Pets

A Year with Charlie (more than just a cat story)

/ still a dreamer / 5 Comments

Never underestimate the reason for an animal coming into your life.

I was hoping that the cat I would adopt in late October 2024 would be an “easy” cat. Every animal I’ve ever had was a rescue of some kind or another, often with unique needs. Charlie would finally be the easy cat.

Apparently, that wasn’t the plan.

I knew Charlie’s history, and of a traumatic event that happened while in his previous happy, adoptive home. Despite his people doing everything possible to help him get past it, it didn’t work out. Back in rescue, he was so gentle and easygoing in a roomful of other cats, it could not have been anticipated how that trauma would play out in a new home.

Let’s just say it’s been a long year with Charlie. And we have aways to go yet. That’s OK, we’ll get there, wherever “there” is. He may not be the easy cat I’d hoped for, but he’s the cat who’s meant to be with me … the one who needs me to help heal and teach him, and who I apparently need to help heal and teach me. And he’s also incredibly sweet and lovable.

Why you never underestimate the reason for an animal appearing in your life is that that animal, whatever it might be and however it shows up, is a gift to you.

Some people say, “Oh, it’s just a cat.” Or “it’s just a dog”, asking why I care so much.

No. He’s not “just a cat.” She’s not “just a dog.” They’re fellow beings on this often god-forsaken planet who have come into our lives to grow and love and help us do the same … if we let them.

Take a moment and a long look at your cat or dog (or whatever animal it is) and love them for who they are right now. Let go of who or what you want(ed) them to be, and just see them in their innocence, their willingness to be the best they are able to be. Love them for their scars and their beauty.

Because that’s how they love you.

The Woman and the Dog

/ still a dreamer / 8 Comments

It was in the late 80’s on the Lower East Side that I saw her, a woman sharing her quilt with a beautiful Harlequin Great Dane on a street corner at Cooper Square .

I just had to go and say hello to the dog, as we animal lovers are often wont to do. When I came closer, I saw that the woman was very clean, but shabbily dressed, perhaps wearing the only clothes she owned. The dog’s coat was so bright, you needed sunglasses. I could see she was homeless, and her dog was undoubtedly her life.

“May I pet your dog?” I asked. The sun rose in her face and shone with joy.

“Please, sit down,” she offered.

I sat on the quilt, and proceeded to pet and get all mushy with the affectionate Dane. I asked about him, and she was absolutely elated to be able to talk about her magnificent companion. Soon, I was telling her about my Chloe at home, a pit bull terrier who had come to the shelter at 6 months old with a broken leg. We chatted and laughed about our dogs, animals, and life in general as any two new acquaintances would do.

At some point, I had to get going, and we said our goodbyes, still smiling and glowing. I stopped at a small market to get a sandwich and coffee, and decided to get the same for her plus a bag of dog food for the Dane. But when I returned to the corner, she was gone, perhaps shooed away by the police, or maybe that was the amount of interaction she could tolerate; one couldn’t know.

I hoped this beautiful homeless soul would find some peace, comfort, and safety with her dog. I have never forgotten them. A recent event brought them to mind again.

On a particular TV channel (whose “news” I will never watch, and which is heavily constructed of lies), two hosts were talking about the “homeless problem”. One said that if the homeless weren’t willing to accept the resources the city offered, they should be locked up. The other replied, ““Or involuntary lethal injection, or something. Just kill ’em.” Yes, you read that correctly, as unbelievable as it may seem. You can find that clip here.

How has this situation come so far? While homelessness cuts across race, gender, and nationality, essentially, these are people suffering severe economic hardship. They may be our veterans, having seen combat in wars overseas; they come home with PTSD, are unable to manage life, and find no one to help them.

They are former patients of mental institutions, released when it was decided to shut down the hospitals, giving people already unable to cope with life the responsibility of getting somewhere on their own to pick up their meds. But more often than not, they are people who lost their jobs, their home, their car … everything … and had nowhere to turn. They are our neighbors. And there but for some saving grace, they are you. They are me.

Why we have homelessness is not due to a lack of money; it’s due to a lack of love.

The responsibility sits on the shoulders of your average citizen all the way up to elected leaders who have zero concern for humanity and are comfortable fostering hate. Or they simply don’t see the homeless as human beings. Or a priority.

But we – you and I – can still make a difference by continuing to be kind and caring, and believing that this multiplies exponentially, even if slower than we’d like. Peace always begins with us.

Please keep shining.

A Very Best Friend

/ still a dreamer / 2 Comments

Growing up in a house with a very anxious mother wasn’t easy. It affected everything and everybody. While I understand as an adult why things were the way they were, it was difficult as a child living with someone who needed to control just about everything. I didn’t consciously know it then, but I longed for someone in the house I could just `be’ with … without intrusion, always accepting, always comforting, and who’d never give up a secret. And my dog became that someone.

When I was 5, my brother 9, our parents decided we were old enough to have a dog, so at Christmas they gave us a beautiful Boxer puppy. I don’t think either of us quite `got’ the concept of having a dog at Christmas when there were still so many other exciting presents to open and play with. But Tinkerbell, as she was named, was not to stay with us very long. Within a few months she developed epilepsy. I don’t remember seeing the seizures my mother described Tink having on the kitchen floor, with blood and foam spewed all over the room. Perhaps I willed myself to forget. There were no cures for epilepsy back then, and Tinkerbell’s only option was to be returned to spirit. I was so young, and hadn’t become very attached to her yet, I don’t think I completely understood what had happened.

Then our parents got another dog. She was sold to them as a Boxer, 6 months old. I recall my mother being so happy that she didn’t drool like other Boxers whose faces were pushed in. There was a reason for that … she wasn’t really a Boxer. At best, she was a Boxer/pit bull terrier mix. My obedience trainer, when he looked at my childhood photos of her, told me that she was pure, and that was how they bred American Pit Bull Terriers back then. It didn’t matter … she quickly became the best friend and confidante I longed for. Her name was Dutchess. My mom had `officially’ named her Dutchess Von Wiggles because she had a butt that was constantly in happy motion.

Dutch couldn’t sleep with me as she wasn’t allowed on the second floor, so I slept with her whenever I could downstairs. We watched TV together, me resting my head gently on her side; and we curled up in sleep on the living room floor. Dutchess learned all the tricks a dog learns, and loved to go for walks or play outside in the yard. I can honestly say, in a way that only a dog or animal lover would understand, she was everything to me … she was my best friend. I did have a human best friend – happily, I always had friends — and I had my big brother to play with and taunt, but Dutchess was different. She was just what I needed – another soul in the house that simply loved me straight out, no matter what. And I adored her for that.

When I was little, my parents would cover her eyes and ears and I would hide. Then they’d let her go … “Find Jeanne!!” And Dutchess would search every nook and cranny downstairs to see where I was hiding, just bursting into wiggling, wagging joy when she found me. What child doesn’t live for those moments? She made me feel safe in a childhood where feeling emotionally safe wasn’t easy. Dutch was the heart, soul, and embodiment of unconditional love. She was both my rock and my wings, my compass and stars; she was my comfort and confidante. She was one little girl’s very best friend.

* This story was originally posted in 2007, and has been edited and updated.

Charlie – the new kid in town

/ still a dreamer / 14 Comments

Undoubtedly, I will have more to write in the future, but for now, an introduction.

Between Jazzy’s passing over and now has been the longest time I have been without an animal in my life. It seems the stars were busy aligning themselves just right. And so they have.

“I have lived with several Zen masters — all of them cats.” – Eckhart Tolle

More to come.

Walking Jazzy Home

/ still a dreamer / 12 Comments

We walked together for so many years – she, the Princess, and me, her happy minion – until the day when I walked her home. R.I. P. Jazzy – 7/12/24 – a small art treasure in feline form.

There is never a “good time” or a “good way” to lose an animal you love. It’s always awful. I think one of the worst moments is when you come home, and the spot they always sat to welcome you has no one there.

I adopted Jazzy at 3 years old, back in August, 2013, a few weeks after my handsome Claude passed over. She was a featured kitty at my local pet food shop, looking for a home, and she found mine. She had lived with an elderly man, who, I surmised, had not handled her very much. After getting through an adjustment period, she was not the cuddly cat my previous cats had been, albeit adorable.

Over the years that followed, she became increasingly affectionate, though I can say, she was the most dominant cat I have ever had. It was “her way or the highway” in kitty form – a picky eater, wouldn’t use a hooded litter box, and was pretty sure that I should plan meals and any other activities around her whims. Luckily, she was also sweet and charming, and now cuddly.

Perhaps a year or two ago, her glucose was high; we successfully controlled it with a special diet. Then her thyroid became hyperactive – more meds, which she was very cooperative in taking. Things kept moving along pretty well until about 6+ weeks ago, when she began caterwauling one or two times in the middle of the night.

I followed through with all needed lab tests, but they revealed nothing abnormal. Essentially, she was in good health, except somewhere inside her, she wasn’t. This past Friday, 7/12/2024, I noticed Jazzy acting strangely. I rushed her to the vet, and it soon became apparent, there was only going to be one ending to this story.

I am always grateful that I have been able to see something going wrong and to be able to do something about it before it became too late. I am grateful that there has always been a vet to help my animals in their final moments on Earth. I am also always grateful that I have been able to hold my animals in my arms, and help them pass over peacefully, loved until the end. I am grateful for Jazzy, and all the sweetness and light she brought into my life. I don’t think I could ask for more.