My Big Bear

Nine years ago, I was standing in my kitchen looking out the window that overlooked our deck and pond area. It was very early in the morning, barely daylight. Then I heard a wee mewing sound, at first so weak I didn’t think it was real. I waited, holding my breath a little to see if I might hear it again, or if my imagination was taking me away. Moments passed and another plaintive mewing…this time I knew it was real. I hurried to the patio doors and there she was, the cutest kitten I’d seen in a very long time. She was only about six weeks old; and I knew, given her size, she shouldn’t have been away from her mommy this soon.

When she saw me as I opened the slider, she was at first in shock, and then quickly scittered to a place she could get under the deck. The little devil wouldn’t come out for love nor money, or any amount of “kitty-kitty” coaxing. I had to resort to a raid on the refrigerator for some of Kiwi’s “store bought” cat food. I didn’t think she’d mind that much. Returning to the deck, and on my knees, I scooched the little morsels of food as far toward this baby as I could. Finally, although struggling to overcome her fear, the wee one moved toward the food. I eased it back just a little to coax her closer and she made another step or two toward the food and I let her have just a little taste this time, to encourage her further. Now that she had a taste, her ravenous little tummy took over, and I moved the dish even closer. With her focus entirely on the food, it was relatively easy to bring her close enough to get my hands on her and bring out from under the deck. Once in the open, I cuddled her to my chest and carried her and the food into the house.

No one in my family had awakened yet, so I spent the next hour gently cuddling and feeding this little waif that had suddenly come into my life. Knowing my husband as I did, I knew I would have to come up with a fairly convincing story in order to get him to agree to yet another cat in our house. He had never been a cat lover and only after thirteen years of piteous begging, bartering, and finally absolving him of all future Mother’s Day and Birthday gifts did I finally get him to concede and let me have a kitten, Kiwi. Now here I was, some ten years later, conjuring up another great reason for him to let me keep this new, tiny baby. It would be a hard sell for sure.

It goes without saying that I succeeded. He did, however; make clear that I needed to send her to the first available home I could find. Over the next six months, he continued to insist that I find a home for her…I even named her Trash Can because it seemed all he wanted to do was throw her away.

Of course, as nature often does, a perfectly good reason came, to buy me a little time, before I had to seriously find my little Trash Can a new home. I was petting her and playing with her and realized, she had a very enlarged tummy and her little titties were certainly filling with milk. I was ecstatic and anxiety stricken at once. Now how would I convince him that I had to keep her, at least long enough for the babies to come and grow big enough to wean? I kept quiet for a while, and then when it was inevitable, I confessed that we were about to have new babies in our house. After he had sufficiently blown off steam, I let him know that as soon as they were big enough, I would certainly find good homes for them all.

Finally, the day we’d been waiting for…I and Trash Can, came. She was wandering around the house crying and obviously trying to find the best place she could to bring this brood into the world. I left her alone, aside from an occasional stroke of her fur, to locate her “place” for herself. After some time, it seemed she would never find “just the right” place, and I put her into my lap to try to comfort and encourage her. While we were sitting in the chair, she continued to fidget and mew. Suddenly, I realized she was not only in labor but was going to have her babies right in my lap. I tacitly agreed, and mid-wifed her through the birth of four tiny little fur balls of life.

This is where the real story of My Big Bear begins…he was Trash Can’s first born and was so large that I couldn’t imagine how she could have even carried him this long, let alone give birth to him and survive to have three more after him. He was twice the size of his brothers and sister, had very long fur, which was opposite of his shorthaired siblings. The only thing about them that was similar was that they were all jet black, like the Ace of Spades. Trash Can glowed with pride and was the most loving, doting little mommy any little black fur ball could have asked for. Maybe she remembered her own loss, too early on, and determined that her babies were not ever going to have to experience the same thing.

I made a great bed for Trash Can and her babies, which initially, she seemed grateful for; but over the next few days, Trash Can would disappear with her tiny charges only to be discovered under a bed or in a closet away from my site and supervision. I would gently move them back to the bed I’d made for her and she would wait for me to turn my back and move them yet again. Finally, when I found her in the bottom of my closet, glaring at me and almost daring me to move them back, I gave in and told her, “Okay, Trash Can, you know best. If you think my closet is safer for the babies, you’re welcome to it!”

Soon the kittens’ eyes began to open and began leaving the nest she’d made to explore their world on their own. Usually, when she would go out to eat or take care of business, I would see these little munchkins tottering out into the hallway, unsteady but determined, with their little fuzzy toothpick tails straight in the air acting as rudders in their attempts of world travel. Trash Can would see them out and utter a “mommy” sound of frustration, take them in her mouth at the scruff of their neck and drag them back to their home, chastising them all the way. My Big Bear was the worst for this little game…he would hear my voice and down the hall he would come running. As he got older, the less control Trash Can had over him. It was obvious to us both that he had picked me as his buddy and would have no part of being a scaredy-cat.

His name was Bear, almost from the moment of birth, because he looked just like a tiny bear cub. Little fat ears, chunky compact body, and black. He was the light of my life then, and to the very day I lost him to death.

When the babies were old enough, Trash Can began to wean them herself, and I knew it was time to start looking for homes. I managed to find good homes for her and all three of Bear’s litter-mates, but I just couldn’t let myself even look for a home for Bear. He already had a home; he’d picked me from birth and we both knew the arrangement wasn’t going to change. Although my husband wasn’t thrilled over his change of fortune, he instinctively knew that it was a battle he would not win and so acquiesced. Bear was home to stay!

When Bear was nine months old, I took him into the vet for boosters, and a general check-up. I knew he was a large cat for his age, but when she reported that he weighed in at thirteen pounds, I realized that his name was going to be more accurate than I’d thought. I don’t know what he weighed when he died, but I do know it had to be around twenty pounds, because his favorite place to sleep was right in the middle of me. When I say “middle,” I mean from mid-thigh to just under my chin. Truly, the middle of my body.

Over the years, we developed our own special language. When I couldn’t find him, I would make a low chortle sound in my throat and if he were within hearing distance, he would chortle back to me letting me know that he wasn’t far away and would come to me with a question in his eyes. Occasionally, when I wasn’t being responsible and would forget his treat (he loved just a tablespoon of “store-bought” wet food); he would patiently sit in the kitchen near the refrigerator waiting and watching me as I went about my chores. After a period of time, that he determined was long enough, he would reach out with that great big paw and slap me on the leg and yell at me in a very irritated tone of voice. It always made me laugh and would instantly bring me to my senses immediately attending to the “treat” situation.

In June 1999, I had a horse wreck that hospitalized me with seven broken ribs, a punctured lung, and lacerated kidney. When I got home three days later from the hospital, I expected Bear to be upset with me and ignore me for a while as he usually did when I was gone for any length of time. This time was different; he knew somehow that “mom” was hurt. Since I couldn’t get around well, my husband set up our big chair and hassock with pillows, blankets, and remote control within easy reach. He helped me get situated in my “hospital” bed and then went to work. Bear watched all the activity and then when he’d gone, promptly jumped into my lap, purred and chortled to me, then laid down in the valley between my propped up legs, stretching from my ankles right up to my belly, where I could pet his head and watch his loving eyes soothing my pain. He wouldn’t leave me until my husband came home for lunch or at the end of the day, when he was home for the evening. This was our ritual for the next six weeks while I healed up from my injuries. When someone else was around to help and care for me, Bear would quietly disappear, but if I was alone, he was in my lap or leg-lap as it were.

Bear gave me joy, nurturing, unconditional love, respect, dignity, and more true friendship than I’ve ever gained from human relationships. It was as if we were telepathic. Even Kiwi and I didn’t have this close of a relationship, although I loved her dearly and mourned her loss exquisitely when she died.

In July 2002, I had another horse wreck. This time I drove the end of my leg bone through my hip joint breaking it in five places, and breaking my pelvis in two places. Surgical repair required the doctor to actually sever my leg below the hip, installing two plates, thirty pins, and a couple “lag-bolts” to hold my femur back together while it grew back together. This time would take eight weeks before I could walk on crutches. Once again, Bear took up his post and nursed me throughout my recovery. Over the following three years I not only didn’t recover well but developed avascular necrosis in the end of my leg, which eventually began to die and collapse. I was on crutches and unable to work for over eighteen months before I finally had a total hip replacement in August of 2004. Over this time period, I had many, many very bad days and nights. Sometimes I had extraordinary pain and would sit in the recliner and cry for hours during the dark hours before morning. My Big Bear was there for me throughout every moment and every hour of distress and despair. Offering all that he could give me through his golden eyes and big cuddly body. I will forever be grateful to him for honoring me with his presence in my life. Somehow, he knew he needed to be there for me these last nine years. How am I ever going to manage without him?

This morning about 5:30, I let my dog, Beanie, out as I habitually do every morning. As I held the door open, I noticed a large, black “something” lying in the middle of the street just a short way down from our house. My heart flew into my throat and I instinctively knew before I even got out the door that My Big Bear was gone from me. In pajamas and bare feet I ran toward him, hoping and praying against all odds that it wouldn’t be my Bear. Of course, when I got to him it was in fact my Bear. I dropped to my knees and from somewhere deep in my soul a scream of pain, grief, and despair fought it’s way out of my tightly constricted throat. I began sobbing and gently put my hands under his still slightly warm body and pulled him up to my chest. For a moment, I couldn’t think. All I could do was sob, “Oh no, my bear-bear. My big, beautiful bear-bear, please, please don’t leave me. How could this happen? Who could hit you and kill you? You can’t leave me; I need you! Oh my God, this is all my fault! I shouldn’t have let you go out at night. I knew something like this would happen if I weren’t always vigilant and kept you in at night. Oh my baby-bear!” Finally, realizing I was knelt in the middle of the street, I carried him home and sat on my front step, still holding Bear and rocking him in my arms. I couldn’t stop sobbing, my grief so intense I was in physical pain. After a while, I realized I needed to make him ready to bury. I laid him gently on the step and went into the house to find something appropriate to bury my honored friend in.

After making him a makeshift coffin and placing his now colder body in it, I said a small prayer for his spotless little soul and beseeched God to take him into his meadow where Bear could wait for me. Hopefully, his new meadow will be without pain, and he will be the “big panther” there that he always thought he was here on earth.

So it is now that I sit here typing through tears of grief trying to share, even a tiny bit, of who My Big Bear was in his life. How very much he meant to me. How horribly I will miss him. How incredibly broken my heart is with his loss. I can never honor or give him even a modicum of the love and companionship that he so willingly, and generously gave to me during his short nine years in my life.

God rest your soul and make your life easy with treats available on demand...I love you my Bear-Bear!