On The Road to Enlightenment

About four years ago I moved to San Diego. Lisa and I packed up a huge truck with everything we owned and drove over here from Sarasota, Florida. We swiftly found a lovely little rental house, complete with a variety of trees, a garden hungry for seeds, and several small animals, mostly cats, who utilized our yard as their community playground and prize-fight arena. Other than separate the brawling felines with a streaming blast of cold water from the garden hose, I left them alone, talked to and petted them, left out water for them to drink.

I learned a few of their names. Roger, Thai, Peepers, and Waimea. There were several whose name I didn't know: the fierce black one, the Japanese bobtail, the playful teenage kitty, and many others who came and went.

Waimea lived in the house in front of ours, with a pair of poodles and a human couple. Waimea was old, the lady told me, pushing 20. A fluffy little white Persian who walked slow but seemed to know where she was going. I used to see her on the sidewalk between our houses when I came home from work, sunning herself, and I'd always stop and pet her and ask her how she was doing. One day Waimea got up and followed me to our house, sat in front of the stoop and stared at the door when I went inside. I went to the fridge and retrieved a tidbit, returned to the front door and said, "Waimea, if you walk up the steps I'll give you a snack." Up the steps she came, and I made a friend for life.

After that, Waimea followed me to my house every day, walked up the steps, and patiently looked through the front door. Before I knew it, I was buying cat food for her. I looked forward to seeing her every day. If she wasn't on the sidewalk, she'd be in the neighbor's yard, and I'd call her name to let her know I'd come home.

Waimea started coming over on weekends, sat on the stoop. Lisa would say out of the side of her mouth, "Guess who's at the door again?" One day I opened the door and invited her in, feeling guilty, as she wasn't my cat (nor anyone's really, for who can own a cat?). But what the heck? I liked her. We set up a bowl for her in the kitchen so she could eat comfortably, and I let her sit on my lap for a while before sending her home.

One day she appeared with a bad scratch over her eye (I think it was the black cat who beat her up, but I'm not sure). In a couple of days, her head became swollen and it looked pretty bad. Lisa and I took her to the vet, got her a shot and some vitamins, and took her home. We smuggled her into my car, as we didn't want the neighbors to think we were usurping their duties by taking over Waimea's healthcare.

After bringing her home, we had a chat with the neighbors, a lovely Hawaiian woman named Leina Alla and her husband Chuck. If Waimea wanted to hang around with us, it was okay with them, for in the years they had Waimea they learned a couple of facts about her: she did whatever she damn well pleased and she didn't like the poodles. I don't know what twenty is in kitty years, but I think that if you get that old you should call the shots. Lisa and I were elated.

Leina Alla told us her history. Waimea was a purebred Persian whose original "owner" had abandoned her. She lived under a porch for three months before the neighbor, Kelly, could coax her into her house. Kelly had two other cats, but Waimea swiftly took over in the kitty hierarchy. The other cats had to wait for her to eat before they could have any food. She found the most comfortable place to nap and took over that spot. She commandeered the best spot for sunshine beaming through the window.

Kelly had to move to Hawaii, so she asked Leina Alla to look after Waimea. No problem; Leina Alla didn't mind. Waimea fit in their household easily, putting the poodles in their place and finding the best places to nap. Then Lisa and I moved next door, so she adopted us.

In the three years Waimea lived with us, we became very close. It seemed that the hairy little creature warmed my lap my every sitting moment. I didn't mind, but try balancing a cat in your lap while you are eating oatmeal and reading the morning paper. Trying to read the sports while Waimea tried to poke her face in my food. "It's the same thing as yesterday, Waimea: oatmeal. You don't like it. You don't like the green tea, either." It didn't matter; Waimea wanted to see what was in the bowl, probably on the off chance that one morning I might change my diet and decide to eat Tender Vittles or Friskies Ocean Catch for Senior Cats. You never know.

One night as I sat in bed watching TV and writing, Waimea appeared at my bedroom door. She looked at me and I could tell she wanted to get in bed with me. I also intuited that she was afraid I would say no. I picked her up and put her in my bed, and Waimea slept with me for the rest of her life, every night.

Lord I loved that cat. I fed her in the morning, putting her food in her dish (with the proper vitamins mixed in) and although she stood right beside the bowl, I would pick her up and place her in front of her food. Then and only then would she chow down. She liked that, me placing her in front of the food. She would eat a few bites, come into the living room and bug me until I got up from my chair, carried her into the kitchen and set her down in front of her bowl again. I'd have to do that two or three times until she got full. Then the lap, the oatmeal, the sports page, etc.

In her wisdom of twenty-some years, Waimea somehow made the connection that seeing as how us Tall Ones used the bathroom, that's where she should go also. Hoping to impress us with her intelligence, every now and then Waimea would leave a deposit for us if we didn't secure the bathroom door. I can't tell you how stunning this can be when you wake up in the morning and go in to brush your teeth, realizing that the air freshener just wasn't cutting it. It can be a real eye opener.

This summer Waimea began getting skinny, and I could feel her bones through her fur. As she lost her subcutaneous layer of fat, little by little, I agonized over what to do. I knew she was on her last legs, but she wasn't bad off. She could walk, although slowly and stiffly, and her appetite was good. I made up my mind that I would carry her around, from bed to food to cat box, until she faded away.

I carried her around the house all the time, and she enjoyed that. Waimea followed me when I wasn't carrying her, wanted to go outside with me, to work or wherever. As soon as I hit the door upon return from work, Waimea would come to me as I went to her so we could hug. Although it was summer, I plugged in the portable heater (Mr. Heaty, as Lisa named it) because I knew it felt good on Waimea's old bones. She was often in my dreams, many a dream, hanging out with me, running alongside sometimes, sometimes just sitting and watching my dream adventures.

I should have known her time was close when Lisa saw her brother's spirit in the house. Lisa is a psychic, tried and true, and a communicator with all animals. I've never had any doubts about Lisa's ability, and she chooses not to make a living by utilizing her psychic tools. Her spiritual path is paramount. Lisa talked with Waimea on occasion, to see how she was doing. She gleaned that Waimea saw herself as a queen of the cats (true) and Waimea would tell her if she was hungry (always) or if she saw something pretty that day. Waimea often asked Lisa where I was whenever I was away.

Anyway, Lisa saw the sibling spirit again. Waimea's brother was coming for her, but I didn't really catch on. One day not long ago, as I drove home from work, rooting my way through the Friday rush hour traffic, I thought of my beloved cat and struggled over what to do about her by now rapidly deteriorating health. I might have to rethink this 'carrying her around until she passed' idea. But it was taken out of my hands.

I walked into the house and found Lisa crying in the kitchen, and I knew. Hoping for a reprieve, I stupidly asked Lisa what was wrong, and she gave me the answer I didn't want to hear: Waimea had died.

To say I was sad would be a gross understatement. Sad, angry; I went though it all, over and over and over. I hid in the bathroom and cried, and cried that night in my room in the dark.

We took Waimea's body to the pet cemetery to have her cremated, and I will bury her ashes in a sunny spot in the garden. I know just the location, a place with extra dirt where Waimea loved to work on her tan and meditate.

Lisa has connected with her and her brother on the other side, and Waimea is so happy to be able to run and jump and play with her brother and sisters again. I'm happy for her too. She made it to the very last day of summer, then she went away, age 22.

At the time of this writing there are horrible events afoot in the world. There is terror and blood and weapons, but we won't go there. Everyone has an opinion, and I'll keep mine to myself for now, this is not an article about fear and hatred, but about love.

I have never had a creature love me so much. I have never loved a pet as much as I loved that cat. She used to purr and lick my hands and nuzzle my face. She taught me balance, for she was always the same, even keeled, certain of her position in history, I imagine. Certain of her status in our household, for there is no doubt that she was in charge of the Tall Ones, although we did not jump quick enough to feed her. Some things a cat just has to put up with, I reckon.

In my meditations I have asked Waimea to greet me when it is my turn to come over to the other side. That would be perfect, and I would be honored. The Queen of the Kitties doesn't come for just anyone.

I tell you to be kind to your pets, to all animals, for they love unconditionally and they want love also. They usually want nothing more than recognition and a kind word from a human. They know we are the alpha species, and it makes them feel good to be petted and spoken to politely. The next time you take a bite of a hamburger, know that meat came from something that had intelligence at one time. Something that knew love.

Think about your animals today, please. Give them an extra hug, an extra smile and a pat on the head, a kind word. You never know when, in love, they will leave a present for you on the bathroom floor. Just to show you how smart they are, you know?

R.I.P. Waimea, 1979-2001. The cat who loved me and opened my heart.

Robert J. Jacobs, September 24, 2001.

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Rob Jacobs grew up in the Eastern hills of Kentucky, in a town called Louisa, population 2000. He has also lived in Ohio, West Virginia, Oklahoma, North Carolina, and Florida, where he stayed for 15 years, working in the boat building business and teaching karate at China Hand of Sarasota.

Rob quit the boat business in 1995 and entered massage therapy school,receiving his state license and national certification in early 1996. In late 1997, he moved to San Diego, California with his room mate Lisa. Rob and Lisa share a little house set back from the main street, surrounded by trees and flowers. It is here that Rob contemplates the neighborhood wildlife (including the many cats that wander through their yard all day, and the skunk that resides beneath their neighbor's house) as he ponders and pens his entertaining stories.

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