When a deep bond is broken

Bonding with an animal is a very special kind of relationship, one that seems to find its way into my work regularly. How someone treats other living creatures communicates volumes about what he or she values.  If you want to know who will grow up to be a villain, look no further than the kid down the block who delights in maiming insects and tormenting stray cats. Similarly, someone who can connect only to a totem creature that's a narcissistic extension of himself (think Voldemort and Nagini) is likely to be coldly ruthless to every other living thing outside his tiny circle of self. Conversely, an aimless underachiever who rescues hurt animals demonstrates a courageous compassion that can blossom into heroism. Learning to care for and communicate with a living thing whose cognition is so different from our own stretches and grows us.

Once that bond is built, it's quite hard to say goodbye.

Yesterday we had to put down our 15-year-old dog, a shelter rescue Husky/Australian shepherd mix we adopted in November 2000. My hubby and I tended to think of Nicky as our "firstborn," the creature who prepared us to become responsible parents when our daughter arrived in 2002.

It was painful to watch his decline over the last several years. His gait became more stiff, his back legs atrophied. He could no longer climb stairs and eventually couldn't walk on his own. A hip harness to carry his back end on walks enabled him to stay mobile for a few more months, but the degenerative neurological condition eventually hit his front legs too. When the slow decline became a sudden, cliff-like-dive and he was truly suffering, we had to make the hard decision to let him go.

I'll especially miss his wolf-like howls of joy whenever I returned home--his way of saying "Woo-hoo! The awesome one is here! I'm so psyched to see you!" It was like having my own ticker-tape parade every day, the way that dog made me feel.

Today I'm deeply sad to no longer have Nicky's trusting, joyful presence in my life. Though I expect we'll stay dog-free for a while and enjoy our two sweet kitties, I'll keep on writing canine (and equine and other species) friends for my characters.

Do animals have a role in your life? Do you incorporate animals in your fiction? 

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Cat got your tongue?

Despite my best intentions, I didn't get quite as much poetry posted as I would have liked this month. I'm crunched between a couple of work deadlines, making progress novel drafting and going through some pet transitions at home.

After we lost our snowshoe kitty Rosie, there was a lot of cleaning to do. She had feline leukemia, which you might not know is caused by a virus. That's right, viral cancer. Scary stuff. So we wanted to disinfect areas before bringing a new kitty into the house.

Our city animal care and control shelter ran a special adoption event last weekend and we thought we'd come home with a new kitty then. Alas, the kitty we liked most was rescued in an eviction, which meant a five day wait to see if the owner would claim the cat. The owner did. Glad for Noelle (to be back with a human who loved her), sad for us.

Last night we went back to see the latest crop of adoptable cuties. My daughter fell for his handsome guy--a unique mix of calico and tabby. She named him Vincent. He is 8 months old and very playful and cuddly.

He is especially fascinated with her Hex Bugs--these battery powered robotic "bugs" that run around in their little habitat. I expect we'll have a fun filled weekend getting him settled in.

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Sad goodbye

My weekend took a rather tragic turn. The beautiful stray cat we took in last May to be my daughter's kitty passed away.

We learned last summer that Rosie had feline leukemia and we watched her go through successive bouts of anemia, appetite loss, poor grooming, UTIs and respiratory infections over and over and over. My daughter adored her and loved to hug, snuggle and brush her. Despite all the sickness, Rosie had a very sweet and loving disposition.

On Sunday, Rosie's milder illnesses took a sudden turn for the worse. She couldn't stand, wouldn't drink. Her breathing was labored and her heart rate slow, so we took her to a university veterinary hospital--the only place open on a holiday. After the vets confirmed she was in late stages of the disease, we sat by petting her as the doctor sent her to eternal rest.

At times like these, I find great comfort in poetry that addresses these tough places of loss. Below are some contemporary poems by four gifted, living poets that look at themes of death, loss and grieving.

I imagine for some of you readers, your initial reaction is to now click away rather than read on. Our culture seems to want to wall away sadness, to deny it. I challenge you to read on.

Note that the in two middle poems, the title also functions as the first line.

Before
by Carl Adamshick

I always thought death would be like traveling
in a car, moving through the desert,
the earth a little darker than sky at the horizon,
that your life would settle like the end of a day
and you would think of everyone you ever met,
that you would be the invisible passenger,
quiet in the car, moving through the night,
forever, with the beautiful thought of home.

Sick to death of the hardpan shoulder,
By Greg Glazner

the froth of noise
the undersides of the cedars make,

the windblown dark that hints
and fails for hours at effacement—
maybe I could claim it isn’t

praying, but it’s asking,
at the least, begging
that these lungfuls of this blackness

eat whatever keeps on swelling
and collapsing in my chest, and be done
with it, no more noise

left hanging in the spaces
between brake lights than a smothered rush
that sounds like suffering

and is nothing. Instead a sobbing isn’t
so much easing from my throat
as shining like black light from my torso,

veining the leaves of weeds, stoning
the whole roadside in a halo—I can feel
the heat of truck lights on my back,

I’m inside that brilliant gravity,
I think of time, I’m in the driver’s
nightmare and it shudders by—


I Can Afford Neither the Rain
by Holly Iglesias

Nor the strip of light between the slats, the window itself blind with grief. Nor the bench where the last mourner lingers, the others on to the next thing, leaning into the bar, toasting the sweethearts, gone and gone, their passion and ire softening now into the earth. Nor the bluff above the Mississippi where centuries of war dead rest, where the stone stands bearing their names, the wind of romance hard against it.


Curtains
by Ruth Stone

Putting up new curtains,
other windows intrude.
As though it is that first winter in Cambridge
when you and I had just moved in.
Now cold borscht alone in a bare kitchen.

What does it mean if I say this years later?

Listen, last night
I am on a crying jag
with my landlord, Mr. Tempesta.
I sneaked in two cats.
He screams, "No pets! No pets!"
I become my Aunt Virginia,
proud but weak in the head.
I remember Anna Magnani.
I throw a few books. I shout.
He wipes his eyes and opens his hands.
OK OK keep the dirty animals
but no nails in the walls.
We cry together.
I am so nervous, he says.

I want to dig you up and say, look,
it's like the time, remember,
when I ran into our living room naked
to get rid of that fire inspector.

See what you miss by being dead?


Do you tend to run from sad things, to avoid those who are mourning? What things have helped you through a loss?

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Getting a wish, surprise and your character

I've had a few cool surprises in my lifetime: an engagement ring on Christmas eve when I was sure I'd have to wait till Valentine's day, the pink lines on the pregnancy test when a doctor told me I'd have to start fertility drugs in a few weeks.

I got another nice surprise like that after work yesterday, though not quite so life changing. This pretty half-Siamese stray kitten wandered into my life. She has been sleeping on my porch or in my flower garden for about a week now. My experience with the neighborhood strays has been mixed--some are as socialized as any house cat, and some are feral, more like a woodland fox than pet material.

This kitten not only let me pet her, she climbed onto me as I knelt beside her. She wanted to be held and went into a snuggle ecstasy when I picked her up. She was socialized, all right.

I called my family on the cell phone and asked them to come outside to meet her.

"I think our new kitten has found us," I said.

My daughter has been begging for a kitten for over a year now. While she had her heart set on a gray tabby, she's over the moon to have been "picked" by this blue-eyed beauty she's calling Rosie. I was sure we'd have to take several trips to local shelters to find a good fit, but Rosie is every bit the affectionate cuddler my daughter hoped for.

"Gifts from God are like this, aren't they?" my daughter said. "Never just the way you pictured it--usually better!"

So far, so good with our new feline friend. She gladly let us carry her into the house, ate the kitty kibble we gave her and used the litter box I showed her. Our elderly dog and cat are being aloof, but not hostile, so time will tell how those relationships grow. She's very thin and will need some veterinary care, so it seems unlikely anyone will start posting "lost cat" signs in the neighborhood.

When a wished-for thing happens, it's always a better story if it doesn't come about quite the way the you expected.

I think there's a lesson here about how to avoid the Mary Sue trap--characters to whom everything comes too easily, too neatly. When (and if) the happily-ever-after does come, give us a twist on the character's expectations, or even defy them. How the character reacts to that "gift"--with gratitude, fear, anger, sorrow, mute shock, hope--can make for a much more complex and satisfying ending. One we want to read.

What are some of your favorite fictional "got my wish, but not the way I expected" endings? How might a twist on character expectation improve your story?

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Puppy love

Ten years ago today, my hubby and I brought home our first pet, a handsome gold and white Husky/Australian shepherd mix I'd found through the local SPCA's website. When we first met "Lucky" and learned his history--that this was his second time being sent to a shelter--I knew he was going to be a challenge. He wouldn't make eye contact. He shied away from my husband. His chart said he ate phonebooks. Something about his shiftiness suggested trust issues and possibly abuse.

So beautiful, so traumatized, so un-lucky.

We renamed him Nicky, short for Dominic, "of the Lord." We stocked up on rawhide, bought a few baby gates to contain him and hoped for the best.

The first time I returned after leaving him a few hours, he pointed his snout to the sky and sang like a wolf. It was kind of beautiful.

He's not a quiet dog. We suspect his prior owners beat him for being so talkative. He has a stunning range of vocalizations for communicating all kinds of things, from "I'm thirsty" to "I'm scared of thunder." Once we really saw that spark of intelligence--especially in his expressive amber brown eyes--we realized he could comprehend many words too: walk, treat, bath, back yard, excuse me.

Nicky never ate a phonebook. He loved his rawhide for a few months, then lost interest in chewing things (outgrew the puppy phase, perhaps). He still can't comprehend "fetching" at all. He pulls like a sled dog when you walk him. He "herds" you toward the door when it's time for a walk. But he also comes running to comfort me whenever I cry, and nothing else makes me feel so welcomed home as his wolfish song of joy.

Happy adoption anniversary, Nicky.

Tell me about your favorite pet. Do you tend to include animals in your fiction? Why or why not?

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