A Gentle Death: Part 9 - Charlotte (again)
By Barbara O'Neil Ross
After John dies Charlotte comes on a weekly basis for over a year to help me sort through John's belongings or just sip ginger tea and talk. Together we go through closets and drawers, tossing shirts in grocery bags to go to The American Friends Service, placing patched clothes into boxes to put on the street, stuffing stained items into trash bags. John's oldest shirts are nearly filigree; he liked them when they were worn sheer. When he returned from a sailing cruise you could see where the sunburn ended at the double fabric in the shoulder area.
We go through his desk and files. There is a set of keys with a note attached in John's unique scrawl - “Grandpa's tool chest?” . There are little metal boxes with rubber bands, screws and Yugoslavian coins, and an appalling number of hole punchers. There are rocks from the Antarctic and bones from Newfoundland. Some correspondence dates back to the 1930's. John was a recycling fanatic. When we occasionally toss a piece of paper in general trash we raise our eyes skyward - “Sorry, John.” I sort, and giggle, and mourn.
It is October, almost a year since John's death, and Pawla's health is failing rapidly. I am frantic trying to find food she will eat. Charlotte is with me and gently suggests it might be time to put Pawla to sleep. For days I am weepy, but finally make the call to Dr. Branson. Charlotte drives to the vet, trying to soothe her inconsolate passengers. Pawla's body looks so flat lying on the metal table during the injection. I sob when her body goes limp in my arms. For sixteen years I have loved this animal. Dr. Branson has tears in her eyes when she gives me a little piece of fur to take home. The ashes will follow.
Two and a half months later after checking out various declawed domestic shorthaired cats on the Internet and just missing out on a tuxedo described as a “feline counterpart to Cary Grant”, I decide to stop the search temporarily until after the family Christmas visit. But an obsessive part of me can't resist checking on Petfinder.com.. Suddenly an adorable face appears on the screen - a four year old tabby at the Brockton M.S.P.C.A. I show it to Charlotte - ”Let's drive down there and look at her.” So I grab the old cardboard cat carrier, put out the litter box, and we hop into Charlotte's car and head south.
At the pound they put us in a cubicle and bring in a handsome shy beast who immediately hides behind the computer, looking out with frightened chartreuse eyes. As we sit there, she ventures out to sniff us. She's a beauty with a stunning black Rorschach pattern on her back; white paws, chest and tail tip. The attendant takes her off for a distemper shot and tells us that “Jewel” purred throughout the procedure. That does it. Next thing I know we're on our way home with a full, meowing box in the back seat. We settle this new mound of sweetness, renamed “Truffle”, into a small downstairs room. I am sitting on the floor stroking the velvet ears of my furry new companion when Charlotte slips out the front door.
