BY DEE BLAIR
Special to the Record-Eagle
March 24, 2008 04:00 am Animals demonstrate uncanny abilities that we humans observe with wonder, but little understanding. The following is a true story. A beloved relative of mine lives life with zest. She's a vivacious, multi-talented, extremely intelligent woman who's designed her beautiful home, loves books, has a green thumb, and travels the globe, relishing her retirement. Clare has always shared her home with cats; for many years, three have claimed her as their own. (Any cat lover knows that felines decide who is important to them. Fiercely independent, they never fawn, and understand, more than we might like to admit, those humans they deign to live with, and rarely, for.) Twenty-four months ago, Clare was struck down by an auto-immune hepatitis that attacked her liver. This life-threatening illness so weakened her that trying to manage routine tasks -- laundry, cooking, cleaning -- totally exhausted her. Severe jaundice developed. Following extensive tests, a regimen of powerful medications was prescribed; her doctors told her time and rest would tell the tale. She thankfully took to her bed and slept away the weeks, awaiting events. People she cherished helped, but her three cats, Tigger, Chloe and Ladybug, went much further. As a unit, they moved into her bedroom and positioned themselves. One snuggled around her neck, one nestled in the crook of her arm or slept on her tummy, and one made sure her feet stayed warm. For many weeks, they never left her, except to take turns grabbing a quick bite and doing their toilets. They purred, massaged her with soft paws and washed her with their rough tongues. Those cats were shadows, following her even to the bathroom. She was never alone. She had virtually no strength, developed a severe rash, and coped with other miseries brought on by the illness. Her faithful felines monitored every breath. They were intertwined with the bedclothes, and such a part of her and each other it was hard to tell whose paws and tail belonged to whom. It was a near thing. Months later, Clare's exhausted body finally began showing small signs of improvement; further biopsies showed she just might recover without permanent liver damage. Then, one bright morning, she came awake slowly, aware of a distinct change in her environment; there was no sound of purring. An unfamiliar lightness on her neck and chest jerked her to full consciousness. Where for weeks there had always been cats -- nothing. They had simply gone. By some mysterious means, the prescient trio knew she had passed a critical point, and would recover. Amazed, Clare lay there, savoring the morning. A profound feeling of deep comfort and awe washed over her. She knew what their absence meant. In a week she would undergo more tests; they would show great improvement. Of that fact, she had no doubt. Her beloved friends had made the determination long before the doctors would. She was right. From that moment, Clare began to pick up the pieces of her life. The doctors, encouraged by her slow, steady progress, gradually tapered the potent medicines. She tired easily, though, and retreated to her bed for frequent naps. The furry trio, except for occasional quick, unobtrusive visits, let her sleep "undraped." It was an astounding demonstration of love, devotion and their deep knowledge of the battle raging inside Clare. When they realized she would recover, perhaps through some chemical emitted that they recognized (she'd finally "sniffed right"), they relaxed into their old routines without fuss. Clare continues to use Tigger, Chloe and Ladybug as astute monitors of her health. She doesn't worry, if they don't. Dee Blair has cultivated her English secret garden at Sunnybank on Sixth Street in Traverse City for 15 years. Open to visitors in season, the garden is now closed. She will write throughout the winter, and can be reached care of the Record Eagle, or via e-mail at blairdee@gmail.com. Also, see her blog, which often elaborates on columns, at http://blogs.record-eagle.com.
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Photos
Dee Blair