Henry

“Henry's microchipped?! ”

Tears well up in spite of myself.

“And his name is ‘Sunny.'”

“Oh, my Gosh!”

“And so legally we'll have to keep him here until we locate the owners.” Dr. Conley continued. The vet seemed such a nice guy until this minute.

“He's gotta come home,” I said. “Karen'll vouch for me.”

Karen's the vet tech of Animal General. In any emergency she's always there to help. She also manages the place and has authority to “yay” or “nay.” As Dr. Conley leaves the room to call, I see myself grabbing the carrying case and running out the door. Trouble is, Henry's not in it.

Only yesterday I took the case from Beverly, a middle-aged woman who rescues cats but can't keep more than she has in her small apartment. We both tried a few options. They didn't pan out. Henry's fate was left to the big dogs on the upper Westside or to myself. I thought I was the better choice.

I take a short taxi ride from 103rd street to home on 90th. I look down at the dusty maroon plastic case on the seat beside me. The tabby cat looks out from the wire mesh opening and up into my eyes as if to say “I know you – do you recognize me?”

I pass my curmudgeon doorman, my Alpha dog Ruffy and on into the bathroom and close the door. Taking a deep breath I go to open the carrier door. The knob won't turn. I push and pull. I'm getting frantic. The cat is pawing through the door grating.

I run to call Beverly. “I can't open the door.” She gives me secret tips of “open sesame”. I run back to the bathroom. Then I think I'd better call a vet.

I run back to the phone, leaving the cat in the crate. I make three calls to veterinarians. It's Saturday, five minutes to 5:00 o'clock. They're either leaving for the day or leaving voice messages.

Dr. Jeff! Dr. Jeff is a veterinarian by day and a rock musician by night. Dr. Jeff does house calls. Perfect! I call his number. Voice message. I call his cell. He's there! He's coming! He needs me to assist! I can't! I'm almost throwing up with anxiety.

Dana! She is a beautiful young woman in her late twenties who rescues feral cats. She's living upstairs in her boyfriend's apartment with a whole city-full of rescues. Yes! She can come right down. I have to feed and walk my dog, Ruffy. I call Dr. Jeff and tell him to walk right in. And then I remember the cat's still in the carrier.

“Hi sweetheart,” I said. “We have to get you out of there. I twist and turn and apply the secret extra pressure. Eureka! The door to the carrier swings open with a clunk. There's a couple of seconds and out steps a Joan Crawford wire coat hanger covered with sagging pale yellow striped fur. A large head at one end and tail at the other. The tail is full of tar as well as the tips of its back toes. Its back legs are naked without fur and dirty pale white. Its belly is the same and hangs weighted with something inside the size of an orange. It takes imagination to see a cat.

“Oh my heavens! Your poor sweet thing!”

The secondary bones in its back legs are no bigger than violin strings. It wobbles over to me where I'm sitting on the bathroom floor.

I'm afraid it will break. I delicately put my hand on its side. The door bursts open. Dana. She sits down. Picks the cat up with no qualms and looks at its rear end. “A boy .” She looks at the front end - the gums in its mouth. “Very anemic.”

Ruffy takes a long time on her walk. Finally we return. I set up a table and cover it with a bath towel. Dr. Jeff arrives. He sets three bags on the round table in the big room and calls for more light. He pulls two straight chairs over to the ‘exam' table. Dana sits on one and Dr. Jeff closes the door. I collapse on the daybed in the big room.

After two or three mad dashes to his doctor's bags on the round table and back, Dr. Jeff sums it up: “We have to find out what's in his belly. It's not good he doesn't eat. I've given him fluids and a vitamin B shot. He has a mild temperature. Get blood work done at a hospital. He has to have a name. What do you want to call him?”

“Henry.”

As he's leaving, Dr. Jeff serenades Dana and myself with a song he's just written. It's a tearjerker - about a dog left at the city pound. Asking me to call with the update, he rushes out the door.

Dana has brought a special formula of food and nutrients. Henry won't touch it. She goes upstairs to get baby food. She brings down a carrier big enough for a Saint Bernard. Inside it has all the necessities: a litter box, litter, baby food, a holder for water and a blanket for the bottom. We introduce Henry to his new abode. Ruffy's right there stalking. We decide it's best that Henry go in the bathroom with a fan, sans carrier and shut the door.

I thank Dana a million times as she leaves for the night. Then I run to Price Wise to get a CD player that repeats. I want to continually play a chanting tape of Master Ching Hai to heighten Henry's chances for health.

I feel more at ease petting him now. In spite of his illness, he seems to like being made a fuss over. We sit together for a couple of hours. Henry's on my lap purring slightly and ever so often adjusts himself. He's sweet and responsive. He must have been loved - a very long time ago.

The next morning is Sunday. I call Animal General. We're to meet with a Dr. Conley at 3:30 in the afternoon.

I open the bathroom door. Henry's a no-show. ‘Maybe it's all a dream,' I thought. Then I see he is tucked away in the carrier case. I sit on the floor and pat my legs. Henry comes right out and sits.

“You are such a beautiful kitty and we're going to do all we can.”

Henry looks at me. I feel he understands.

Dr. Conley's professional demeanor melts at the sight of Henry. I figure he must be new. Most vets protect themselves against their feelings. Dr. Conley looked as sad as I felt.

“He weighs 7 pounds,” he said. “No temperature. He's very anemic and needs to breathe easier.”

That's when he took him in the back to give him the chest X-ray. Surprisingly, He found there's no water on Henry's lungs. And now we're back at the beginning of the story where Dr. Conley was making a call to Karen:

“Karen said it to take him on home,” he said returning with Henry. “I'll let you know when I contact the owners. We can't do anything until then.”

Henry turns his back and stays inside the carrier when we get home. It's hard trying to help when help causes agitation and discomfort. Maybe he'll forgive me,' I think.

I call Dr. Jeff.

“At least give him fluids and some Vitamin B,” said Dr. Jeff. “It's only humane.”

A little later I open the bathroom door and Henry's sitting on the hamper. “Well! Look at you!”

Dana comes that afternoon while I'm at the doctor's and gives the Dr. Jeff recommended shots. She also rocks him gently in a shallow tub of warm water with Dove soap.

That night I'm sitting on the bathroom floor and Henry's on my lap. He's still a bit scruffy from his afternoon bath. And so I rub him gently with a towel before I tell him a story: “Once upon a time, there was a little kitty. He was a favorite of the family that picked him. He made everybody feel so happy that they named him Sunny. He was bright orange and grey stripes – like the sun and the clouds. Then something unexpected happened. Sunny had to go to the Humane Society. It was scary but Sunny was real brave. Another family picked him for their own. But something unexpected happened. Now Sunny's sick and it's hard to be brave on the streets. An angel saw to it that we found one another. Sunny's now Henry. And here we are.” I give Henry a couple of big hugs and rock him in my arms. I feel he understands.

He's beginning to look like a cat. He likes it when I comb him very softly with a flea comb. The fine teeth remove oodles of excess hair from his little frame. I snip away some of the strands on his tail gummed up and blackened with tar. He tries to groom himself. He licks his paw and then his face. His paw is sprinkled with tar so it's a hard call. Then he tries the back end. He still has his pride after all. He's a noble cat.

The next morning, I open the bathroom door and Henry's on the hamper. He produces a faint meow. The first meow! He even eats a little baby food from the eyedropper. And accidentally bites while licking the leftover drops from my finger.

“Well you must be feeling better Henry!”

He looks at me as if to say, “I know you. Do you recognize me?”

Dr. Conley calls: “The original owners gave him to the Humane Society a year ago. They can't take care of him. We consider you, Henry's owner.”

Maybe Henry really could feel better for a little longer if he had a blood transfusion. At least that's what a handful of people told me who knew about animals and rescue.

So I bundle Henry up to go back to Animal General for the preliminary sonogram.

Time passes. Karen comes out in the waiting room and sits next to me. She's looking straight ahead. It's not going to be good.

“He has a cancer mass all over his digestive tract. We could do an exploratory but he would have be given preparation treatment before,” Karen said.

“I think it's palliative treatment,” I said.

“Well, maybe,” Karen said.

“Henry still soaks up TLC like an old King Lear would from his ideal dream daughters. It's not yet time,” I said.

There's no “yay” or “nay” from Karen. So I'll follow my intuition.

I sit for a while on the bathroom floor. Henry turns his back end to me and faces the far wall of the carrier. Perhaps I'm putting too much pressure on the situation. So I get my sleeping bag stretch it out on the tiles and lay down to rest. An hour later, still no Henry but at least his head is to the opening of the carrier. I sit up. He hesitantly comes out to meet me.

He's more fragile than ever. I wait and he delicately and slowly steps into my lap. I put my hands over his back without touching him as if to stroke him. It's warmer than usual and humid in the room even with the fan going. It had been in the 90's today.

He settles in. “What a brave kitty you've been Henry. To go through all that fuss this afternoon. It was scary but it didn't hurt, did it? It's so undignified to have ones tummy played into a computer. Once upon a time, there was a little cat named Sunny. And he was soooo big and healthy and happy. One day something extraordinary happened………..”

Henry is looking up at me into my eyes. He seems enraptured by my whispers. The heavy air is thick with moisture. I wipe my brow and in so doing, my hand evaporates into the humidity. A tiny door to my temple brushes ajar. I see only a glimmering atmosphere. Henry and I no longer have form. The shape of cat and that of human has melted like the glaciers are doing in the Artic. We're two beings suspended in peace. We've found an entrance to eternity. Nothing exists except this sweet gentle beingness.

But eternity is a revolving door and eventually we come back to the bathroom in my apartment and 9:00 o'clock in the evening. I lay my head down on the sleeping bag to rest. I must have slept for when I awaken I see that Henry's beside me, his little front leg outstretched towards my shoulder.

The next morning his breathing is much more labored. Now he's suffering. I call Animal General.

Dana comes with me. In fact she takes over and gives Henry a sedative. Henry is limp in her arms and is breathing shallow but easier.

Dr. Conley gives us a quiet room. We lay Henry out on the tall steel table on a cloth. Dana is kissing him and talking to him. I'm praying inside. Dr. Conley pauses for a minute looking down at Henry. He looks like it may be one of his first euthanasia cases. He has to brace himself to do it. Henry's anemic veins are too tiny, so Dr. Conley has to do it an alternative way.

“It takes a long time,” Dr. Conley said

“We'll wait,” Dana and I both said.

And so Dana holds him while Dr. Conley administers the sedative. Henry doesn't flinch or act as if he has felt anything.

“I'll leave you now,” Dr. Conley said. “I'll be back off and on. You can stay as long as you like.”

Henry looks almost the same as he did a half an hour ago. Only now he's not suffering. He's very long stretched out on the table and very pale. His eyes are open and his forehead seems to be frozen in a frown. His face doesn't represent the sweetness of his nature. I need to get some more tissues.

I open the door, look down and there's a big healthy orange tabby cat looking up at me. I feel weak in the knees. Henry must've looked like that at one time. Is this an illusion? Is Henry showing us he's okay on the other side? Henry was more than cat but who was he?

I keep thinking of that special Henry look: “I know you. Do you recognize me?” Maybe once upon a time someday I'll find the answer.