Marley, our feline, family and friend: you're not feeling well. You’re eating a special food and taking daily medicine for a kidney ailment, but you’re still losing weight. It’s time to take you to Dr. M. for a check-up.
You yowl in the elevator, then you’re calm, quiet, curious, as I pull you along Boulevard St. Germain in your cat caddy.
You growl at the alarming smells in the vet’s waiting room.
A door opens, a short yappy canine skids across the floor towards you. You hiss like a snake.
Dr. M. in slow-mo, as if walking in a dream,
John Lennon sculpted face and specs,
hands at home in fur, questions you.
I translate: your behavior is odd, changed.
You don’t jump up on the counter now,
sleep instead on your bed on the kitchen floor,
no longer come bounding out for our company,
you wander in beside one or the other of us for a while,
then return to the kitchen alone, as if disoriented.
You forget your cat box at least twice a week.
Dr. M. sinks his slow hands in your white belly fur,
feels around—how patient you are!—
then peers into your eyes with his light. This you barely endure.
We hold your head and paws while he presses a syringe into your front leg.
You yell at him: you’ve had it!
One final indignity: claws clipped.
You are not amused; no, you are royally pissed.
Your eyes are fine, the doctor says, but it could be
a tumor of the brain or lungs.
The next day we have an appointment at a clinic
on the periphery of Paris, due north, a long Métro ride.
Richard places a turquoise towel around his neck,
and drapes you around his shoulders.
Won’t he jump down? I wonder. But no, you don’t.
Just in case, I wheel your caddy beside the two of you.
Photograph (c) 2013 Kaaren Kitchell
Your first Métro ride. Richard stands, with his Turkish Angora boa. You look around in amazement. You rotate your gaze in every direction, marble-eyed, down at the tracks, the tunnels, the cars, up at the ceiling, the ads, the humans, who eye you in amusement.
Since we arrived in Paris, you haven’t been out at all except for up Blvd. St. Germain to the vet’s.
(I remember Grammy K., living in that high-rise care center in San Francisco, loving it when we sprung her and wandered the city streets.)
You stay close to Richard’s ears, lick them a little, your hind legs trailing down his back. I drape them around his shoulders again, but they prefer to trail.
A block from the clinic, you suddenly pant like a lunatic (a sixth sense as to where we’re going, or thirst?).
Photograph (c) 2013 Kaaren Kitchell
In the waiting room, Richard lays you down on a chair. You go limp, head and paws hanging over one side, tail drooping over the other.
I sign you in and bring you water.
Two young French girls ask your name.
Marley, Richard says.
Is your pet in there? I ask. They nod. What is his name?
Snoop.
Snoop Dog and Bob Marley, kindred spirits!
The vet comes out holding a tiny dog who looks like a fox with a tube coming out of his forehead. One of the girls reaches for him, cradles him on her lap. He sits there staring, forlorn.
Il est trés malade, says the other girl.
The girl who holds Snoop curls over him, sobbing.
We comfort her.
What kind of Frankenstein experiments are they doing in there? you wonder, still lying across the chair limp.
The doctor calls us in. He is young, handsome, warm.
You lie on the table, limp. The vet interviews us, examines you and carries you out of the room for the X-rays.
I go around the corner to find the bathroom. Returning, see the saddest dog I’ve ever seen, splayed on the floor, eyes wounded, his dewlaps spread like spilled water.
He has neck cancer, the vet’s assistant says.
Will they put him to sleep?
She doesn’t know.
The vet carries you back into the room. It’s over!
You spring into action, explore every corner of the room, finally settle on a high counter near our heads.
The vet puts up the X-rays. Your heart: fine. So are your lungs and brain. But here, see the dark line along the colon? The lining appears to be inflamed. He’ll call our vet to discuss what to do. You need more blood work and an ultrasound.
We ask about the saddest dog. Oh, he’s on a course of chemo for three weeks, says the vet. He will look like that for another few days, and then he’ll be fine. Amazing!
All the way home, you’re alert and relaxed. Just a brief spell of white coat syndrome, just like Richard has.
Next day at Dr. M’s, a very young girl in a white lab coat with long dark hair tells us the doctor will be out shortly. She moves slowly, as if dreaming, comes over to you and coos.
Anouk is her name. She’s the veterinarian’s daughter, 11 years old, she wants to be a vet like her dad.
More blood work means another needle. He’ll call us with the results later that day.
Drawing (c) 2013 Anouk McCarthy
The news is good. The renal condition is improving. He will give you medicine for the colon condition, and it’s not too difficult to treat. And you'll get your ultrasound the 24th.
Richard stops by the vet’s for the medicine. Anouk gives us her two drawings of you, looking like a little fox.
Marley with the plumed tail,
Marley the Prince (pronounced the way the French do, prance),
Marley with the Van Gogh eyebrows,
Marley with the turquoise eyes (now navy blue),
Marley, Mr. Floofypants, friend Dawna calls you,
Marley, little king of the block who adopted us
the day we planned our wedding,
Marley who wanted a home
with no other cats (or dogs or kids),
Marley with the white Elizabethan ruff,
Turkish Angora with buff-colored ears,
spirit neither shy nor neurotic,
fierce, sure of yourself,
certain of our affection,
rubbing white fur on us,
singing your feline song,
shedding your love
all over the house.
Drawing (c) 2013 Anouk McCarthy