I don't mean to imply the last few days or months went flawlessly. There are things I would have done differently for Jerome if given a second chance. I let him get all the way to maggots in his fur, whereas if I had let him go a day earlier, he wouldn't have had to experience that. If I had made the appointment earlier with the housecall vet, I wouldn't have had to put Jerome through a sudden trip to the vet as his last memory (though I think whatever Donya did seemed to have tranquilized him a great deal before we even left the house.) But I think these are just the flaw in the tapestry. Times like birth and death are the territory of the Mystery, where we don't get to know exactly what to do. There is no right and wrong. Dealing with an animal who doesn't speak English makes this all the more clear; sometimes you just don't hear what they're saying and have to make a difficult call. All we can do is be as present as possible, and learn from the experience without self-judgment. It is really a magnificent adventure, as life always is if we let it be.
Jerome obviously didn't stop being my teacher, even in death. Thanks, little dude.
Monday, June 11, 2007
RIP Jerome the cat
Jerome the cat passed on June 8, 2007. He was 17 years old.
Jerome came into my life magically. In 1990, after moving back to Tucson from New Orleans, I told the universe I wanted a black cat. Soon after this, my friend Karen called me and told me a black cat had wandered into her yard and would I like him? He was around 6 months old when I took him in.
Karen had been calling him Wally. I wanted a classier name, because he was so devastatingly handsome and sleek. I named him after Jerome Kimsey, the drummer in Sam Taylor’s band, because they both wear black all the time. I gradually discovered that Jerome the cat was not exactly a picture of grace, though – he was always falling off of things and knocking stuff over. I probably should have kept Wally.
As an adolescent, Jerome liked to unroll the toilet paper all the way through my apartment. Another charming habit of his was killing birds on the pillow right next to my head as I slept, leaving certain unwanted organs, feet, and birdseed for me in the morning. He was always a generous boy.
Aside from the usual cat preferences of things like stinky fish and baby birds, Jerome liked corn chips, refried beans, and beer. He was a very affectionate boy and slept under the covers with me every night. Before the duty was taken over by “the dog” (to be said with an air of indignation and condescension,) Jerome would come running out to greet me every time I came home. In his prime he was a big strapping panther; in his old age he was skin and bones and light as a feather. He gave kisses just like a dog, and never let a lap sit empty. He liked it when I played my nylon-string guitar. Watching the toilet flush was the ultimate ecstatic experience for him.
He was also a healer. When I was having any sort of health issue, Jerome would lay on or near the trouble spot. Believe it or not, he also did this for Stella the dog.
The most important things Jerome brought me were lessons about how to do life. He handled change at a glacial pace, but he handled it with a grace and self-love I aspire to. It took him about three years to adjust to having a dog in the house. But after that, Jerome was the boss. When we changed apartments, he slept under the bed for a year, but then he was back to normal. He taught me about slowness, patience, gentility, and boundaries.
Jerome began to have bad breath about a year and a half ago. I put it down to old age, but he got really sick in late December and his vet told me he had a mouth infection compounded by kidney failure. She said I would hopefully get a few good months with him. The last five months have been a very educational process of daily saline injections and almost constant antibiotics. The daily injection became a sacred act between us, where I learned to listen to Jerome’s needs and balance respect for his space with “tough love.”
A few weeks ago Jerome began firmly refusing medication, and he made himself a little hospice in a corner of the yard under some oleanders, on a bed of leaves and dusty pink flowers. He spent his last days here peacefully, and he made it clear when it was time to take the final trip to the vet. My friend Donya came over and did energy work with Jerome and calmed him in his final hour. My sister Jenny carried me through the process, and she and her partner Barry took care of me for the rest of the day after the procedure.
Rest in peace, little man.
Jerome came into my life magically. In 1990, after moving back to Tucson from New Orleans, I told the universe I wanted a black cat. Soon after this, my friend Karen called me and told me a black cat had wandered into her yard and would I like him? He was around 6 months old when I took him in.
Karen had been calling him Wally. I wanted a classier name, because he was so devastatingly handsome and sleek. I named him after Jerome Kimsey, the drummer in Sam Taylor’s band, because they both wear black all the time. I gradually discovered that Jerome the cat was not exactly a picture of grace, though – he was always falling off of things and knocking stuff over. I probably should have kept Wally.
As an adolescent, Jerome liked to unroll the toilet paper all the way through my apartment. Another charming habit of his was killing birds on the pillow right next to my head as I slept, leaving certain unwanted organs, feet, and birdseed for me in the morning. He was always a generous boy.
Aside from the usual cat preferences of things like stinky fish and baby birds, Jerome liked corn chips, refried beans, and beer. He was a very affectionate boy and slept under the covers with me every night. Before the duty was taken over by “the dog” (to be said with an air of indignation and condescension,) Jerome would come running out to greet me every time I came home. In his prime he was a big strapping panther; in his old age he was skin and bones and light as a feather. He gave kisses just like a dog, and never let a lap sit empty. He liked it when I played my nylon-string guitar. Watching the toilet flush was the ultimate ecstatic experience for him.
He was also a healer. When I was having any sort of health issue, Jerome would lay on or near the trouble spot. Believe it or not, he also did this for Stella the dog.
The most important things Jerome brought me were lessons about how to do life. He handled change at a glacial pace, but he handled it with a grace and self-love I aspire to. It took him about three years to adjust to having a dog in the house. But after that, Jerome was the boss. When we changed apartments, he slept under the bed for a year, but then he was back to normal. He taught me about slowness, patience, gentility, and boundaries.
Jerome began to have bad breath about a year and a half ago. I put it down to old age, but he got really sick in late December and his vet told me he had a mouth infection compounded by kidney failure. She said I would hopefully get a few good months with him. The last five months have been a very educational process of daily saline injections and almost constant antibiotics. The daily injection became a sacred act between us, where I learned to listen to Jerome’s needs and balance respect for his space with “tough love.”
A few weeks ago Jerome began firmly refusing medication, and he made himself a little hospice in a corner of the yard under some oleanders, on a bed of leaves and dusty pink flowers. He spent his last days here peacefully, and he made it clear when it was time to take the final trip to the vet. My friend Donya came over and did energy work with Jerome and calmed him in his final hour. My sister Jenny carried me through the process, and she and her partner Barry took care of me for the rest of the day after the procedure.
Rest in peace, little man.
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