An undersized charmer with an
outsized personality makes a large and lasting impression on a middle-aged
couple.
When their eyes first fell on him, he was sound asleep.
Smaller than his two brothers, there was nonetheless something special about
Charlie. As his young eyes opened, they didn�t search his surroundings; no,
they locked in like a laser beam on the nearby couple, looking for young �uns
to adopt. Little Charlie blinked at them, bronze eyes glistening like
moonlight on a millpond. Was that a smile crossing his face as he drifted
off to sleep again?
Smile or not, they were sold. And so Charlie and his
brothers, Willie and Henry, found a home with the happy couple, a place to
be cared for and loved, cherished and raised.
They grew and explored their new world, fighting as
brothers will do, but always looking out for each other.
As they grew, genetic destiny and the hand of time
sculpted from the common clay of these little red-haired siblings three
distinctive profiles, three distinct personalities, three distinctly
different preferences, passions, pursuits. Willie was the tall one, lean and
angular, his big ears giving him a Huck Finn kind of charm, his muscular
arms always ready to lift him easily into the boys� favorite tree.
Henry was husky, but had fine facial features and a thirst
for athletics, chasing down balls with a powerful grace.
And Charlie? He became �Mr. Charlie�: average in looks,
small in stature, large in personality. As Willie and Henry grew in physical
size, Mr. Charlie grew in the size of his persona. Willie was sinewy and
strong, but frequently a sullen complainer when things didn�t go his way.
Henry was handsome, athletic, socially awkward, and happiest alone.
Mr. Charlie, though, was larger than life, his personality
quickly outgrowing his small body, filling every square foot of their home
with pranks and pratfalls, mischief and sometimes mayhem. But there was no
menace in the mayhem, no meanness in the mischief.
Like yawns spreading through an audience on a summer
afternoon, Mr. Charlie�s energy and enthusiasm were infectious and seemingly
unstoppable. Here truly was a special spirit, curious, mischievous and
loving. The couple, in their late 50s, happily anticipated enjoying into
their 70s the fellowship of these three boys.
But at a routine checkup in early summer, they tell the
doctor that Mr. Charlie has lost a little weight. Just keep an eye on him,
she tells the couple. A month passes, and Mr. Charlie looks thinner still.
More worry and concern. Blood is drawn. An ultrasound is performed.
Next comes the phone call, and a jumble of dreaded words.
Polycystic kidney disease ... congenital condition ... that�s why he was so
small ... kidneys are shutting down fast ... no way you could have known ...
nothing you could have done ... .
Sadly, they note that their little reddish-orange tabby is
but 16 months old.
And so it was that my wife and I, joined by a caring vet
and vet tech, kneeled and encircled Mr. Charlie as he lay in his favorite
bed early on a Friday evening in August, and said goodbye to this little
package of orange fur, once 10 pounds now shrunken to eight, his bronze eyes
sunken but still shining, his once-powerful purr barely audible, the little
orange freckle on his right paw a poignant reminder of how we used to pick
him out of the pack of three little kittens, then a teeming mass of orange
squeaks.
A little cairn now marks the spot where he was buried in
our small backyard, the rocks to build it having been honestly earned,
wrenched from the dry clay ground as we dug the grave, beneath a spreading
redbud, whose branches also shelter the graves of a previous generation of
three feline brothers, each also distinctive, each also much loved.
We often assign human qualities to animals, both pets and
livestock, both domestic and wild. This urge to anthropomorphize is as
ancient as it is common, as mysterious as it is understandable. We
unconditionally love those who love us unconditionally. We love their
playfulness, their innocence, their energy. Our pets become proxies for our
better selves.
All across the globe right now, there are tales of
suffering and woe, of wars and famine, of cruelty and avarice, flooding our
screens large and small, our consciousness day and night.
So it�s nice to remember a little fellow who only wanted a
bowl of food and water, a lap to sit on, and a hand to rub his head as he
would drift off to sleep. Goodbye, Mr. Charlie, and thanks.
