And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.
I’m asked all the time now how I am, and how Olivia is, and how my big kids are, and my granddaughter. But if I’ve been asked how the pets are, how they are dealing with Michael’s disappearance, I honestly don’t remember, which means it’s been rare. But I’ve watched them – particularly Ursula. Oliver, our new orange kitty, only knew Michael for a few weeks before he went off to the hospital for the last time.
Besides losing Michael this year, we also lost our fat orange bowling ball polydactyl cat, Edgar Allen Paw, and the inimitable little gray cat, Muse. The cats died first, Edgar, then Muse. They died five weeks apart from each other, and as I was neck-deep in what was going on with Michael, it just felt like blow after blow.
Edgar was fourteen. In the last year, he’d suddenly had fits of his back legs falling limp and useless. But they always came back. The vet was baffled. And then one morning, the legs simply left for good. Our home is a danger for a cat who can only use his front legs…there are stairs and concrete floors. I didn’t wait for a horrible death to happen. I helped Edgar on his way.
Michael was still in the hospital when Edgar died. I hesitated over if I should tell him, as his memory and even his present day observations were still off. But I told him anyway…and he seized onto it. He talked about Edgar, and truly, memories of Edgar and Michael’s sadness at losing him seemed to help him get grounded in reality again.
Michael finally came home, after six weeks in the hospital and three in rehab. Muse, the little gray cat, would not leave him alone. As soon as he sat, he had a cat. Muse was well known for understanding where things hurt. She would lay with me in bed and knead and knead my back if it was sore, my hip if it was sore, my knee if it was sore…and when I had a foot cramp, she’d lay on the foot until the cramp went away. Now, on Michael, she draped herself over whatever she could reach.
Late at night on her 20th birthday, Muse suddenly gave an ungodly yowl from down the hall. I found her on her side, with fluid all around her. It is unclear what happened, but the vet said it was cerebrospinal fluid. I ran her to the emergency vet, and I came home without Muse.
Which leaves Ursula, our dog. Ursula is a rescue, a dog who came here from Alabama, after living most of her life in an outdoor kennel, having litters of puppies. She was high anxiety, and still is, even after four years. During the time Michael was gone after his accident, she was restless and unsure. She looked out the window for him to come home from the bus garage. She was puzzled when it was me who brought her out to do her business in the early morning and the late night. I gave her the shirt that was cut off of Michael by the paramedics and she slept with it.
Then one cat after another disappeared. In between, Michael came home. Ursula took up a station by his side, either sitting by his recliner or on the end of the couch. In the morning, when she and I would come downstairs, the first stop had to be in Livvy’s room, where Michael was sleeping as he couldn’t do the stairs. Ursy sat there while I got her medication, and after taking her outside, she would stay in the room by Michael until he got himself up and out to the living room. As he rolled his walker, she walked in front of him, backwards, watching his every step.
And then…Michael disappeared. He was originally gone for 9 weeks, to the hospital and the rehab. He had a one week return trip to the hospital after he came home. And then he went back and didn’t come home. He’s been gone now for 14 weeks, longer than he was at the hospital. I was planning on bringing Ursula to the hospice, but Michael was gone before I could get her there.
The shirt that she slept with was thrown away after Michael got home. All of his laundry was washed and dried. I couldn’t think of anything to give her at first, but then remembered the pillow I had made for Michael, out of a photo of Ursula. Michael slept with it, in the rehab, at home, in the hospital, and in hospice, with it tucked under his cheek or his neck.
Ursula sleeps with it all the time now.
By the way, before Michael went into the hospital for the last time, Oliver showed up. Michael and Olivia came with me to the humane society to meet him. Michael was in a wheelchair. By the time Michael disappeared from our home, Oliver, who was shy with men, was sitting on his lap.
When Michael went into the hospital for the last time, Ursula quit sleeping in her spot on the couch. Even when Michael rested on the couch, he made sure his legs and feet left room for a 59 pound dog to have her corner. That corner of the couch, closest to the fireplace, became Ursula’s soon after she came home with us. There’s a pillow there, and three special stuffed animals. Ursula tears apart all stuffed animals, except for these…she sleeps with them. All of them were picked out by Michael, from Menards, when he worked there.
There is a rainbow-striped monkey, named (by Michael) Pride Monkey.
There is a black and white panda, named Intolerant Panda.
And there is a moose, named…Moose. Michael loved moose. They were his favorite animal.
Throughout the long hospitalization and the rehab stay, Ursula slept in her corner of the couch. She scrunched there with Michael when he was home. She slept there when he went in for the short time before coming home again. But when he went in for what we didn’t know was the last time, Ursula stayed off the couch. She slept instead on the floor, in front of the coffee table. She slept there for his entire last hospital stay and his five days in rehab. And she’s been there for fourteen weeks since his death.
Until last night.
I was watching the Love Boat, the show Michael and I were watching together, because we were supposed to be going on a cruise for our 25th anniversary. Ursula suddenly stood up, stretched, glanced at Michael’s urn on the piano, and then jumped onto the couch. She nestled her head between the stuffed animals, her friends, given to her by Michael. And she stayed there the rest of the night.
I thought of last week, when I froze on the stairs, realizing I’d gone three days without crying. And now…my dog was back where she was supposed to be.
I still reached out and patted Michael’s empty recliner, next to me. I called out to Ursula, “What a good girl, Ursy!” and received a tail thump.
And then I breathed a sigh of relief. The humans aren’t the only ones who have been suffering.
And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.



