Oh, Marley!

My coworkers and I decided to form a book club since there are so many of us who enjoy reading. Our conversations often turn to books we are reading or would like to read. So, in the most haphazard of ways (despite our best efforts to make it fair and organized) we settled on Marley and Me as our first official book club book. And so it came to be that I foraged into the world of Marley. Those who have read Marley's account know that he's an oaf of a dog who doesn't think much past the very present situation in which he finds himself. He's destructive, funny, BIG, and tortuously lovable. John Grogan illustrates the devotion between animals and humans in his remarkable love story with Marley. One cannot help but adore the Labrador, and infuse the story with his own memories of pets from his own life.

The biography of Marley brings my own pets' immortality to the forefront, as if I needed a reminder after the last month. My middle child, as it were, had surgery for a small tumor on his neck three weeks ago. As luck would have it, the lump wasn't cancer. Friends and family cheered when the word was spread that Mister Moo did not have cancer. Those who know me, know that my pets are the children I never had. The relief that swept over the folks who followed the drama was palpable. My mother made the announcement at work to baffled coworkers, "Mister Moo doesn't have cancer." Confused looks asked quizzically, "Who the hell is Mister Moo?" My mother said simply, "My daughter's cat. Trust me, it's a good thing." Yeah. I'm devoted to these critters who have stood by my side through the death of my best friend, my divorce, my ill-fated cross-country move, and all of the other tedium I've survived. A few of my friends frowned upon my shelling out the bucks for a tumor removal on my pet. Pffft. Not having the surgery was not an option for my little Guernsey-colored pal.

Much like Grogan, I'm astounded that over a decade has come and gone so quickly as these little furballs have grown from tiny tothood to adolescence to adulthood and are quickly sliding into the geriatric stages of their lives. How could this happen? Punkin is roughly 13 years old. I adopted him several months after a move that saw each of my three cats run away, one at a time. I vowed not to have any pets for a long time after the devastation of losing three in such a short time. (I hoped against hope that they would show up at my old house, and my ex promised to tell me if they did. They never did). But Punkin showed up like a little tumbleweed of fur and cuteness, wanting someone to notice him, but scared of humans. After weeks of patient coaxing I was rewarded with his trust enough to latch onto him. I immediately grabbed him and ran for the house. Once inside, it was a done deal.

He's been a faithful companion, as well as a pain in my ass. He claws my head (ouch!) if I sleep too late for his liking, hogs the bed and demands to be plastered next to my stomach/chest area which makes me too hot many nights, and he loves the "in and out" game where he begs to go outside only to want to come back in. Once in, he will only wait a few minutes before he wants to repeat the pattern. And he always has to stare outside for a minute while I hold the door patiently before deciding if he actually wants to travel out or not. I play the "3-2-1" game with him then, counting down to zero slowly, then closing the door. I usually give him at least one more shot at winning the "3-2-1" game though. And when the evening feeding hour rolls around at 4pm sharp, he will actually come looking for me to yell at me if I've gotten carried away and forgotten the time. I do not know how my cats know the time, but trust me, they do!

And no matter where I am in the house, you will find him within feet of me. Seldom is the time that Punkin has found a place more comfortable than in the room where his momma is. He's sleeping just behind me as I type this, but the more normal case is that he's in my desk chair behind me, hogging it so that I have to sit on just the edge of it. I don't really remember when he took over, but I do know he's been in charge for quite some time now. While Punkie is a crotchety old man now, he's surely paid his dues. Unca Punk was what I called him during the years when I adopted expectant mother strays who would have kittens that I would litter train and give to good homes. He endured the beast of a cat who we inherited after my favorite neighbor died. The cat was cranky and when invited into our home, lashed out repeatedly at every pet we had at the time. He never did befriend any of my pets, but the cats and the dog were always congenial to the stranger who stayed with us until he had to be put down. Punkin (and Mister Moo too) moved more over the last decade with their indecisive (but well-intentioned) mother than any pet should be required to relocate. Two days in the car travelling cross-country is hard enough for people, but my champs were well-behaved, both on the way out and the way back one year later. I admit I have not been the best mother I could be to my furry charges, but they love me anyway. And I've always been grateful for that.

But Marley, as known through John Grogan's crafty storytelling, is a wonder among pets. He required unconditional love and devotion from his masters. Replacing shredded mattresses, repairing door frames that had been chewed in the panic of the impending storms, relenquishing one's pride for the insane antics your pet performs publicly....now this is the stuff of the human/animal bond. Sadly, our pets' capers live on in infamy far sooner than we want them to be mere memory. And as I come to the end of Marley's fantastic life, I ponder and worry again over the aging of my own pets. I know it's coming, just as John and Jenny Grogan saw Marley's end coming. Like them, I don't want to think on it. Punkin and Mister Moo are aging, sure, but they are in amazing physical health. I take little to no credit for that. I feed them mostly mid-grade quality food, some human food, a little canned food treat in the morning and evening, and a change of water once a day, but their good health is simply their own good fortune. They frolic and run as often as they can outside, and inside when it's rainy or cold. Punkin has been known to go on one of those all-out runs across the yard. When he reaches a tree, he claws furiously then looks around as though someone is after him, and whoops it up across the lawn again. It's hilarious! It's also comforting to see him still doing it at 13 years old.

But if I'm honest, he's shown those groggy signs of his mind betraying him at times. Once in awhile he wakes up looking bewildered by his surroundings. Sometimes, he moves achily through his morning choosing to nap on the bed rather than go out into the bright sunshine. Those moments of old age that show themselves are rare (thankfully), but they do serve as a timer to the brain that tries so desperately to stay away from the heart it's attached to. I don't want to think of life without my Bunkie. I've never had a cat this long. I simply don't know how to act in the face of his old age. I know someday I'll be digging a hole for my beloved orange fuzzball who made me laugh and gave me comfort beyond any of the friendships I have now. Most people think I'm nuts, but this old guy who gloms his claws into my head most mornings has been more of a friend than many I've had the displeasure of discovering are not so kind.

Marley's decline and inevitable death brought great poignancy to the Grogan's. Pets do that. We realize in the wake of their immortality that we too, are prone to sudden (and not so sudden) departures. I should know this, given all the human losses I've endured, but I'm still caught off guard when John Grogan points out that NONE OF US is afforded any protection against the unthinkable. I always wish that I was somehow more in tune with the frailty of human and pet life, but as much as I know it's a fleeting proposition, this thing we call life, there are times I still feel like a quaking child in a corner during a violent thunder storm. In the end we all walk in the valley of the shadow of death. I swear I will try to fear no evil. I will never keep a pet alive for my own sentiment, nor will I hasten to put one down. Pets are amazing in their ability to regroup and come back to us when we think all is lost. Marley did it. Mister Moo used up one of his nine lives last month. Punkin has used at least two that I know of, and I don't want to know the rest of the story....

The Marley's and the Punkin's of the world make our lives richer and more satisfying. And while we know that we will have to say goodbye to our pets, we also know that the time they are here with us will be something we wouldn't take back for all the riches in the world. I recommend pets. I also recommend John Grogan's book titled Marley and Me.