A Death In The Family

Editor's Note: Seamus is our dear friend from college, one of the first to join us out here on the west coast, and number one Bitey-cat sitter. He is in both circles of Bitey and Ellie Mae grieving, but still manages to make us all laugh.

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Hello -

I have finally found the time/courage to write about our dear friend Bitey.I know I'll be coming over later today, but sometimes written words arebetter/easier/more thought driven. And yet still, I'm somewhat at a loss ofwords. So I'll start with the thought that most stuck out while reading thelatest additions to "The Bitey Blog", and hope the rest flows from there inan understandable fashion.

Upon reading about John Updike, I was immediately reminded about a piece ofprose that I have carried in my thoughts for about 20 years, as I wasprofoundly moved by it. At first I thougt it was also by John Updike,because sometimes my memory sucks. So I looked it up by title, "A Death inthe Family" - the title is something I'll never forget. Turns out it's byJames Agee. Ask me who that is later to see if I remember...It's an extremely poetic book about something we must all deal with at somepoint or other. We all have families, and we all die. Some of us are luckyto experience the family part much longer (as Bitey gave you: "Four monthsmy arse!" - Bitey), some of us are unfortunate enough to experience thedeath part much sooner. This book is about a turn-of-the-century's family' sdealing with the unexpected death of it's patriarch. The parts that havealways stuck with me are when that author (what was his name again?...)turns to the perspective of the deceased's 6-year old son Rufus and hisexperience of trying to comprehend the death of his father, who was alivewhen he went to sleep and gone when he awoke.

I do it no justice, but the most memorable part of the book for me is when Rufus finds a moment alone in the parlor and sits in his deceased father'schair, pondering just what this whole "death" thing was. In his curiousity,he drags his finger across the bottom of his father's pipe ashtray.

After inspecting his oily/dry black finger, he puts it in his mouth. He tastessticky-sweet blackness - death. But the taste instantly reminds him of hisfather. He does not know how to react.

This now happens to me every time I see a stray black/blonde 2-inch hairsticking on one of the blankets in the aparment, or the pictures on thefridge, or the food bowls that we don't have the time/courage to move -sticky/sweet black memories, and I don't know how to react. It's so toughto lose a loved one. If there are any typos in this, it's because my otherhand is wiping tears.I've been trying so hard to quell Monica's sadness and to be strong in frontof her (she's been doing great, considering), I haven't really dealt withmine enough. Now Bitey's helping me start. Man, what a great cat he was!I have to say I wasn't much of a cat fan before I met him, but Bitey helpedchange that. Instantly. Ironically my tendency to not favor cats stemmed from being bitten by a cat. But when Bitey bit me that first time, I knew it was love.

I'm lucky enough to have a lot of great memories with the Bite-ster. One ofthe favorite pictures in my head of Bitey was whenever you would hold himupside-down and then scratch his belly. Most cats I knew wouldn't let youhold them, much less dangle them upside-down like a shirt hung on a dryingwire. But Bitey acted is if he expected it, hoping for a belly rub, but ifit didn't come just saying "Hey, it's my mom and she loves me, and I lovethis."These are the things that help us get through these rough times - thethoughts about the good times. The sad thoughts are going to be there too,as that is part of dealing with it all, but I like to think about the goodones whenever I feel overwhelmed by the sad ones.

While I have a lot ofgreat memories with Ellie Mae, I don't have the same quantity as Monica does pull out every detail of those times when Ellie Mae was climbing and goingdown playground slides and trees and her expertise soccer skills... in manyways these memories keep them alive.

I have a feeling Ellie and Bitey are off climbing some new things now. Theywere truly special animals, and blessed to have you both in their lives, aswe were all blessed by having them in ours. To finish I\'ll share with you alittle prayer that I developed as I drove across country while ponderingspirits that have passed to another realm:

O Creator, thank you for gracing us with their presence for the good of allthings everywhere. We pray they had a beautiful life, we pray they have abeautiful afterlife, and we have loved and will love them always. We prayfor their family, friends, and acquaintences, that their pain, sorrow, andsuffering is eased. May we learn to live not only in their absence, butbecause of their presence. We thank you with all of our hearts.

Thanks for sharing Bitey with all of us.

Love and thoughts, Seamus

Jean Jean

Eds Note: I knew my boyfriend's parents passed the "future-in-law survivability test" long before they came to Los Angeles to visit. But their instant love of Bitey--and more importantly--his affection for them, sealed the deal. Here is a lovely poem by Matt's mom, who only got to meet Bitey once, but clearly understood him completely.

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Scratching by the old back door
Faint meowing?
Across the floor from where I sit
Daylight fading, shadows falling.

Stillness.

There it is, again
I take a guess then, rush to look
A CAT?
A kitten, rather
Pink nose pressed against glass pane
Enormous eyes, beseeching, speaking
"Please, oh please, won't you take me in?
Some food, some warmth-- I'll be your friend-FOREVER"
( I read his mind)

I pause only briefly, then demand to know,
"Where is your home?"
Poor, mangy little waif- Are you all alone?"
No mother? No brother? No kith or kin?
Then, quicker than lightning, street kitty darts in
through a crack in the doorway,
just big enough for him.

Our eyes connect
He sniffs, taking in,
the wide expanse of "foreign land"
now his domain--I read his mind, again
(This must be a sign)

"This feels so right"
I nod and smile, reaching down
to carefully seal the deal
with a gentle stroke (of hand, not pen)

'He likes me' I say ,to myself and, to him
"Welcome home, little wanderer,
my newly found friend."

A familiar cat story?
Perhaps, but you see,
This "kitty" was loved by more than just me.
And the name? Bitey?
Well, it fit him just right
That's the way to get attention, under covers, at night
He liked to sneak food off your plate,(when not looking)
A cat with definite taste for home cooking.

He'd sleep on your head,
get a drink from the tap.
Chase bugs in the yard,
then zone out for a nap!

The best of the best;
Way back then you just knew
Not like the rest,
Here's to our Bitey-Boo...

The Boyfriend Speaks

Editor's Note: There's really only so much I can say about the day Bitey died, because I was in New York, writing up my expenses when I got the call. So here's Matt, aka 'The Boyfriend' with the full account.

February 2006:

Bitey was in pain. A cat with feline leukemia virus and a tumor in the lower half of his spine, it seemed he’d come to the end of the road. He lay there on the table, not really wanting to move. His hind legs had deserted him. He could no longer urinate on his own. Jennie and I stood next to him, looking to the doctor for a game plan. At least, that’s what Jennie was looking for. I was looking for permission.

As the doctor walked us through a minefield of grim choices, I rhetorically voiced the same numb request. “I wish I knew what Bitey wanted.” As Jennie debated our options, I uttered those words again and again. But they weren’t really for me. They were for the doctor. To prompt him. To make him say it. To suggest a course of action I could never suggest myself. “I wish I knew what Bitey wanted.” Eventually, he gave me an answer, though not the one I was fishing for.

“Bitey wants to live.”

It was true. Looking back on my friend’s life, I’m embarrassed I needed to be told.

When we first met Bitey, he wanted to live. Howling in the bushes outside Jennie’s West Hollywood apartment, he made that abundantly clear. Flea bitten? Sure. Cagey? You bet. But ready to lie down just because a “well meaning” Angelino deposited him in the street? Not a chance. He bit his way into our hearts (by way of my feet) and there he stayed.

Make no mistake. There’s a big difference between craving life and merely living it. And though, physiologically, Bitey had a brain the size of a racquetball, I believe he knew what it was.

He didn’t just eat. He made it a sport, leaping to the counter top, a feline Bruce Jenner, launching himself skyward towards breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Sure, we encouraged bad manners. Let him hop on the table. Let him beg for scraps. But how could one deny the simple unadulterated joy he found in the pursuit of meat? We were cut from the same cloth, Bitey and I. An inexhaustible love of meat is my defining characteristic. I’ve often claimed that if the world were to stumble upon a meat heretofore unknown to the human race, a “new meat”, if you will, I would be the first in line to try it. And Bitey would be at my feet, demanding the bigger half.

He didn’t just love. Affection was his obsession. The head rubs. The belly rubs. The back rubs. Under the chin. Between the ears. The bridge of the nose. He settled for nothing less than total, unwavering devotion. Try to read a book, Bitey would rest his head on the spine, forcing it downward, unwilling to accept defeat. Many an occasion, I’d pet him until he drifted off to sleep. Congratulating myself on a job well done, I would do the same. Moments later, I’d feel the pad of his paw against my cheek. No claws. Gently. A tactful reminder, “Moron. Your work is not done here. Why must we do this again?”

He didn’t just play. He left it all on the field. Batting at anything that moved, even when he didn’t have a puncher’s chance. Flies. Bees. Running water. His favorite game was the dogged pursuit of a woodchip stuck to the end of a long copper wire (Brain the size of a racquetball, mind you). He’d bring it to us in his mouth and drop it at our feet. Jennie would shake it. Bitey would bat it. I would observe from the bleachers. Sometimes I’d root for the wood chip. I liked to champion the underdog. Bitey didn’t seem to mind.

After the chemotherapy, after the steroid treatment, after the paralysis, he marched on undeterred, albeit on two fewer limbs. He never lost the spark in his eyes. I shouldn’t have expected any less.

True, he needed to work harder to pursue his passions. Had to accept the humility born of dependence. Yet somehow, he still called the shots. He could no longer jump to the bed. Instead, he demanded an airlift. He couldn’t mix it up with rival cats. But he hissed if they tread near his food bowl. In the ongoing struggle of cat versus woodchip, leg muscles disappeared from his arsenal. He swatted from his belly.

Bitey wanted to live. And this quality, burning bright, was with him to the very end.

January 17th, 2007:

That final Wednesday, he woke up, demanding to be rubbed as usual. I scratched his belly for a good forty-five minutes. He purred the whole time.

I hopped out of bed, and cracked open a can of tuna. His ears perked up. He seemed a little hesitant to jump down from the bed, so I helped him to the floor. He slid gamely towards his food bowl. His final mission was clear. Eat. Drink. Be Bitey.

But when he reached his bowl, something seemed amiss. He was confused. Thinking he might have a full bladder, I did my best to empty it. No change. He ambled, seemingly with a purpose, towards the bathroom. I put him in the tub. He liked to drink from the spigot. Not today. He wandered around the tub for a moment, but soon began to hyperventilate.

This was not good. I immediately loaded him into his carrying case and sped towards the vet. I called Jennie, across the country on business, to keep her informed. She heard him meowing through the phone. One hand on the steering wheel, the other stroking his neck to keep him calm, I drove the rest of the way.

The waiting room was empty save for the two receptionists and a Chinese Woman leaving a stack of pamphlets. I placed Bitey’s case on the counter.

“I don’t have an appointment. This is an emergency. Bitey’s breathing pretty heavy.”

The Chinese woman left. “I hope your cat is okay.” I didn’t doubt he would be.

The staff sprung to attention. Bitey’s reputation preceded him. He was regular at the local vet and they’d pegged him as something special from the beginning. The technician grabbed his case. They needed to give him oxygen.

In my head, the circumstances felt oddly routine. We’d been to the brink before. No worries. Little O2, quick breather, we’d be on our way back home. Five minutes later, the technician brought me in to see the doctor. Mickey, a no nonsense receptionist, my favorite on staff, came in with me.

The doctor waiting for me was one I’d never met. Bitey’s regular doctor, the one who once so aptly expressed Bitey’s frame of mind, was out of the office. My heart sank. This doctor, though kind and capable, did not know Bitey’s detailed history. It was like coming to school to get a college recommendation from your favorite teacher, only to encounter a substitute.

“But Mr. Campbell promised he’d write my teacher recommendation.”
“That’s okay, I’ll do it…how do you spell your name?”
“…”

As it turned out, it didn’t matter. The doctor had discovered a mass in Bitey’s abdomen. The cancer had spread. How could we know it was cancer? Bitey didn’t seem to be that sick. Not twenty five minutes ago he was purring up a storm. Only an x-ray could tell us definitively. “Do it,” I said. “We’d like to,” he replied, “but Bitey doesn’t have the strength to move.” An umbrella opened in my stomach. This did not sound like our cat.

They led me to the next room, where Bitey lay on a long metal table. He was getting oxygen. Not with a mask, but with a long rubber tube, something you might use to fill your tires at an Exxon station. I gently stroked his back to let him know I was there. The doctor explained the only way to strengthen him would be to hook up an IV. “Do it,” I said.

He and the technician exchanged glances. The doctor further explained the situation. I don’t remember what he said. His words were not important. What I heard behind them was this: I was being prompted. He wanted me to say it. To suggest a course of action he could not suggest himself.

I told him I had to call Jennie. They put in the IV.

I went out to the car, tried to knead my emotions into a tiny ball, and called Bitey’s one true love. She answered. I tried to speak. I couldn’t. My voice cracked. I explained the situation. There was a mass in his stomach. I told her they were giving me “the look.” She insisted they stabilize him. Keep him alive until we could decide a course of action together. Until she could say goodbye. She was calm. Her voice did not crack. I know now she was whistling through the graveyard.

I headed back inside. A nurse came to fetch me. When I returned to the metal table, Bitey was fighting, clawing at the air, a hoarse mewing coming from his throat. I turned to the doctor. Frantic. “What’s happening? Is it that thing in his stomach? Is he in pain?”

“He’s dying.”

His tone was gentle. Tactful. A math teacher explaining the answer to a problem, he knew I’d soon see was quite obvious.

The tiny ball in my stomach grew. And exploded. Full fledged crying now. I stroked Bitey’s neck. I’m not sure if he could feel it. I called Jennie. I told her it was time. I put her on speaker phone and put the receiver to his ear. She told him everything would be alright. She said good bye.

Bitey grew quieter. His essence, the intangible quality that made him who he was, was slipping away. I could feel it happening. I could do nothing about it. Ironically, in spite of all the prompting on both sides, it would ultimately be his decision. Bitey would call the shots till the end. It suited him.

I continued to stroke his neck. Jennie remained on the phone. His heart grew faint. His eyes stayed open. The technician lightly brushed a finger against his cornea. No response. He glanced at the doctor. Then I saw something that reinforced my opinion that all cliché is rooted in undeniable truth. I’d seen it before in a hundred cop shows, medical dramas, and war movies galore. He shook his head, “no.”

I don’t remember much on my way out of the hospital. I remember saying goodbye to Jennie, telling her I’d call back. I remember it rained as soon as I stepped outside and that I cried all the way home. I remember seeing the milk and tuna I’d put out not an hour and a half before. And I remember it felt as though it hadn’t actually happened. That I’d experienced an alternate ending on the Bitey DVD. The real movie was still playing. The cat who clung so fiercely to life, couldn’t have actually let go.

Bitey wants to live…

I did a lot of crying that weekend. Knowing that Jennie was home with her parents, I knew we’d experience grief in shifts. I figured it was wise to get the lion’s share of it out of the way before she got home. I tried my best.

I’m one of the last people to write a Bitey tribute in this blog. I’ve been putting it off. I’m the guy who opens his presents slowly to forestall the end of Christmas. Writing a formal goodbye would mean the end of Bitey. I wasn’t ready.

So I read as much of this blog as I could. I read every kindhearted eloquent entry. I marveled at the many people Bitey had touched. I watched the Bitey montage a hundred times. I looked inward for my own Bitey memories, for the first time since he died.

I recalled all the times he kept me in bed too long because he made it so damn warm. I dialed up my Mom and shared stories, laughed about how needy he could be and how we always ate it up. I chewed on the memory of how he brought Jennie and me closer together, pointing the way to a deeper, tougher love. I smiled at the absurdity. The fact that someone with a brain the size of a racquetball could make me believe that maybe, just maybe, I might have what it takes to be a Daddy. And every thought, every memory, every smile, led me toward a single incontrovertible truth. One that finally helped me to say goodbye…

“Bitey Lives.”

Who ARE those people?

About a month ago, I was fired after eight years of working for the same widget assembly plant. I spent most of my last days there inside, fretting and worrying. When I would have to work outside the factory, say around 11:30am or 2:15pm, I would drive down 3rd Street or Melrose Ave and see all those people sitting langourously in cafes, talking and chatting. Or I'd be rushing into the Gap to buy a shirt to replace the one I spilled widget sauce all over, and I'd see people browsing aimlessly through the racks, as if time had no meaning.

And I wondered, in my widget induced misery, who ARE those people? Why aren't THEY working?

Just the other day, I was sitting in a coffeehouse catching up with a friend. It was 3pm on a Thursday, normally the high tide of widget drama and tension, and I realized in a flash of caffeine induced clarity, that someone rushing into the store to grab a cup of joe before heading up the 101 to the horn-doogle factory, would look at me and say, who IS that person?

Aside from the obvious pluses of temporary unemployment, there's another benefit. At the widget factory I was so drained by talking to people for a living (I was involved in widget external relations), that I had no energy left at the end of the day to really get to know the bit players in my life.

Most normal people talk to the mailman, the pizza delivery guy, the receptionist at the vet. I just didn't have it in me. But today, in my grief-stricken yet mostly relaxed frame of mind, the boyfriend and I walked into a pizzeria at 11:30am and ordered two slices. We struck up a conversation with the woman behind the counter, mostly because she had a wicked Mass accent, which is one of the few things to bring out the chatty in my normally shy-to-strangers b.f.

We talked about jobs and firings, and how we all escaped to California. The topic turned to pets. The woman behind the counter told us about her two rescued pit bulls and how one ended up with plastic and string wrapped up in his tummy. Fixing this cost her $10,000 dollars. The BF and I looked at each other incredulously. Between us the look was interpreted as "oh my god, she's one of us!" She of course, thought, we were one of "those people" --the ones who say "Just put the damn dog/cat/grandmother to sleep!" Her former boss was one of those people.

In my life, they pop up where least expected. A good friend’s husband, two days after Bitey died, said, “So…your cat died, huh?” I said yes, trying to remain immune to his callous delivery. He said “So…all that money you spent was kind of stupid huh?” Now any logical person would have said, oh I don’t know, “Fuck You” or burst into tears or something to that effect. But I have learned, with “those people” to just say “Yup, pretty stupid” and move away as fast as possible. What they want more than anything in the whole world is for you to fight back, so they can tell you, with glaring superiority, why you wasted your money, and how that same amount of money could have been a down payment. Or they say, “When you have kids you’re going wish you had that money for their college.”

Now all that is undeniably true. And it’s my belief that a person with three kids, two kids or even just one kid is going to feel differently about dropping that kind of dough on a cat, no matter how beloved. They have every right to say, “I just can’t do this” and they have my sympathy and support.

But the petless person who so callously suggests that you are a retard for caring too much is forgetting the cardinal rule of friendship. My friend doesn’t have to love cats because I do; he doesn’t have to agree with spending the money. But a real friend respects the depth to which you love your cat, because at one time in their life they loved someone that much too. Or better still, they understand that the same love which drives someone like me to go broke trying to save the life of a clearly doomed cat will go to hell and back again for them, should they ever really need it.

Back at the pizza counter, the woman behind the counter started to her own defense, and we hastened to make ourselves clear, explaining that not only did we spend ten thousand dollars on our cat, with even less hope of success, but that we wrote about it, often, and in great detail.

On the bottom of our check we wrote the address for this site. On a random postcard for a real estate broker, the woman behind the counter wrote the name of a poem by John Updike. She warned us "you may not be ready for this poem." We said we were looking for things to make us cry, so that we could get it out of our system. She said, "this'll do the trick."

And that’s how a stranger behind a pizza counter gave us a greater gift of understanding than someone I’d known for almost ten years. So in life’s funny little way, becoming one of “those people”--the random shiftless unemployed kind--helped me deal with the unintentional cruelty of “those people” who would rather laugh at your shoes than walk a mile in them.

As for the poem itself, it certainly did do the trick. It reminded me with heart-piercing clarity of this moment back in the bad old days of February 2006. (And again, this is a TMI alert).

"Thursday February 23rd 230am. I awake to a gross noise and a bad smell. I find Bitey sacked out on the bathroom mat. He is covered in shit. But I am awed by the fact that he has dragged his (literally) paralyzed ass from his cage into the bathroom and made it to the litter in time. That's class. I spend an hour cleaning him up, thinking grim thoughts about his quality of life."

Updike of course, already a hero in this Red Sox obsessed, writer wanna-be family for coining the "lyric little bandbox of a ballpark” gem, says it better.


Dog's Death

She must have been kicked unseen or brushed by a car.
Too young to know much, she was beginning to learn
To use the newspapers spread on the kitchen floor
And to win, wetting there, the words, "Good dog! Good dog!"

We thought her shy malaise was a shot reaction.
The autopsy disclosed a rupture in her liver.
As we teased her with play, blood was filling her skin.
And her heart was learning to lie down forever.

Monday morning, as the children were noisily fed
And sent to school, she crawled beneath the youngest's bed.
We found her twisted and limp but still alive.
In the car to the vet's, on my lap, she tried
To bite my hand and died. I stroked her warm fur
And my wife called in a voice imperious with tears.
Though surrounded by love that would have upheld her,
Nevertheless she sank and, stiffening, disappeared.
Back home, we found that in the night her frame,
Drawing near to dissolution, had endured the shame
Of diarrhoea and had dragged across the floor
To a newspaper carelessly left there. Good dog.


Good Bitey.

Sigh-ning on

If you've noticed, many of the recent posts on this site have been from other people. For just a little while longer, I'm going to let them do my work for me. It's just been a bit hard to move beyond this wordless sorrow. Trust me, I'm not walking around the house weeping...that all happened a year ago. When I'm out and about, I'm, well, out and about; laughing, talking, working--no one who saw me would guess I was a cat lady in mourning.

At home, however, the boyfriend and I drift quietly around a house where the floors are too clean; where the cat hair we used to bemoan on our clothing and furniture are now fine white links to the past, sucked up by an indifferent vacuum. When we come home at night, after being 'out', there's no Bitey sitting on the couch, waiting.

Another friend who recently lost her beloved cat said that every once in a while out of the corner of her eye she sees Bianca, turns and sees no one there.

I have had the same thing happen to me, kind of like kitty LSD trails. Most often it turns out to be a white canvas tote bag on the couch, or a white shirt crumpled up on the ground. I don't cry when this happens, I just feel this huge emptiness. And sigh.

I am a CHAMP at sighing right now.

Ellie and Monica

Editor's Note: A young woman I have not yet met sent me a wonderful condolence letter. She is the girlfriend of a great friend of ours, but more importantly, she was for many years the loving owner of a dog named Ellie Mae.

Ellie Mae was a stray at the side of the road in South Carolina when Monica found her; a German Shepard mix, she was a "big-bellied, flea-infested bundle of joy" who came bounding over to Monica and her sister. They tried to give her away, but Monica just couldn't find a home good enough (a classic symptom of love at first sight) so they took Ellie home to New England.

Ellie loved the woods, farms and horses, but "not the beach so much." She climbed up slides at the park and barked at the kids for her turn. "Mostly, Ellie was a cuddle bug. She had to sleep with you and put a leg, her back or head somewhere on you- to be close to you." Ellie Mae went everywhere with Monica, college, vacation, and finally Los Angeles.

After they moved here, Ellie became sick, and the vets Monica saw couldn't help much. As the local expert on mysterious and costly pet illness, I shared what advice I could, although it all ultimately came down to the same decision...the one Matt and I couldn't bear to make so long ago.

Ellie passed away just a little while before Bitey, and although this cat and dog never met, they are clearly two of a kind.

Ellie Mae in the Badlands of South Dakota on a hot day















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Hi Jennie,

I am so very sorry and deeply saddened to hear about Bitey. My heart goes out to you and Matt. I know the pain and emptiness you both are feeling, but time will heal as I am learning. Please know you did more than most people would do for their pet and that Bitey was a very lucky kitty to have had such wonderful and very loving owners. You made such an impression on me and to many people with the care you gave to Bitey, he truly was a blessed cat to have you in his life.

I know it is the toughest part letting go, so take the time you need to grieve and let it out. You need to (I still do) Memories can be difficult right now, as I'm sure you are feeling that now, but they can also be comforting when focusing on the good memories - the cute moments with him and him sleeping on your head or giving you that sweet face. Seamus told me he would only do that to those people he felt close to and it happened to him a few times. He said how soft Bitey was and told me about his long pretty fur. I wish I met him and am so sorry that I didn't. I struggle with memories and everyday it's something different. I know it's not easy because you go through the "I would have, should have and could of's"...it's awful, but time will help get you through that and believe you did everything you could and even beyond that.

I still cry and get angry at myself and the vets, but nature takes its course and we sometimes just don't have any control. It a horrible reality that I wish had more flexibility to it.

What calms me, is that I know Ellie knew how much I loved her and I knew how much she loved me and losing them doesn't take it away - of course you want more time with them or their health back(believe me I wish for that still), but..unfortunately that isn't an option. I wish I could have taken the pain away and made her healthy...I said to Seamus so many times how its just so unfair.

Remember the good about him , his personality and how he was to you and Matt. Cherish that special relationship and all the loving memories you have and will have forever. Believe he is in a better place and not suffering - I am trying to do that with Ellie.

At some point I know I will have another dog. I know I will love them and give a good home, as I hope you do with another cat. There are so many animals that aren't as lucky, like Bitey and Ellie and need people like us. Of course when we're ready...and that takes time.

I don't think I'll ever stop missing her and wanting her with me. She was such a huge part of my life and I learned so much from her, yes, a dog, but it's true as I'm sure you can say the same about Bitey.

I understand there are no words that are perfect to say or write in times like these,
but just know that people care and are thinking of you with hope, love, peace and comfort. My thoughts and prayers are with you both.

Love, Monica

Mom's thoughts...

In the past year my daughter and I both lost our jobs, we both lost a significant person in our lives as a result of long hidden agendas and we both lost Bitey.

In my lifetime I have adopted and cared for 10 cats and two dogs, mostly one at a time. When Bitey wandered into J’s front yard, abandoned, starving and flea ridden, she took him in. It was the best thing that could have happened to all of us. The stories started coming east hinting at his intelligence, his quiet playfulness and a very loving nature. On my first visit, I observed it in living color, and realized that we had all been given a wonderful gift. The prognosis for a long life was not good, but it tended to make us a bit more appreciative of his considerable charm.

Bitey, the big one, was an extraordinary cat. He had an amazing sense of dignity, an incredible presence. In a word, he was very Zen. He understood the connections in Human behavior – you love me, I will love you. Bitey could communicate his feelings the way a skilled actor can send strong messages with a pause, or a lift of the eyebrow. We all fell under his spell. If you sat on the couch reading, he would park on the big cushion close to you, lay his head down on his paws, turn on the purr and let you know that he liked you being there. Once when I hadn’t visited for a year, he walked right up and rubbed my leg; that bespeaks a powerful memory. A bit later as we sat down to eat, he hopped up on the table, lay his head on my arm and tried to look as unobtrusive as a sixteen pound white cat could look on the dining room table.

Bitey observed the patterns of human life. When a pocket alarm would go off in J’s bag, he would pounce on it to still the mechanical “mouse”. He ran to the phone when it rang. He observed the world from roof tops, from under the bougainvillea and from the top shelf of my closet; he always carved out a distinct niche. I never go into that closet without remembering his mysterioso face peeking out at me.

Bitey was John Barrymore reborn. He could strike amazingly languorous poses, and then look you dead in the eye and send the message, “Pretty good, huh?”. If the paradigm of reincarnation has any truth, I sure would like to meet the person Bitey has become.

I don’t think I have used the descriptive “Zen” injudiciously. You ask a question of a teacher and they look back at you kindly and say nothing. You get the message…
the answer is within you, you just have to find the path. Bitey caught your attention with his bulk, his whiteness, and his sweet face; that began a dialogue. Many cultures, religions and humans use icons. Statues of the Virgin, of Buddha, the shape of Mount Rainier, all are finite bodies; we use them as the focus of our contemplations, desires, enlightenment, dependence. Bitey was no Buddha but he sure invited thought. Have you ever watched a family circle watching the antics of a toddler? They see the future in that child, they fantasize about who she might become. Did I read a lot into Bitey’s being, perhaps fantasize that he might be thinking this or that? Sure, but I did a lot of hard thinking and feeling just looking at that mirror; it was a mirror of his soul and of mine. Trust is in terribly short supply these days; it was easy with him.

When cancer began its fatal advance, his dignity stood him in good stead. When he lost mobility, he compensated and eventually accomplished a lot of the things that clearly made him happy, snoozing under the bougainvillea, sunbathing, and crawling under the covers with his two favorite human beings. He grew stronger and could push open the back door with the power of his shoulders and make it to the mud puddles in the yard.

Was the huge expense that J and the boyfriend incurred keeping him alive and happy all those months justified? That is for you to determine within your own value system. Do we limit medical heroics to our babies or our grannies? You do what your heart tells you to do and that was what was done. My first visit following Bitey’s megatherapies was an eye opener – the spark was there, I couldn’t have put him down either.

Bitey’s life was short but he left us all with a lifetime of memories. He was a gift to all of us.

Spirit

(Editor's Note: Bitey's Auntie Kate sent her beautifully written Bitey thoughts which I am happy to be able to post...)

SPIRIT: excellent disposition or attitude in terms of vigor, courage, firmness of intent, etc.;

There are many different ways people use the word “spirit”:


Wear your jammies to school to show your school spirit!

We’re going to have to move… The house was built on an ancient Indian burial ground. We’re upsetting the spirits.

I invited my lady friend up to my apartment for a cigarette and perhaps some spirits.


Then there’s spiritual, which I don’t even want to get into-


We went on a yoga retreat in the woods. It was so spiritual.



Most people don’t use this word correctly, in it’s most absolute sense. Spirit is the intangible quality so commonly undetected. It’s what sets us apart- it’s what makes us get up from the ground and brush ourselves off. It’s what keeps us going forward- vowing to spit in the faces of those who insist we bring back blue eyeshadow and stirrup pants. Spirit is what makes us keeping pushing, even through a grim prognosis. It’s what drives us to run, even when our legs have given up on us.



In this case specifically, I’m referring to hind legs- of a cat. Not just any cat- Bitey, Bitey Boo, Cousin Bitey, Bitey the Cat Who Really Should’ve Been a Dog. Bitey the Cat, who I wish I could’ve hung out with.



A few years back, I recall my reaction when Matt spoke of Bitey. As a dog owner, I couldn’t understand how one could actually observe such behavior in a cat. A cat who comes running when he hears the unmistakeable sound of a cat food can being cracked open? A cat that likes to drink from the spigot in the bathtub? A cat that begs for scraps? A cat that bats your head gently when he has to pee? My brother loving a cat? Could it be?



Bitey was all those things and more. Sadly, I never met him. Something I regret.



When Bitey got what Forrest Gump would call “the kit-ty cancer”, my heart went out to Matt and Jennie. As a pet parent, I winced when I heard of the lengthy procedures Bitey had to endure to sustain a somewhat normal life. Every day I read the Bitey Blog, filling in my boyfriend and co-workers of his progress.



I laughed when I pictured Jennie or Matt holding his back legs and letting him run on his front legs, kind of like a kitty-version of a wheelbarrow. I cried when I imagined Jennie and Bitey at the beach, taking in the vast expanse that is the Pacific Ocean. And ultimately, I sobbed when I heard that Bitey had passed.



Knowing what I know about my brother and my “girlfriend-in-law”, I know that Bitey had a great life and was loved very much. He never stopped fighting. He didn’t want to give up. He wanted to squeeze every sunny day out of life before he couldn’t live it anymore.



I know Bitey is in kitty heaven, walking on his hind legs only- Puss In Boots style.



To Bitey… spirit unbroken.

The Bitey Montage

A brief word about this montage...in 2004, as you may or may not recall, The Boston Red Sox won the World Series. The night of the clincher, Game 4 in St. Louis, Fox Sports aired a montage of great red sox moments to the tune of Five for Fighting's '100 years.' It was a great montage (shout out to the anonymous fox sports producer and editor) and my boyfriend, stuck in New York, watched it over, and over, and over, and over (and I could go on) again. In fact it was something along the lines of a major incident when Game 4, not properly protected, disappeared from our TIVO at home. This made the boyfriend, still in New York, watch it MORE, knowing that when he came home, he'd never see it again.

I tried to find the montage. It wasn't on any of the 6,533,221 commemorative Red Sox videos. I tried to think if I knew anyone at Fox (not well enough to ask them to commit piracy). For one brief shining moment in late 2006 it was posted on YouTube, and we watched it happily, over and over, until the MLB stormtroopers pulled the plug.

So when Bitey died, I knew we need our own montage. To watch again, and again and again. To let us feel all over again like we did in those shining days when we were all young and the Boston Red Sox were champions of the world.

(Is it opening day YET?)

January 17th, 2007

It's been a long time since I've posted on this site...

My cat Bitey got very sick at the end of February 2006. His back legs gave out, and after multiple trips to multiple vets, it was determined that he had a tumor inside of his spine. My beloved cat was given four months to live.

Bitey could no longer walk on his back legs. He dragged himself around using his front paws. He could no longer urinate on his own. I learned, and then taught my boyfriend how to express his bladder.

He was, despite his handicap, still very happy. He endured long trip to the vet for kitty chemo, the indignity of assisted peeing, and the pitying stares of the other neighborhood kitties.

We endured took on the bill for Bitey's care...which cracked 10,000 dollars, 5,400 of which I still have sitting on a no-interest credit card.

Four months came and went. And still Bitey was chugging along, pulling himself across the floor, thunking himself down the steps into the garden, lying in the sun, chasing bugs with his eyes, if not with his whole body.

Four more months came and went. We stopped kitty chemo, realizing it was bankrupting us without demonstrable effect. We learned to run Bitey around the yard holding his tail in our hands so he could run fast on his freakishly strong front two legs. We all slept in the bed together, Bitey snuggled under the blankets, burrowing deeper into the space between his two parents.

Life became normal, to the point where Bitey updates ceased to be necessary. There was a sense of routine: Wakeup, help Bitey off the bed. Feed him, express him, put him in the bathtub so he could drink from the faucet. He would go outside to our yard, or in colder weather we would put him up on the couch.

When the gardener's came with their blowers on Thursdays, he demonstrated just how fast a paraplegic kitty could run for shelter under the bed.

Occasionally he would get out the front door, and we would find that he had dragged himself all the way to the neighbors front yard, as if to prove he could still do it.

A few months ago, his lower half started to show signs of life. His legs twitched, his tail swished, and his bladder started to contract on its own will. Signs of hope.

One month ago, I was fired from my job as a television associate producer. I immediately got freelance work that took me away from Bitey and boyfriend for ten days, first to Portland, OR then to New York, NY. While I didn't relish all the time away from my cat, I knew it was important to make money. (Still had that bitey bill to consider). Yesterday, while sitting in my dad's apartment, doing expenses for the recently completed freelance gig, my boyfriend called...Bitey was hyperventilating, and they were en route to the vet.

Less than an hour later, Bitey was gone. I said goodbye via speakerphone...my boyfriend stroked Bitey's head as he died. Now I am in New York, my boyfriend is alone in an empty house, and Bitey is gone...where? I'm not sure, but I know he's leaping in the air to bat at the bugs, leaping up on the counter to get food, and rocketing through the neighborhood as fast as his four good legs can carry him.

For those of us left behind, we are in shock. I remember now that the doctors told us it would be sudden...but we were lulled into an optimistic complacency by that slow swishing tail. Having come to terms with Bitey's mortality a year ago, my sorrow is deep and exhausting, but peaceful--a sadness of sighs, not sobs. Although a part of me is missing, Bitey is whole again, and that's what really matters.

We will host a little memorial...we will give thanks and say goodbye.