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.”
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.”
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