Nor Iron Bars A Cage

I went to the veterinary hospital to visit Panther today, and of course you go to such places with your emotions hanging out there, like a boxer's chin, ready to be affected one way or the other. As I walked to the door, a young woman came out carrying a cat wrapped in a towel or blanket. She leaned her head forward and nuzzled it a little—she loved it, that was clear, and it was going home, and she was happy. Inside, a couple had come from New Jersey (35 minutes, they said; it takes me an hour) to pick up their pet, and soon it was brought out in a small box. Cat? I drifted closer to see. The guy, a regular American guy, picked it up, and now he's nuzzling too: a guinea pig. I know people who have guinea pigs, I've had them myself. They're cute, and more to the point, they're warm, fuzzy creatures who have good times and bad, just like humans. It's not that hard to have a certain sympathy for a guinea pig.

The vet who's overseeing Panther's care met me and took me upstairs. He was subdued, when I first came in, but he pressed his cheek hard against my hand. One is advised not to anthropomorphize, but he's scared most of the time, the poor little guy, and to see his best friend (that's me) in such a situation has to be a comfort. I talked to him and talked to him, and he pressed his cheek against my hand, and at one point I thought I sensed, if just subliminally, a certain vibration. In a few minutes, I knew I was right; he was relaxing, and he was purring. Purring! The poor little guy, he was that glad I was there. I visited him yesterday, but he hadn't purred. But today, it showed that despite the needles and tubes and machinery, despite the cage and the bars, despite the fear and confusion, despite the other things they do to him that I don't really want to know about, despite all that he knew me, and still trusted me, and still hoped that things would be OK. He doesn't know what's wrong, and he doesn't know that he's in what's probably the best veterinary hospital in the country, and maybe the world. But he knows that the people there don't seem so bad, and he knows that I come to see him, and he's brave, so before long he relaxed, laid on his side, purred quite audibly, and flexed his paws as if he were home, kneading my stomach. He was for all the world like his usual self, happy and trusting. The vet had been in and out, but after an hour and a half she came up, and I talked about leaving. They're great about my visiting, but I don't want to overstay my welcome. She reached in to pet him too. "Little man," she said kindly, stroking his head, and I began to hope that she saw what I see in him.

See, I want them to know how special he is. They're the best in their field, they wouldn't be working there if they were unmotivated, but I want them to love him a little. Partly for his sake, partly for theirs. You can be scared, confused, sick, but you can still care and trust—some of us can, at least, and Panther is one of the ones who can. I've learned from him, over the years, and he's still teaching me things about courage and trust. I said a reluctant goodbye to him, but I told him I'd be thinking about him, and I have been. I wish I were a billionaire, and could buy a new wing for the place, on one condition: I could stay with him all the time, until this is over. (I'd have really good food brought in for both of us, and top-shelf liquor for me.) But there are no billions. All I have is the hope that he knows I'm coming, and he's waiting for me, the way he'll often be there waiting when I come home. He's scared and he doesn't understand what's happening, But if he just keeps understanding that I'm his friend, that I want to take him out of there and bring him home, well, that's enough. He seemed to feel that way today, and I'm taking this one day at a time, so that's how things are.