Whoever said that loss gets easier with time was a liar. Truth is, you end up missing them in a different way. Life may go on and you may begin to feel like the sadness has lifted a little but inevitably something will stir up a memory and the emotions will come flooding back.

Elizabeth Kubler Ross describes the feeling best when she says that we will grieve forever. That we do not just 'get over' our loss, we will simply learn to live with it.

Some people misguidedly think this doesn’t apply to grieving the loss of an animal.

But they’d be wrong.

Those same people might also think an animal doesn’t have the power to leave their mark on us in a very significant way.

But they'd be wrong about that too.

The animal that left an imprint on my heart was a rescue cat named Pierre. A wise soul who sensed things about people better than some humans I know. Curious, sensitive, adventurous and a lover of music, she came into my life at a time when I needed a companion more than I realized.

So, why did I name my female cat Pierre, people asked? The simple answer is I thought she was male at the time. The more complicated reasoning lay in the details. Such as naming Pierre after a young French guy I was dating who came out of the closet about the same time mon chat did. Seriously. Just as flirty French guy told me he was gay, Pierre went into heat. The latter being more of a surprise then the former.

"You're going to have to change her name now" my Sister said.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because she's female."

A fair point perhaps, but in the end, I decided to keep her name as it was. She had been called Pierre for almost a year, why confuse things now? Besides there was something about her that had already defied expectations, I figured the two of us could also defy convention and say to the rest of the world we were doing this our own way.

Foster Fail

I first met Pierre in a flower shop owned by a guy named Nick whose role in the community was part cat whisperer and part foster placement parent. Hungry strays would come, nap among flora and fauna of his store, ward off pests, and if they hung around long enough were bequeathed Shakespearean names.

It was September in New York City and I was on my way to the US Open when I stopped into Nick's flower shop to run a last minute errand. Greeting me with a smile was Nick himself and on the counter next to where he was standing was a tiny kitten hungrily eating what looked like Nick’s breakfast. When I asked him about the kitten, he turned around and began yelling and waving his arms.

Scooping Pierre up off the counter and setting her down in front of a big bowl of kibbles, Nick told me he had found Pierre out by the garbage bins at 5:00 am that morning yowling so loudly he thought someone had left a baby out there.

I stood there watching this pocket-sized kitten devour the kibbles. Her head bobbing up and down as she practically inhaled her food.

Such a hard life for something so small I thought to myself. Curious, I gently picked her up to take a closer look. Flecks of white paint were stuck to her fur and would probably have to be cut out to remove them. She was severely underweight making it difficult to gauge her age, but what concerned me more were the spots of blood in her anus.

"This kitten needs to see a vet,” I told him.

“You wanna take him?” He asked.

The abruptness of his question took me aback and I shook my head explaining that I was on my way to see a tennis match. But no sooner had I placed her back on the ground when she latched on to me and began climbing up my pant leg.

"I think he likes you!" Nick said laughing.

Gingerly prying Pierre off my clothing, I settled her onto my shoulder where she immediately began nursing on my earlobe. The sounds of purring and sucking in my ear were quickly melting away my resolve and despite my reluctance, I ended up walking out of Nick’s store with a kitten I had no intention of keeping.

Soft Paws and Purred Applause

Few things are as endearing and hilarious as a small kitten doing what small kittens do. Darting from one end of the room to another, pouncing on anything that moves, it’s like watching slapstick being played out by a feline version of Buster Keaton. Yet, when I brought Pierre home, she was none of those things.

Lethargic and weak, she spent most of her time nuzzled up close to me, purring and sleeping. At six weeks old, she should've weighed well over twenty-two ounces but when put on a scale she barely registered at fourteen. Full of ear mites, fleas, and worms, the vet had to give her a bath and then snip out all of the white paint stuck to her fur. After her exam, Pierre was sent home with medicine, a high protein kitten food, and supplemental vitamins which I added to baby food.

During the day she’d eat and sleep. At night she’d crawl up the side of my bed, make her way towards me, curl up around my neck, take my earlobe in her mouth and suckle her self to sleep. It was both strange and sweet. She was so light I barely felt her weight, in fact, if it wasn’t for the confluences of breathing, purring, and sucking noises in my ear, I would’ve barely noticed she was there.

It took about a week of feeding her before I saw the first signs that she was feeling better. This came in the form of emptying out the contents of my drawers all over the floor and then dashing through the apartment with a pom of gift wrapping ribbons in her mouth.

The corner now turned, she was more slapstick kitty than sleeping kitty. Quick with verbal cues, she liked to play a peek-a-boo game where I’d sit on the couch with my eyes covered and ask “Where’s Pierre?” and she would start sneaking up to me in slow stalking movements until she got close enough to touch me. Then I’d open my eyes and say “There she is!” and Pierre would run and hide behind the corner, where we’d start the game all over again.

Sensitive to sound and rhythm, she would frequently sit with me while I chanted in the morning. Either in my lap, or next to me making “biscuits” with her paws, she’d give a little meow when I paused to get me going again.

Sunday mornings I’d turn on some Frank Sinatra and Pierre would get all excited and sprint around the room like she was doing the jitterbug. Sometimes I’d put her on my shoulder and we’d sway to the music while I sang along.

Other times, I'd play Glenn Miller and toss one of her cat toys in the air. Like a flying acrobat, the height this small animal could jump made me laugh so hard, it would only encourage her to jump even higher.

Her resiliency filled me with such joy that the memory of those early weeks with her still have the power to move me.

The days passed into weeks and the weeks passed into months and Pierre was growing up quickly. Long-haired and silky, she had outgrown her awkward long legs and small body stage and blossomed into a beautiful young cat.

As winter set in and my work hours grew longer, I decided to get Pierre a playmate to keep her company. Enter Zoe. An eight week old kitten without a Mother who was being fostered by a family of nudists from Queens.

Zoe Makes Three

At first, I wasn’t sure if the loud chirping noises coming out of Zoe when Pierre chased her around the room were sounds of distress, or just Zoe being her sassy expressive self. It was clear from the beginning that Pierre was thrilled with her new playmate.

Zoe, for her part, was too busy establishing the dynamics between them early on, which meant Zoe ate Pierre’s food, stole her toys, and demanded all the attention in the room.

Rambunctious and curious, Zoe climbed up book shelves, shower curtains and Christmas trees. But when the shower curtain rod fell, and when the Christmas tree tipped over, it was Pierre who ran under the bed as if she had done something wrong.

At night, I would lie in bed listening to them crash around in the apartment chasing each other. Thinking I could tire them out during the day, I went out and bought a pile of cat toys. The one they actually preferred? A simple golf sized red rubber ball that I would bounce across the floor while Pierre and Zoe would zip around the room trying to catch it.

Eventually this became a feline version of roller derby where the both of them took their turns chasing a red rubber ball inside the bathtub. Delightfully entertaining to watch, I’d be the goalie, catching the ball when it careened out of bounds, and putting it back into play.

Living with two cats inside a New York City apartment requires some concessions. Namely letting go of growing green things. At the mercy of the small taloned creatures living in my home, when Pierre was very small, I’d catch her dangling from a large ficus tree I had by the window.

By the time Zoe arrived, there were bite marks and half eaten leaves on all the houseplants around the apartment. This fascination with destroying anything botanical also extended to cut flowers, which were efficiently decapitated, leaving only the stems left standing in the vase.

Sympathetic to their natural instincts, I tried introducing them to things that would keep them stimulated. When I attended formal fundraisers for the work I did, I would bring home the elaborate floral centerpieces that were up for grabs at the end of the evening.

So, while other people took these centerpieces home to decorate their tables, I took them home so I could watch my cats go crazy. Their eyes wide as ping-pong balls the moment I walked into the apartment, they couldn’t wait to inspect, smell, roll around in, and eventually destroy the curious thing I had set down on the floor for them.

Because city cats experience the world around them from the confines of a window sill, when I decided to move to California, I worried about how Pierre and Zoe were going to adjust. Taken from the only home either of them knew and placed in their kitty carriers on a plane for seven hours, they were so freaked out, I had to sedate them.

When we finally arrived at our new home, they huddled closely together inside a storage cabinet with a look of confusion and terror on their faces. Eventually they transitioned themselves underneath my bed where they stayed for about a month, coming out during the night to look around and then cuddle with me on the bed.

Then one gorgeous sunny day, while I was working at my desk, I turned around and the both of them had come out from underneath the bed, stretched themselves out on the couch in the living room, the sunlight bathing their bodies, as if to say all was okay. We were in California now and things weren’t bad. In fact, they were pretty good.

“Look out there, my little princess,” he called down to her. “These plants are only the very tip of the earth’s treasures, almost like hairs on her head. She hides so many other secrets deep within her, and one day, if you’re lucky, you may find some of them.”
~
Craig Froman, Of Secrets, Spiders & and the End of the World

A Place Where Lovely Things Grow

Although they didn't know it yet, Pierre and Zoe were going to enjoy their new home. Situated on a piece of property that used to be a citrus orchard, we were surrounded by trees, shrubs, and a botanical collection of plants and flowers.

The first few months, they both seemed content watching the birds and visiting squirrels from their perch by the window, but when Pierre figured out how to open the screen door, there was no putting that genie back in the bottle.

She simply thrived being outside on her own. For a cat who had never seen anything but the inside of a New York City apartment, she adapted remarkably well. Climbing trees, jumping fences, and marking her territory on the neighbor's doors, it was almost as if this was the life Pierre had been waiting for.

Each morning Pierre stood by the door letting me know it was time for her to explore the neighborhood. Her meows growing more insistent the longer it took me to respond. Each morning I let her out, my pride for Pierre's plucky independence was tempered by my concern for her safety.

Always on high alert for her return, Pierre’s routine varied only slightly. Sometimes she’d come back before noon, sometimes she’d be out all day. On those occasions, I’d text my neighbor before I left for work to let her know. We had worked out an arrangement where we took care of each other’s cats, so when she heard Pierre bang on my screen door, she would come over and let her in.

It was certainly a great set up for Pierre who had the both of us trained to her satisfaction, but it was also an immense relief each time I came home to find Pierre safely tucked away inside the house.

As Pierre made her mark on the neighborhood, she also managed to endear herself with some of my neighbors. A topic of conversation at informal gatherings, I would often hear stories about Pierre’s visits. Whether it was drinking from their bird baths, stretching out on their outdoor furniture, taking naps in their cat's kitty condo, or lounging in the garden next to their sleeping cat statues, Pierre seemed to be making herself at home wherever she went.

Much as Pierre’s outdoor antics may have amused my neighbors, I began to suspect this was less the case with my neighbor’s cats. A conclusion I came to one day when I saw Pierre rolling around in front of my neighbor’s window while her three cats watched from inside. Having flaunted her willful presence on their property, Pierre then began tapping on the glass with her paw, either taunting my neighbor’s cats further, or just saying hello. I never knew which.

Unlike Zoe and Ziggy, who stayed close to home, Pierre‘s adventures not only brought her in contact with my neighbor’s cats but the feral ones as well. Being the territorial creatures they are, one of them decided to teach Pierre‘s roaming spirit a lesson with a confrontation that caused Pierre to defecate all over herself and suffer a large gash on the back of her leg. Scurrying home bleeding and soiled, the cut was deep enough it required a trip to the emergency room where she was stitched up and bandaged.

Between the two of us, it seemed I was more rattled by the experience then she was, because while Pierre bided her time quietly inside the house while she healed, once the bandage and plastic collar came off, she darted out the door so quickly all I saw was a furry gray tail rounding the corner of the driveway.

Even as I worried about her, I admired her spirit. Now that the rite of passage was behind her, I figured she understood where she was in the pecking order among the feral cats who ruled the neighborhood and would adjust her behavior accordingly.

When the rains finally came to Southern California, they were so mild I could leave the door open and listen to the sound while I sat at my desk working. Zoe and Ziggy would sit by the screen door content to watch the rain from the comforts of home while Pierre wanted to explore.

The first time she went out in the rain, I was sure she would come right back in. But she surprised me with what turned out to be an endless fascination for Pierre. Her coat covered in droplets, she stood there for a minute contemplating her next move before she wandered off into the mist.

Sometimes, I’d see her sitting on my neighbor’s back porch, under the overhang, watching and listening to the raindrops fall down around her as if she was memorizing every sound so she could compose her own symphony later on.

In the summer when the heat would drive everyone inside, Pierre would hide under the shade of my neighbor's rosemary bush and sleep for hours. Eventually she’d come home, the fragrance of rosemary clinging to her fur, and take her place beside me.

The bond between us was still strong, but her lifestyle in California had changed her. I rarely saw her during the day and I missed having her around the house. But then she’d come home, rest her head on my shoulder, purr in my ear, and I knew this was how she was always meant to live.

When someone you love dies, and you’re not expecting it, you don’t lose them all at once; you lose them in pieces over a long time...”~ John Irving

Piece by Piece

By the time Pierre was two years old, she was diagnosed with acute asthma and put on medication. I suspected her lungs had been compromised while living on a construction site as a kitten and further aggravated by New York City apartment living.

Managing her condition required daily doses from an inhaler and keeping on top of the dust with thorough and frequent cleanings. I was a smoker back then and while I didn't seem committed enough to safeguard my own health, the thought of Pierre's lips turning blue and having to rush her to the Emergency Room in a taxi cab did the trick and I quit.

The hyperthyrodism hit her when she was ten and we managed that condition through medication and monitoring her blood levels every few months. At this point, I put Pierre on an HMO version of a health care plan to give me better options in her care.

Following the hyperthyrodism diagnoses by a couple of years, she had her first seizure. It happened so quickly, I almost wasn't sure I saw it correctly. One minute she was fine and the next she lost the use of her back legs for a few split seconds. When the doctor told me that neurological seizures were in most cases progressive, my mind went numb.

Expecting the worst, I took Pierre home and calculated how much time I might have left with her. Pierre had other plans. Her seizures took a hiatus for almost a year. During that time, it allowed me to come to terms with the fact that I was going to eventually have to make a judgment call when it was Pierre's time to go, while also secretly nurturing a false sense of hope that this might all go away.

The cliff I eventually fell off of came one spring morning after I let Pierre out to enjoy the rain as it softly sprinkled the neighborhood gardens. A few hours later, I got a text at work from my neighbor saying that she had let Pierre back inside the house but was concerned when she found her yowling so loudly she thought she had been injured. When I arrived home, I found Pierre sleeping contentedly. I examined her carefully, but couldn’t find anything wrong with her physically.

The mystery deepened when she chose to stay inside the house for the next few days. I began to wonder if she had been spooked by a coyote or another animal. When she finally did go outside, she didn’t leave the property and stayed close by where I could see her. Sleeping on one of the chairs in the front garden, I called out to her. No response. Not even the slightest twitch of the ear. An alarm went off in my head. I walked out towards her, the cedar chips making a crackling sound underneath my feet, my heart sinking as I watched her remain completely still.

An exam by her doctor the next day merely confirmed what I already knew. Pierre had gone deaf. There would be no more music for Pierre. She would never again hear the sound of my voice, the rain, or the birds in her beloved garden. And what was worse, she would never understand why everything she loved had been taken away from her.

Our lives changed after that. No longer able to go outside unsupervised, I bought a harness and began training her to go out on a leash. In typical Pierre fashion, she understood what I was doing and took to the leash immediately.

Walking Pierre around the neighborhood was more Pierre walking where she wanted to go and me following. Even though my heart was heavy knowing that Pierre could no longer explore the world on her own, it was still a special time for us as Pierre began to show me some of her favorite hiding places in the neighborhood.

Sometimes, she'd just want to sit in the sun, or under a tree. So I sat with her until she wanted to go home. I listened to the wind in the trees for her. The mockingbirds that used to sweep down and tease Zoe and Ziggy. Every sound I heard was filtered through a new appreciation for what Pierre had lost.

Summer came and with it an unusually severe allergy season. Pierre’s asthma had miraculously improved once we moved to California but that season she began to suffer horrendous allergies where she was licking and biting herself bloody. To stop her from gnawing at her skin, I had to give her allergy meds and put her in one of those plastic collars.

Feeling either awkward, pissed off, or vulnerable, she had no interest in going for our walks. As an alternative to the collar, I put her in a baby onesie hoping that would help but she preferred to spend her days sitting on the bed uninterested in the world around her.

It was the lowest point for the both of us because as hard as I was working with her doctor to find the most effective allergy meds to deal with the itching, and even with the medicated sponge baths I gave her to alleviate the itching, she was still suffering.

Finally, relief came and the itching stopped. Her first day out of the onesie she came to visit me in the morning like she used to when she was a kitten, crawling up on top of me and communicating with her eyes what she'd been through. Except this time, I’d been through it with her.

While I had hoped things would get better after Pierre’s allergies calmed down, the erratic nature of her seizures made predicting anything next to impossible. A few months could go by and she'd have one seizure. Then the following week she'd have three. Another month would go by, and nothing. Then a dozen in matter of days.

The last week of her life, she began having seizures every day. By the last night, they were coming in clusters every couple of hours until finally towards the end they were coming every fifteen minutes. While her doctor assured me she wasn't in any pain, when the seizures would hit her, she'd lose control over her body, fall off tables, get agitated and very confused. They were over in a few seconds but it was still gut-wrenching to watch.

Neither of us got much sleep that last night. I tried to comfort her. To hold her, to stroke her, but eventually another seizure would come. Stricken with guilt, questioning if I should've taken her to the vet earlier that day rather than waiting, hoping, and wishing we had a little more time, I agonized over every decision I had made.

Mercifully, morning finally came. She seemed oddly calm when I took her to the vet, as if the last horrible six hours had happened to somebody else. Lying down quietly for the moment on a blanket they had put on the exam table, her eyes were completely dilated from the craziness going on in her brain. Did she even know who I was or what was happening, I wondered?

She had a catheter in her arm and the tray with the injection had been placed on the counter beside her. The vet had left us alone to say our goodbyes and now that the moment was here the enormity of what was going to happen hit me like blunt object.

I called my Sister and the only thing I could manage to say through my sobbing was, "But she can't hear me say goodbye.” It doesn't matter my Sister said. You can say goodbye by touching her and loving her. She'll understand that.

So I picked Pierre up from the blanket and put her on my shoulder one last time. Swaying around the room singing, “Fly me to the moon”, I let the vibration of my voice communicate what I wanted to say while tears ran down my face as I heard her purring in response.

Among The Fields of Gold

A few days after Pierre passed, I had a dream that I went back to my apartment in New York. Drop cloths, ladders, and paint cans littered the hallways of the building. Inside my apartment it was empty except for my writing table by the windows. On the table was my lap top with a live feed filming the front of my house back in California. Suddenly, I could see Pierre on camera. She looked so small. She was in the front of the house, outside the gates, wearing her red harness and her leash. I was very upset she was all alone and that there was no one holding onto the other end of her leash. Suppose she ran away? Instead, she turned toward the house and wandered down the driveway with the red leash dragging behind her.

When I woke up from the dream I wondered if it meant she was looking for me. The thought that she couldn’t find me stayed with me for days. It wasn't until I started going through the pictures of her life that I realized the dream wasn't about Pierre being alone or not being able to find me. The dream was about Pierre saying good-bye and going home. Her new home. A place where she could hear again. Where she could explore again. Play again. Dance again. Un-tethered to her illnesses and be free again. I'm not sure where that new home is for Pierre, but where ever it is, I hope there is music.