2013.05.12 - Animals

We humans are animals on this planet, just like all the others.

We like to forget that, of course. In fact, most of us can't remember that fact unless we consciously try to because we've designed a very elaborate structure around us in order to help us forget our animal status: we have cars; we purchase food from all over the globe at our corner market; we have the Internet; we have special rooms for bathing and elimination; we travel in planes to far flung and distant lands; we have hospitals to help heal and cure us; we have free will; we create staggering works of art in every discipline; we house other animals in our homes; and we've launched some of our humans on rockets to land on the moon, another heavenly body that lies a quarter of a million miles away.

That's pretty impressive work for a bunch of animals.

But we're still just animals. Our greatest challenge is that modern life has given us the illusion that life is always easy, comfortable and controllable. But nothing makes the illusion come crashing down like death. 

Last night, right on schedule, my cat Boober jumped up onto the bed to watch me fall asleep. Minutes later, as I drifted out of consciousness, I remember thinking that if i just moved my arm down, I could touch him. But then I was gone, off into a fitful and jerky dreamworld. By the middle of the night, my legs had wound up so far on my wife's side of the bed, that she left the bed and went out onto the sofa to continue sleeping. I didn't calm down after that, however: I was literally kicking at objects in my dreams, waking myself up from time to time due to the movement. Ironically, during the night, the Shiva candle we'd lit one week ago for my father extinguished.

When I woke up, the kitten we adopted was on the bed next by my feet. When she saw that I was up, she rushed over and began licking my skin, something she's become fond of doing. I meditated while being groomed. About a half-hour later, I wandered into the kitchen to make some coffee. Mary was already up for at least an hour. We kissed. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and poured my coffee. We began to talk. 

Then my phone rang. I looked at my watch, saw that it was 8am and thought: who in the hell calls me on a Sunday morning at this hour?!! So I picked up. 

"Is this David?" I didn't recognize the voice.

"Who's calling, please?"

"I have your cat. I have Boober."

"My cat?! But how is that..." My sentence trailed off. Although Boober wandered around our property, he never crossed the street, and he hadn't strayed onto anyone else's property for nearly a decade. So I was confused: how could this woman have my cat?

"Listen," she said. "I, it's... I have bad news: your cat is dead and I think that —" before she could finish the sentence, I'd spun around and looked outside. I don't know why I did that, but I did. There he was. On the lawn. Motionless. Right there in the front yard. And I began wailing.

"Nooooooooooo! NoooooooNoooNoooooNooooooooooooo!" Mary rushed over to me not sure of what was going on. I began sobbing. "I see him on the front lawn," I said into the phone. Mary spun around and realized. He wasn't even fifteen feet away from us but neither of us had noticed him after we'd gotten up. Mary began crying and instantly hugged me deeply and wouldn't let go. I felt sucker punched. Like someone just took an iron and smashed it across my face. I started crying and moaning. In my grief, I sounded like the animal I truly was. 

"I'll come right over," said the voice and the call ended. We wandered outside and there was a cat. And it looked an awful lot like mine. But it's fur was all wet and matted down from having been watered by the automatic sprinkler system. I put my hand on him. He was already stiff. I couldn't see his face, so I turned him over. And then there was no mistake. Then there was no mystery anymore. Then there was no illusion. My cat. Boober. Dead.

My heart sank. I inspected his body: no cuts, gashes or blood. His eyes had rolled back and his tongue was out. It didn't look like he'd been attacked, hit by a car or injured. He just looked liked he'd wandered out onto the front lawn and then died.

"My dogs were sniffing at him this morning and wouldn't leave him alone," said a voice. I looked up and saw a woman. She had a white trash bag. "I didn't realize that he wasn't moving, but once I saw, I pulled my dogs back...". It was my neighbor, the one who'd called me minutes earlier. I vaguely remember thanking her and then... we were alone with Boober and a trash bag. We brought him inside so the kitten could see and smell him and then, after wrapping him, put him in the freezer. We'll bury him later in the week.

I'm walking around in a fog so thick I can't feel my brain. But my heart? My heart is pounding. 

After waiting over two weeks for me to return home from my father's deathbed and funeral, after keeping me company for the Shiva we held here in Los Angeles to honor my father, and after giving me a week to settle back into something resembling a normal routine for myself, Boober had left the bed, gone out the cat door in back of our house and then wandered out front and into the grass in yard. He hadn't been sick, he hadn't needed any special foods, medicines or surgeries, and he hadn't been suffering. My old boy just laid down when it was his time. 

I haphazardly texted my family. And then I called the vet in Santa Monica - the same vet where I've taken Boober and his brother, Velcro since I adopted them both. I explained what had happened and asked the staffer for Boober's birthday. She checked and said "September 1st, 1994". She paused, then said "You don't see cats living that long anymore. It's really, really rare...." And that he was.

I know I've just lost a father, but this cat — this magical, all-loving, four-legged, nearly-black fuzzball — watched me grow from a young adult into a man. He saw me behaving badly, making stupid choices, hurting myself and failing, sometimes miserably. 

He loved me anyway. 

I rescued a kitten from under a dumpster over at Zankou chicken and adopted him into the family. That same cat knocked over trash cans in the kitchen to search for food for at least two more years and frequently fought with both Boober and his brother.
 
Boober loved me anyway.

He saw his brother Velcro die after having spent every day of his life playing with him for nearly a decade. 

He kept on living.

And then he saw me excel, learn, grow, mature, meditate, laugh, cry, stabilize, and, ultimately, settle down with a wonderful wife. 

He kept right on loving me, begging for chicken, wanting to sit on my lap, or climb up on my chest when I got into bed and being a general love whore.

And when Mary and I rescued and then adopted two feral kittens late last year, Boob was the definition of a Zen Master: unfazed, unburdened and unable to do anything other than continuing to love. And beg for chicken.

Yesterday he was here and I was playing with him outside and scratching him under his arms, something he very much loved. Today he's no longer here. Another powerful reminder that everything in our universe is temporary. Another powerful reminder to love now, no matter what. Another powerful reminder that if your life isn't filled with love, you can go grab yourself some at any time you choose.

Seventeen days ago, my Uncle died after battling pancreatic cancer. Two weeks ago, my father died after a ten-year struggle with Lewy Body Dementia. This morning, I learned that my crispy, bony cat had died of old age, after taking himself —literally and figuratively — out to pasture. 

So goodbye, my friend and godspeed. Thank you for loving me when I didn't know to love myself, for cuddling me when I couldn't hug myself, and for climbing up on top of me, contented, when I couldn't find peace for myself. You will be remembered, cherished and very sorely missed as a part of my family and certainly as a large part of my LA story.

In the end, we're all just animals: I'm just lucky I got to learn from some of the best. So wherever you are now, Boob: I just hope there's as much chicken as you'll ever, ever want. 

Your student,
David

July 21st, 2010 - The Talk

I called Mom and Dad as I was driving home earlier this week. Now that I'm back in Los Angeles and across the country from them, I try to call at least once a day for my own peace of mind as well as theirs: I want them to know that I'm still here for them, but I also choose to be invested in their lives, despite the distance.

And that evening, as I drove home, something wonderful happened: Dad picked up the phone and was crystal clear, absolutely clear in a way I'd not heard him in a many months — he was speaking loudly enough so that I could hear him, he was speaking in full sentences, and... he was making sense. To suddenly and unexpectedly have my Dad back, to be able to clearly hold a conversation with him… Well, it was profoundly moving to the point of tears since that rarely happens any more.

That's the good news.

The bad news is that what he discussed with me was heart-breaking. He told me that he and Mom had fought the previous night, after eating dinner with friends. "She yelled and screamed at me for about fifteen minutes; then, she said the thing I've been waiting for her to say, afraid that she would say..."

"What was that, Dad?" I asked.

"She told me that I was the reason that she has cancer. She said I caused it, that she's sick because of me." I felt pain, a deep pain in my gut. The pulse in my neck seemed like a rock concert. My depth perception did that weird thing you see in the movies where the camera is pulled away from the subject while it simultaneously zooms in. The traffic around me morphed into something more like a video game than real life. I took a breath and spoke what was in my heart:

"I'm so sorry, Dad."

"It's not your fault, babe."

"I know it’s not, Dad, but…  Mom sometimes takes out her anger on you and me and others, but: that wasn't nice, it wasn't appropriate and it wasn't true, Dad. You're not to blame for Mom having cancer. And she's not to blame for you having Lewy Body Disease. I’m very upset with her for what she said. I want to say something to her.”

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t,” Dad said. I was rendered speechless for ten seconds. My Dad actually asked if I was still on the line. After all of the things he’d asked me to say to Mom during my six-week visit home — that she should consider therapy, that she needed to have some support group, that she needed to face her fears about Dad’s dying and her own mortality — to have him now request that I not say anything was surprising. And upsetting.

“Well… to be honest, I don’t know if I should have asked for your approval, Dad. Something needs to be said to Mom. That’s not OK what she said to you...” But Dad again requested otherwise and, as he was of clear mind, I told him that I would honor his request. I didn’t want to, but I gave my word, told him that I loved him and we ended the call. When I hung up, I remember thinking that all I wanted was to dishonor Dad's request and find some excuse to talk about what had happened with my Mom. I got my excuse the next morning.

On the way out the door to bike to work (and, yes: some of us do bike to work in Los Angeles), I called Mom to say a quick hello. She was at the doctor’s receiving one of her infusions. I hadn’t remembered that she’d had an appointment. And, since Mom is constitutionally incapable of not picking up her phone when it rings, she answered, sounding tired and weak. This caught me off-guard. But not as much as her almost immediately asking me, “So what did you and Dad talk about last night?”

Here was my excuse. If Dad was upset, I could just tell him that Mom had asked me a direct question and that I’d given her a direct answer. Only… I stalled. I told Mom that I'd just called to say "hi" and that we’d have to talk later since I was heading into work. Which was only partially true. The full truth is that I stalled because I was angry. Really angry. Beyond angry, actually. I was incredulous and fuming and I wanted to read Mom the riot act and say, "Are you fucking KIDDING me? You're blaming your husband because you have cancer? You're screaming at someone who is physically and emotionally defenseless? Fuck you. I don't CARE if you have cancer. Go fuck yourself for saying shit like that to my Dad."

Only saying shit like that to my Mom wasn't going to help. Not at that moment. I wasn’t prepared to have a difficult and emotional conversation while she was in such a weakened state and in a hospital, receiving an infusion of drugs. I needed to cool off, to take some time to think and strategize. Which I did. For about four days. And during that time I thought: would Mom really have told Dad that he was to blame for her cancer? Possibly. Would there be another side to the story that Dad hadn’t mentioned to me? Possibly. Would Mom be upset if I asked her about the incident? Probably.

And so it came to pass that later that week — when we both found the time to chat — that I told Mom how Dad had related their having a fight earlier in the week.

“We absolutely did,” she said.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” I asked. 

“Well, Dad was being very difficult after dinner. He wouldn’t do what I politely asked him to do and I got very angry with him. And resentful.” I waited for her to continue. She didn’t.

“What was it that you were asking him to do?”

“Basic things. Not sitting in a chair and falling asleep all day, not putting his hands in his food when eating… But he was just being disagreeable and I can’t take it anymore. I got angry and let him know that I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Did you say anything to Dad that you regret,” I asked, giving her the opportunity to say more.

“No.” I waited for her to continue speaking, but she didn't.

Now lookit: Mom's stubborn, impatient and often navigates life by fear and anxiety, but she's no idiot. She probably already knew the rest of the story that Dad had told me. So, I took a deep breath and asked the $64,000 question. Actually, it was a statement, not a question, although - to my credit - I made it into a question at the very last moment in my own retarded awkwardness by raising my voice at the end of the statement like when a two-year-old asks for a cookie:

“Well...Dad told me that you blamed your having cancer on him?” Mom didn't hesitate for a moment.

“That’s absolutely correct. He’s the reason that I have cancer. All of the years that I’ve been taking care of him and dealing with his illness have made me ill. That’s how I feel. That’s just how I feel. That’s the truth.”

I began stumbling out a response as waves of anger rolled over me.

“Mom, I know that - deep down - you probably don’t feel that...” I stopped myself and re-calculated. “Here’s what I think, Mom: I don’t think that Dad caused your cancer anymore than you caused his Lewy Body Disease. And I think you know that. And I think that maybe... you let your very understandable feelings and frustrations get the best of you in this case."

I waited for a response. There was none. So I continued.

"Mom, Dad's disease makes him sleep almost instantly, he falls over, he needs constant supervision and can't even get himself dressed, undressed or bathed without help. Do you think that maybe you're expecting too much from him right now?"

"I don't think so…"

"Mom…?"

"I don't know." And now the part I'd prepared before hand.

"I don't blame you for getting upset at Dad, Mom, I got upset at Dad while I was home. You saw it yourself. It's incredibly challenging and upsetting to be around him. All of us know that, Mom. All of us. You're allowed to be upset and angry and sad and bitter and feel like you want to punch someone. It makes perfect sense."

"Thank you…" I heard some sniffles on the other end of the line. A chink in the armor had appeared. I made a plea.

"But Mom, you can't say things like that to Dad. It's not fair to him and it's not true. And you know that. And I know that you know that. So, please: if you get upset, maybe… maybe just walk away for a minute until you can cool off? Call me and vent to me, instead. I'm here for you. We all are."

And then the tears came. Someone had understood. Maybe not entirely, maybe not from her unique perspective, but someone had understood and had told her so. And with that understanding, promises. Promises that she'd try, that she'd work on venting to me instead of at Dad, that she'd attempt to see him for what he was, not for what she desperately wanted him to be. And, even though I knew the effort wouldn't last, I told Mom thank you and that I loved her.

And in that moment… I did. I'd said what I'd needed and even managed to connect deeply with Mom in the process. A huge victory. For both of us.

I pulled up to my apartment as we finished talking. I parked and remained in the car, absent-mindedly watching the traffic stream past my window, metallic blood cells winding their way to another part of the city's growing body. In another minute I'd make my way upstairs, be greeted by two hungry and affectionate cats and settle in for the warm July evening. But, for now, I allowed the rhythm of the city to lull me into a sense of peace before leaving the peace of my car.