable. We tried to explain everything from the past
two weeks that had happened and the lady veterinarian took it all into
account. My tears never stopped flowing
and we tried to stay outwardly calm as Butler laid next to me on a bench.
She said just by
looking at him and the symptoms he’s had, and that is when all the horrible
words you never want to hear came out, cancer, leukemia, and other things that
I blocked out. They brought in an
outrageous estimate on what this visit would cost and my husband didn't blink. Whatever it would take.
“I love him,
too, you know,” he choked out as I cried harder.
We had been left
alone in the room to discuss whether we would treat at their price, which wasn't even an option because we felt we would and I was on my knees with my
forehead on Butler’s telling him how sorry I was.
I was so sorry I didn't pay closer attention. I was so
sorry he was in pain. I was so sorry for whatever was wrong now. I said it over and over and over again.
“I’m so sorry,
my love, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m
sorry. I’m sorry. Mommy loves you so much!”
I could hear my
husband sniffing behind me and I knew he was hurting too. For Butler, for me, didn't matter, his heart
was breaking and I was so grateful. Not
that he hurt, but that he could have an inkling of understanding of my
distress, my own pain.
“I love you,
Butler, I love you so much. I love you, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Oh God, I’m so
sorry,” I wailed.
My husband was
on his knees next to me now, we stroked his head, his body while we cried and
he could barely move. When the nurse
came back I asked her to get the vet.
I looked at my husband, “Even if it’s only 50-50 we’re going
for it, I can’t lose him,” as tears continued to roll down my face.
The vet came in
and I told her, “It’s not the money, we have that, but before you poke and prod
and hurt him more for days you have to tell me, what are his chances? Fifty-fifty?” I was hopeful for the worst at
this point.
She looked me
straight in the eye and told me, “He’s very sick, there is a very slim chance
he will make it.”
We always swore
we wouldn't allow our pets to suffer, that we would calmly weigh the quality of
life issue if faced with it, but now I couldn't do it. I started to tell her to euthanize but it
came out in a moan more like this:
As I looked to
my husband, “Oh God I can’t, I can’t say it.
You have to, you have to do it. I can’t. I can’t.”
He rushed to me
and held me hard and they gave us time to deal with our situation. When they asked if I wanted to be there when
they did it I cried so hard I couldn't see any more, everything was a white hot
light because I couldn't do it. I couldn't be there when they took my heart from me. My husband held me and told me he would be
with him.
They left to
make arrangements as we said our good-byes.
All the love I had, all the pain I felt, everything that ever went bad
in my life didn't compare to the pain I was in.
They took him away to set up an IV while I stumbled down the hall to
throw up, sobbing and uncaring who saw me or heard me.
In the end, I couldn't leave him. Our entire life
together he never left my side and I wouldn't leave his. While my husband took care of billing, Butler
and I sat in a room with a living room setting to it. He lay on the sofa and around the lump in my
throat, I read to him a book on Cat Heaven.
I kissed him repeatedly, told him over and over how much I loved
him. How much I loved him, again and
again. My husband joined us and said his
good-byes and the doctor came in and matter-of-factly, injected him. As he drifted off to sleep forever, I
whispered to him, “If I only have nine lives, let me spend them all with you.”
And he was gone.
Then the real
pain began.
The Pain
Grief is a funny
thing. It’s like a crack in your soul
that allows everything inside you to leave and you are left an empty shell.
We came home and
had to explain to our son that Butler was gone.
I’m grateful he didn't see him in the end because it would have hurt him
more. There was blood all over the house
and I was grateful that my husband took care of that as well. I refused to get out of bed or even change the
shirt that I was wearing. It was covered
in blood and hair, but it was a part of Butler and I wouldn't give it up, I had
already lost so much.
I curled up with
Butler’s red blanket and refused to let it go.
My husband came in and out and held me as I cried. We stayed up late into the night tried to
talk about all the funny and quirky things that Butler did over the years, but
in the end, the image of him lying next to me face-down was all I could
see. It was haunting me.
The dog wouldn't sleep on the pet bed and the other cat searched all night room to room, for Butler. It broke what was left of my heart. We’re left now with choosing an urn for when
we receive his remains. The grieving
will start all over again when that happens.
We plan on
building our final house in three years and it wouldn't be a home without
Butler. I’ll take him there and bury him
where he will remain with me in more than just thought or spirit.
I've lost many
people in my life, but losing Butler has been the hardest, the tears still flow
and the lump still remains in my throat. I remember all the times I was there
for someone else when they lost a loved one.
Telling them it’ll be fine, that time will heal their wound, they’re in
a better place now, or it was their time and it’s not your fault. None of that nonsense consoles me. None of that erases my guilt, my pain, or my
sorrow.
Our family tried
to remember all of those little things that made us laugh and what we will
carry of him for the rest of our lives as we laid in bed together, all of us
holding each other, we told our favorite Butler story and tried to smile
knowing he didn't like to see us sad, but in the end it wasn't enough for me
and the tears fell again.
He touched a
part of me I didn't know existed. Although my period of mourning and grief will be a long one, I will
eventually heal from the support of what’s left of my family and from the
unconditional love I once had from this scrawny little stray that once ate a
donut and made me whole when I didn't know I wasn't.
In the meantime I
keep asking myself: How long before I breathe again?
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