Also this issue: Exodus on Main Street Musings on a changing place. -Daz Morrell Letters to the Editor

December 25-31, 2002

loose canon

The Cat Whisperer

by Bruce Schimmel

Here's a tale for the end of the year, which perhaps you'll consider for a New Year's resolution. A fable about my cat, Fracas, whom we thought would be dead by now. But that was before she met the Cat Whisperer.

To cure a cat, what I usually do is dig a grave. I have discovered, paradoxically, that "Pre-Need" excavations seem to increase an animal's appetite for life.

I came to believe this after one cat lived on for a year, bounding in and out of her own grave. Call it homeopathy or just feline spite; digging worked.

A couple months ago Fracas' appetite began to flag. The vet spied a tumor in her lung that was bigger than her heart, and her prognosis was very poor. Two months, tops.

My digging cure notwithstanding, it felt way too late, and the cat slid further toward death. She refused to eat.

The night before her appointment with the needle, we had dinner with our friend Glenn, who helps wild animals traumatized by chemical spills.

Glenn knows a critter with a hangdog look.

But seeing my cat, he gamely declared, "This animal is not ready to go."

He picked her up, stroked her and whispered something into her ear. Within minutes, she began to eat. Ravenously.

"I touched her," said Glenn, "and as soon as I touched her, she leaned into my touch. That animal was still enjoying life.

"I told her how wonderful she is," said Glenn. "I complimented her on how she looked. Stuff like ŒYou're really beautiful.'

"Of course it's not the words themselves. I say the words because the words tap into my heart. The animal picks up on my tone, my sincerity, which gives her the room to express herself."

That was a month ago, and Fracas is thriving still.

Now to be sure, both my spouse and I had touched, stroked and talked to our cat at length, well before Glenn arrived. But talking aside, we didn't believe it in our hearts. We expected that, this time, the hole I was digging would indeed be a grave.

I should have known better than to tell false tales, even to a cat.

Next year, I resolve to be more mindful of words merely whispered, for they can be as powerful as the grave.