Chi Chi

Many of my closest friends haven’t been people at all—they have been dogs and cats. I have been animal crazy my entire life, a trait I like to think I inherited from my father, who descended from a long line of veterinarians and horse trainers.

I grew up with a wonderful bullmastiff, Rebel, and have adored the two coonhounds I have had in recent years, first Rufus and now Delia. But there were many years when I only had a cat, or two or three.

I found my first kitten in the woods behind our house on my sixth birthday. She was just a baby, apparently abandoned, a fluffy little ball of calico fur. We searched for her mother to no avail. She got her name when my little brother and sister, who were just a year old, tried to say kitty, but it came out Chi Chi. My parents agreed to let me keep her because it was, after all, my birthday.

Chi Chi was my constant companion. I fed her human baby food through my doll’s plastic bottle until she was big enough to eat on her own. Fortunately it did worked, though she never grew bigger than perhaps seven pounds. Her preferred sleeping spot was under the covers next to my feet, and when she was ready for me to get up, she nibbled my toes.

Then one day, Chi Chi got sick. She had no energy and looked pathetic. I begged my mother to take her to the vet—something people didn’t do much for cats in those days. But the vet could only say that it was probably a virus, and that she either would or wouldn’t recover.

She didn’t. She began to disappear, and I’d find her hiding under the house. My father explained that some cats, following their instincts, run away when they are very sick and feel vulnerable to predators.

Chi Chi spent her final few days lying at the foot of my bed as I recovered from a bad sore throat. She didn’t seem to have the strength to object, and though she was skin and bones, she still purred when I stroked her. I would carry her outside several times a day to do her business, but she wouldn’t eat or drink or get up on her own. Emaciated, she finally jumped off the bed one day and stumbled down the stairs.

When she got to the door, she collapsed. Our housekeeper, who had watched the sad procession, ran over, scooped her up, and set her out, so she’d know she made it outside. I buried her in the woods behind the house, where I found her seven years earlier.

I’ve had many cats since, each very special in their own way. But little Chi Chi has a special place in my heart and always will.

Saying Goodbye

My father informed me over the phone that he was going into the hospital for a few days to, in his words, “get the leaks plugged.” That was his way of describing radiation treatment for the cancer that had spread from his prostate to his bladder over five years.

As always when he was ill, I offered to go to Massachusetts from my home in D.C. He had always turned me down, but this time he surprised me by saying, “That would be nice.” I flew up immediately.

It was clear when I got to the hospital that Daddy was dying. He greeted me, but soon he returned to the semiconscious state that would he would be in for his remaining days. The doctor said that it was time to take Daddy home and call the family together. By the next day, all six of us kids, along with most of our spouses and kids, were gathered in our childhood home.

Daddy would rally once or twice a day for a precious few minutes, full of smiles and delighted to have us all there. We played his cherished operas and the cast recording of “Oklahoma,” which he and my mother had seen on Broadway and dearly loved. A few of his close friends, neighbors, and family members dropped by, but when you are 85, it’s a small circle.

My mother was rather deep in the throes of Alzheimer’s by this time, her grip on reality fading with my father’s vitality. He was her rock, the one who completed the sentences she could not. I think that seeing him so incapacitated was intolerable for her. She couldn’t seem to stay in the living room, where we had Daddy’s hospital bed, even though he asked for her from time to time. We had the idea of spraying the cologne Daddy always bought for her, Fleur de Rocaille by Caron, on a handkerchief and tucking in his pillowcase. It did the trick; he smiled and sighed, and I like to think that he believed she was at his side.

Spoiler alert: my father did die, but not for three weeks. We passed that time by telling each other story after story from our childhood, all set in the house on Grove Terrace my father bought even before he married my mother. 

My sister predicted that some time, we would all be together and someone would say, “Remember the time when Daddy wouldn’t die?” We all laughed so hard our sides ached. It was the second-hardest I’ve ever laughed.

During those long weeks, we were each on our own private emotional roller coaster. My father’s impending demise, my mother’s deteriorating health, and being stuck together with little to do but wait took a toll on each of us. But I am proud to say that we were also deeply considerate of each other’s feelings.

That’s why I did not tell my sister that she had lost her mind when she asked me if Daddy had ever said anything to me about being buried in his robe. There are limits to being considerate, and I told her no in the nicest way possible

Daddy had a lovely midnight-blue smoking jacket that he referred to as his robe. It was very elegant, and he often wore it to the dinner table during the week so he wouldn’t soil his suit jacket. But I hadn’t even seen it in years. And I was damned if I would permit my brilliant, dignified, highly respected father to be buried in his robe.

However, this was only the start of a long procession of others taking me aside to ask me the same question. The last to ask was Daddy’s minister, who had come over to plan the funeral. 

“Don’t you think,” he said, “that your father would like to be buried in his robes?”

And that’s when I laughed the first-hardest I’ve ever laughed. He said robes. Not robe. That little s makes a big difference. He was suggesting that my father, who had been the justice of the local district court for more than 20 years, might want to be interred in his judicial robes, not his bathrobe.

And of course, he would. And of course, he was. Bonus: the copious pockets inside the robes were perfect for stuffing with mementos—toys from his younger grandkids, a favorite joke necktie that read “hello handsome” when he looked in the mirror, the hanky with my mother’s cologne, and more.

One morning, my oldest nephew whispered into his grandfather’s ear. “Goodbye, Grandpa,” he said. “I love you, but I have to get back to college.” He picked up his suitcase and walked out of the house.

That’s when Daddy died. The party was over. The guests were going home. He was a terrific host--and an even better father.

Why I Loved My Family Doctor

I went to our family doctor for a summer-camp physical. This was Dr. Wheeler, who delivered me, who was a close friend of my dad’s, and who took care of all of us for decades. As he checked me over and filled out the form, he noticed that I was days away from turning 13.

“You’ve got a big birthday coming up,” he said. “Have you asked your parents for something special?”

I told him what I wanted was to get my ears pierced, but my mother wouldn’t let me. She was dead-set against ear piercing, yet another reason for the two of us to lock horns. I explained to Dr. Wheeler that she thought it was unsafe, unsanitary, and unsuitable for a young lady.

(She changed her tune when she had lost one too many earrings and my father threatened to never buy her another pair unless she got her ears pierced, but that is a story for another time.)

“Well, it’s not unsafe or unsanitary if I do it,” he replied, pulling out a device that looked like a stapler and popping an earring in each of my lobes before I could say boo. “Happy birthday!”

The expression on my mother’s face when I got home was priceless. She turned bright red and was clearly winding up a giant scream when she took a deep breath and composed herself. “Well, I suppose he is the one I put in charge of your health,” she said.

I had always loved Dr. Wheeler, but this event sealed our friendship in perpetuity. A fond memory is the time he showed up at my bedside after I had foot surgery with a pile of Polaroids. Another surgeon had done the deed, but Dr. Wheeler had gone in and photographed the whole thing. And when he performed a minor outpatient surgery on the same foot a year later, he hooked up some mirrors so I could watch the whole thing. 

What a guy!