My partner and I celebrated our seventh anniversary this month, but neither of us really approve of Hallmark Holidays and we didn't make a big deal out of it. I had papers to grade anyway, and Eric was doing work from the computer in his home office as well. I only mention it today because of another anniversary connected to the first that became sadly salient yesterday afternoon.
Eric and I moved into the little Rockridge bungalow where we still live today after we'd been together for a year, and that move was the occasion for a different unholy union (apart from our own, I mean). Each of us had chosen to care for a feral cat from the SFSPCA as a companion. Eric had chosen Sasha seven years before we met and by the time I entered the picture they were an incredibly tight-knit little family.
I say that Eric chose Sasha, but the story is that Sasha chose Eric, pretty much leaping into his arms unbidden with his motor running like mad the moment he set eyes on Eric, and this after exhibiting indifference to hostility to pretty much everybody else who had given him a glance up to that point. Sasha never veered from that assessment of Eric a day of his life. I have never seen such monomaniacal devotion from a cat in my life, it was incredibly sweet and a little bonkers.
I chose my own feral disaster area, Sarah, after Eric and I met. At that point I had been mourning the loss of my companion Rodent (the awful name has a dumb story attached to it that we can skip), who had been a kitten in the last litter of a family cat from childhood (Grasshopper, daughter of Cleo), and who had lived with me the whole decade I lived in Atlanta, lived with me there through well over a dozen moves and who knows how many friends and boyfriends and so on during the times of my adventuring, moving with my partner of the time Jules (still very good friends, he's living in Switzerland now) from Georgia to California when the time came for grad school at Berkeley. It's amazing what banisters our animals are as we climb the steep stairs.
Rodent died cuddled next to me while I slept Christmas Eve, 2001, in the big apartment overlooking Dolores Park in the City I rented at the time with two friends, both of whom were home for the holidays thus leaving me alone in that echoing warehouse of a place at the worst possible time. I always regretted very much that Eric never had the chance to meet Rodent, and I also regretted that Eric's Sasha -- who had a perfect, uncanny physical resemblance to my desperately missed Rodent -- wanted nothing to do with me at all.
As I said, Eric and Sasha were a pretty tight-knit unit of many years when I entered the scene. Eric's a rather solitary person, like I am, and Sasha was not at all used to intrusions. Early on, when I would come to Eric's place Sasha would leap to the top of his ratty, ragged, ill-smelling green-carpet tower and stare at me with unblinking fixity for hours with the most predatory stare imaginable. My territorial incursions were not appreciated. My alien smell was anathema. My efforts at cooing and friendly pats were impertinences beyond bearing.
When Eric and I found our bungalow for rent through a friend, the place was so charming, the street so sweet, the price so right we just made the leap, and it felt like one -- not only because we both have fairly cautious natures and hadn't been together for that long, really, but also because we simply couldn't imagine what it would be like to weave our two crazy-cat families into a crazy-quilt that wouldn't be in tatters within days.
Our Sarah is a plump owl-eyed girl with a Hitler mustache, but she is far from as intimidating as that sounds. She has a bird in her head where her brain should be, for one thing. Leaves tracked in from outside are well-matched antagonists for her ferocity. Her battle hisses and trills are so adorable, Eric and I sometimes try to provoke her to irritation just because she makes such a cute spectacle of herself when she is enraged. Like Sasha, she was plucked up by the SFSPCA from Golden Gate Park, her mother and brothers and sisters all dead, and she nearly the same. When I brought her home, Sarah still had a terrific gash in her neck from some bird of prey trying to make lunchmeat of her. For the first years of her life she was completely skittish and spastic. And Sasha, as I have said, was a grumpy, jealous, and obsessively territorial beast.
To put it plainly, Eric and I were scared to death to introduce them. It was possibly the most flabbergasting thing I ever saw when Sasha, upon meeting Sarah in our new home, confounded every expectation and scenario we had spun, and was instead instantly cowed into submission by our little girl, giving ground to her in everything she asked for days and days.
For Sasha, Sarah was some deus ex machina. For Sarah, Sasha was at most a mild amusement. I'm not entirely sure that she grasped the fact that we had moved into a new home at all, rather than simply moving through a locked door in the old place to a new wing. Sarah's extreme blank stupidity makes her the most unflappable and stoical creature within miles. When Eric and I were playing the game of choosing who would play each of us in the movie version of our lives, we chose for Sarah a bag of mixed dried beans.
Within a few weeks, Sasha had rectified the initial power imbalance between them, and had come to an accommodation with me (especially since Eric and I decided I would be the sole food-slave to get in his good graces). We sometimes had the feeling that however devoted the cats remained to us, they represented for one another the only real people in the house. We humans were pawns selectively deployed in elaborate politics we could scarcely understand. The territories they had staked out between them were palpably demarcated, mutually respected, but seemed to include contested zones for which they would skirmish through scent-marking rituals that they would impose on table and chair legs and on doorways and so on literally for hours and hours on end, patiently roving through the rooms, doing their grim work and undoing the work of the other, day after day. Sarah and Sasha were incredibly real for one another, and they were very contented in their surreal shared cat world. At night, after we had gone to bed, they would call to one another and you could hear them chasing each other downstairs, galloping on their cat-feet, playing like lunatics.
It really is a hard thing to try to convey what a sweet and charming cat Sasha was. He showed these aspects of himself to so few. With strangers he was standoffish at best, slinking off to hide under a bed when guests were here, and greeting them with what was almost inevitably called a "banshee howl" or "Nazgul shriek" once he grew impatient that they had lingered too long in his home. You may laugh, but words cannot convey the truly unearthly uncanny sound he could emit when he was unhappy. That jagged nails across a thousand chalkboards iceberg tearing into the steel of the Titanic deranged dinosaur menacing some distant lemur ancestor sound would make every hair on your body prick at its pore like an ice-cold electrocution.
Sasha scared everybody, animal, vegetable, mineral. Cat lovers were especially offended at Sasha's indifference to their earnest ministrations and aggression at their attendance -- it felt like a personal failing to be found wanting by Sasha, and everybody but Eric was found wanting. I am not exaggerating when I say that I personally felt less accomplished in the award of my Ph.D. (well, face it, having Arnold Schwarzenegger's signature on your diploma makes it feel a bit like a novelty item, like a whoopee cushion or something) than I did after a half decade of what psychologist Carl Rogers would call the offer of "unconditional positive regard" that Sasha grew to love me and let me in to the charmed circle of his care, second only to Eric. Those last couple of years Sasha would let me pick him up in my arms and would purr and nuzzle my nose and deign to let his forehead be kissed. These were scenes unavailable to the wider world, precious beyond description.
Like many feral cats, especially male ones, Sasha was plagued all his life through with medical problems, especially digestive issues. He was never an easy cat to care for. He had periodic crises, and then manic bouts of pure punk behavior in the recuperative aftermath. He had been eating less than usual for weeks and walking a bit stiffly lately. He was as bright eyed and spunky and affectionate as ever with us, and we would give his fur a rueful brush and joke that he was getting to be an old man.
While I was away teaching on Tuesday, a sudden crisis sent him in his kitty carrier to the pet hospital down the street. We spent an anxious couple of days playing phone tag and hearing that the good doctors were struggling to stabilize him enough in the first place to administer the tests to determine what was happening with him. Thursday I lectured on formal logic while the minute hand of the clock tapped toward the number which I knew would trigger Eric's call to determine whether or not Sasha should be put to sleep to end his pain and fear in some strange place among strangers.
I hadn't had a chance to say goodbye and had scarcely been able to focus on anything for days. Actually, the news seemed better than we expected and we were able to bring Sasha home with some antibiotics. Friday night he collapsed again. We were told he was suffering from pancreatitis. He spent a night sleeping with Eric all to himself in the guest room downstairs, to his utter delight. He had a last long day at the home he had loved for half his life, cozied up to his favorite heating grate behind the living room chair while we scratched his head for hours.
He was a terrible mess, though, unable to eat and stiff with pain, but just as sweet faced and bright brained as ever. The doctors declared him beyond healing and to be suffering in a way that would only get worse the longer it went on, and we put him to sleep in a blinding white room with an evil needle to a shaved patch of skin on his back leg. I held his soft little paw pad and rubbed his chin and he was sweet as an angel when he vanished from the world, his clear eyes wide and kind for me the whole time. I hope my finger on his chin smelled like home.
Nobody can know like Eric does, and like I do, what we have lost in losing Sasha, what we miss without our grumpy, sociopathic, sweet little punk man around anymore. This is dedicated to him.