Hobbes Cantwell: A Very Good Boy 5/88-4/02
On Tuesday, April 2, 2002, I had to say good-bye to my friend and ever-faithful
companion of 14 years, Hobbes the Cat (aka "Bunny Kitty", aka "Old Man Hobbes"
, aka "Hobbsey", and of course "Cow Kitty"). Kerrigan McCarthy and Dubhlin the
Wonder Dog came by the house to keep us company, and I was lucky enough to be
able to find a very kind vet who made house calls and whose bedside manner was
more than understanding. With Cat Stevens playing on the stereo in the next room,
Hobbes peacefully exited the world which had stopped giving him joy and moved
on to kitty heaven, where (at least according to the book my sister Ginny sent
me), the cats never get stuck in the trees and they can eat all the tuna and salmon
they want; in Hobbes' case, it's going to be a LOT. He led a good long kitty life,
and left it peacefully; I hope we all have it so good!
These were the Three Stages of Hobbes, as I remember him best:
I
first got Hobbes at about six or eight months,
while living at my very first apartment on Cortland Avenue in San Francisco,
which I shared with Natasha Glushkoff, Derek Mutch and for a brief while, Greg
Kuball. Greg was recently my roomie again for a brief stint at the end of last
year, and he experienced the Zen of Hobbes in his first and final years. Hobbes'
favorite thing to do was to stretch out in a giant "U", get a tummy rub, then
try and grab your hand and do bunny kicks with his rear paws against it (thus,
the name "Bunny Kitty"). Back then, he was all pounces and purs and naps and
playtime; that was before his catnip gut caught up with him! (See top photo.)
This was taken in Kent, Washington, circa 1990 or so. Hobbes is still a youngun
here, ready to stalk whatever it is I'm dragging along for him (a stick or a
string or something?) and kill it, kill it DEAD! He was pretty much a pounce
first, ask questions later kind of cat. Many birds and mice were found beheaded
in those early years, before he got ummm, a bit portly and uh, too concerned,
shall we say, with other things to continue with his bloody exploits. I think
this photo was snapped on the same day as the one just above; you can almost
hear him thinking "We are not amused," in that one.
I found the photo at the top of the page just last night and I remember that I
took it to finish a roll of film last May, 2001. Old Man Hobbes - our friend Michael
T. started saying that about seven years ago, and it just stuck. He looks so healthy
and happy to me here, that it alternately makes me very happy and breaks my heart,
makes me smile and cry. There I go, getting all soppy on you again like I said
I wouldn't. But this is a page which promises a certain amount of soppiness -
I owe Old Man Hobbes that much. In any case, he just looks so content and fat
and sleepy there that I wish I could have made him feel that happy once more,
but alas...I can only hope that in his last days, he was happy to be with those
who cared for and loved him.
The following is from "On Cats and Dogs" by Jerome K. Jerome,
The Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow (ca. 1890):
[I]n general, I like cats and dogs very much indeed. What jolly
chaps they are! They are much superior to human beings as companions.
They do not quarrel or argue with you. They never talk about themselves,
but listen to you while you talk about yourself, and keep up an appearance
of being interested in the conversation. They never make stupid remarks.
They never observe to Miss Brown across a dinner-table that they always understood
she was very sweet on Mr. Jones (who has just married Miss Robinson). They
never mistake your wife's cousin for her husband, and fancy that you are
the father-in-law. And they never ask a young author with fourteen tragedies,
sixteen comedies, seven farces, and a couple of burlesques in his desk
why he doesn't write a play.
They never say unkind things. They never tell us of faults, "merely
for our own good." They do not, at inconvenient moments, mildly remind
us of our past follies and mistakes. They do not say, "Oh, yes, a lot
of use you are, if you are ever really wanted" - sarcastic like. They never
inform us, like our inamoratas sometimes do, that we are not nearly
so nice as we used to be. We are always the same to them.
They are always glad to see us. They are with us in all humors. They
are merry when we are glad, sober when we feel solemn, and sad when we
are sorrowful. ...
And when we bury our face in our hands and wish we had never been born,
they don't sit up very straight, and observe that we have brought it all
upon ourselves. They don't even hope it will be a warning to us. But they
come up very softly, and shove their heads against us. If it is a cat, she
stands on your shoulder, and rumples your hair, and says: "Lor', I am sorry
for you, old man," as plain as words can speak; and if it is a dog, he looks
up at you with his big, true eyes, and says with them: "Well, you've always
got me, you know. We'll go through the world together, and always stand
by each other, won't we?"
In addition to everyone who has been a pal or roommate to Hobbes over the years,
I'd like to extend a special "Thanks" to the terrific docs at Oakland Veterinary
Hospital. Dr. Cecile Hart and Dr. Maureen Dorsey, along with the incredibly warm
and understanding staff (esp. Pam, Bev, and Maribeth, and of course Amy Z.!) have
always gone out of their way to give Hobbes (and my other kitties) the best care
at affordable rates, and have always been honest with me. Final words, by an anonymous
poet (possibly Native American in origin, I'm not sure):
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain. When you wake in the
morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
--Anonymous
Good Night, Bunny Kitty. *scritch, scritch*
