In 34 years, we've never been without pets for any length of time.
When I met my wife in San Diego, she had a 20-pound black cat named Sambo, a name that disgraced a chain of pancake houses taken from a children's book back in the day. The name became politically incorrect, and with good cause; the story and the accompanying image of "l'il black Sambo" was a racist relic from the past.
We then received a puppy from some friends; we named him Muffin. He was a Cocker-Pekinese mix-either Cockinese or Peeker, we were never sure which was appropriate.
Sambo, in addition to regularly boxing the puppy's ears, taught Muffin to wash himself, in the manner of a cat, of course. Dog saliva, akin to Elmer's Glue, produces hardened knots of hair instead of a shiny feline coat, requiring a surgical-like scissoring of twisted hair from a squirmy dog's tummy and nether regions.
Sambo the cat died at 18, so we got Miki, a white, odd-eyed cat-one yellow and one blue-from a local woman who found homes for abandoned and unwanted cats. Miki's job was to keep the now-cat-bonded dog company when we were away from home, thereby ending the chewing of everything, a habit that had developed when Sambo died. Of all the animals that would share his home, he became his closest friend.
Before long we added Charlie, an Abyssinian cat. That's another story-suffice it to say that it would take the owners of an Abyssian (or Abby), or possibly a monkey or raccoon, to understand what life is like with such a breed.
We added a peach-faced parrot, Quasimodo, to the brood, and then filled out our menagerie with a tiny black cat, the progeny of a one-eyed factory cat. The little ball of black fur attacked my foot from under a bush one day at work, determined to take that appendage off at the ankle, and altering my lunch plans as I scooped him up and took him home.
Tabu would outlive all the others in time. Throw in a white mouse we named Linguini-he loved the stuff and it may have been his demise-that my daughter brought home from a school science project, and our zoo was complete.
Suffice it to say that we are animal lovers, and all these animals repaid many times over with love what little time, money and effort we invested in providing them a home.
All but the mouse, which joined the family in Seattle, made the trip from San Diego to Seattle in 1978, bouncing in the back of a VW bus bought specifically for the purpose of hauling livestock. To avoid him having an anxiety attack, and the possibility of our being charged with peticide, we had to drug Charlie to make the 1,400-mile trip.
And, watching the bird keeping its balance on the perch with spindly legs flexing like mini-shock absorbers as we rock-and-rolled along, provided more than a few laughs.
As I said, Tabu was the last of the bunch, living to 18 before succumbing to feline cancer. We lived in an empty house for a few months, the stillness and absence of totally requited animal love compelling us to search for another four-legged companion.
So it was off to a local cat show.
As we wandered down the rows of cages at the show, falling in love with every conceivable breed of cat (save possibly the hairless ones) we worked our way to a corner of the hall where some folks from Tacoma had set up a booth, selling pet supplies and offering a number of cats for adoption. That is where we met the brothers.
There, in a cage, were huddled together a pair of 3-year-old Tonkinese cats, a breed unknown to us at the time. Their aquamarine eyes followed our every move.
The Tonkinese were first developed in Canada in the 1960s by crossing Burmese with Siamese. The cross produced a cat stockier than the Siamese, with a dark body, cream colored neck and black face, sometimes referred to as sable in color, although today there are many variations of the cat.
Though we knew none of this at the time, we knew these two, who had apparently been abandoned by a breeder because of minor imperfections that were lost on us, now had a home.
They came with the names, Mocha, and Fudge, completely unacceptable to us as the not-invented-here mentality kicked in. After a few days of minor debates over a name, we settled on names. Looking at them one day, I was reminded of a glass of Irish stout with a creamy head setting atop the dark liquid: hence, Beamish and Guinness. The names stuck.
We wondered when we brought the brothers home why anyone would part with such beautiful animals, and worried a little that they had developed a bad habit or two, but nothing could have been further from the truth. The two of them were perfect housemates, never creating a problem, save Guinness' penchant for eating greenery, forcing us to look seriously at a hanging garden in our house.
Beamish, the stubbier of the two, was on our lap in about 30 seconds after arriving at the house, and hasn't left in 11 years.
Upon arriving home, Guinness-who we suspect was abused-shot up the stairs and under the bed where he stayed for the next week. This was one shell-shocked cat. We put food and water under the bed to make sure he ate.
In time he began to wander out, watching Beamish being lavished with attention. It was killing him not to join in, but his fear was all-consuming. It was weeks, perhaps months, before he finally made that first, tentative jump onto the arm of the couch, blue eyes pulsating with fear, and launching himself into the air if we so much as twitched a muscle.
Eventually, he overcame his fear to become one of the most lovable and needy cats we've had.
They became regular visitors to the Magnolia Veterinary Hospital for their annual checkups, shots and attention from the staff. While both were loved, as are all the animals, Beamish won the hearts of many; one of the attendants at the hospital, who moved to California to pursue her education, got tears in her eyes at the thought of not seeing Beamish again. He does that to people.
These two cats, about whose past we can only surmise, were as close as any brothers, human or otherwise. They were inseparable, though subject to the usual sibling rivalries, with Guinness usually the victor-although Beamish, who often initiated the tussles in spite of coming up on the short end, usually got in his licks.
Guinness died a year ago, at age 13. If cats can mourn a loss, Beamish most certainly did. It's been a year, but he'll walk through the house, calling in the way he used to when he wanted Guinness to emerge from some sanctuary, and looking at the old hiding places from which Guinness would launch one of his ambushes, expecting, or perhaps hoping that his brother will once more appear.
Beamish continues on, now 14-and-a-half, though he's beginning to show signs of kidney failure. If he misses his brother, he also relishes the now undivided attention and love that showers him.
We know the end is probably not far off, and the pain will be overwhelming. Yet, like the animals that preceded him, when we are done grieving, we'll have their lifetime of affection and memories to sustain us, and to share with the next furry person who chooses to live with us.
Life just loses something without an animal's pure, altruistic love.
Mike Davis is a freelance writer living in Magnolia. He can be reached at mageditor@nwlink.com.[[In-content Ad]]
