Brennan

I'd like to tell you about a friend of mine... someone I knew once who meant the world to me. His name was Brennan and he had one of the purest souls I've ever come across. Brennan was a purebred Abyssinian cat. Eighteen years ago, we had a friend who lived in San Francisco not far from where we lived. He had an "Aby" as well. At the time, I wasn't totally crazy about cats. Actually, I wasn't crazy about much of anything in life at that time. I was so angry at the injustices of the world, had a horrible job, and was feeling very low. We would visit my friend, and his cat took quite a liking to Kent. After awhile, Kent was hooked and pestered me to get an Aby. I finally gave in just to shut him up.

We located an ad in the San Francisco Chronicle for purebred Abyssinians. I still remember vividly the experience of picking up this cat. He had three brothers, and they were tearing around the house with great energy without much notice of us being there. Then, one of them looked over our way, and marched over to us. Little did I know the profound influence he would have on our lives.

This story is hard for me to write, because today marks the third anniversary of Brennan's death. As I write this, I remember all the fond memories that we shared together. At the same time, I feel sad and depressed that he is no longer part of our lives. After three years, the feelings of loss are still profound. They have changed from being an open wound to a constant dull ache. That is what I am feeling as I write this, and undoubtedly, I will shed a few tears before I finish writing this. He is with me every day. I have Kent and my two cats, Max and Mimi. They are wonderful and very different from Brennan and Sasha. I've never really been able to let him go. That is my struggle today. Most reading this would say "he was only a cat.... get over it". Those who met Brennan will tell you that it was much more of an experience than just meeting a cat.

In life, there are always a few souls who shape and influence our lives, for better or worse. The experiences they give us become part of what we are. They define who we are and what we become. This was certainly the case with Brennan. As he grew older, his personality changed. Perhaps it was Kent or myself who changed. Mid-way through his life I started suffering from depression. I was diagnosed as being bi-polar and was put on medication. It was during this time that we became much closer. In a way, we bonded. Perhaps he sensed that something was wrong with me and being the strong personality and presence that he was, he became very protective of me. Everywhere I went, he would follow me, never being far away. If I were to lie down, he would have to be right by my side. There were times that I would get so down that all wanted to do was lie around and sleep it off. He insisted that I get up and do things. He was relentless. It was as if he was saying to me "No! This isn't the way we are going to get through this. We get through the rough times together." He wouldn't give up until I got up. I kept going the best I could. He taught me that when life gets rough, you have to find purpose and meaning, even if it means searching for the smallest wonders and happiness in life. I didn't give up. He didn't give up on me.

Eight months before he passed away, Brennan was diagnose with Chronic Renal Failure (CRF). It is a terminal condition where the kidneys cease to function. They gave him one to two weeks to live. We felt like our world was falling apart. We refused to give up and let him go that easily. We seeked treatment. Nothing was too much. We considered everything without worry of expense. He stayed in the hospital for a time after diagnoses on an IV to flush his system out. He gradually gained his strength back. After he came home, we were giving him IV treatments that had to be delivered twice daily to try to replace the function of his kidneys. He hated the treatments, but somehow knew that it was saving his life. Over the course of months, another complication came up. His body wasn't supplying enough red blood cells. We opted for a treatment that would stimulate his body to produce more cells. It was expensive. The serum to be injected came in small bottles that contain three doses to be given weekly. Each bottle had a cost of $200. It didn't matter, if it helped. For a time, he improved.

After eight months of this, the end came. The date was November 6, 1999. It was a sunny Saturday. Brennan spent his morning with me. I could tell he was feeling poorly. In the afternoon, he wanted to be left alone. He spent the rest of the day in the afternoon sun. After the sun set, he went under my bed. I sensed that it was time, but I would not acknowledge it. I refused to let him go. I went to bed and noticed that he didn't come out. I left him alone as he wished. He usually would sleep next to me on his fluffy green throw. I eventually went to sleep. I felt him jump up on the bed around 3:30. He got as close to me as he could. I could feel him shivering. I pulled him close to me and covered him up. I could hear a faint purr starting. This lasted for fifteen minutes. He then stood up, walked up close to my face and looked into my eyes. I said these exact words to him: "Are you going to leave me now?". With that, he gave me a lick on my cheek, and fell over into a seizure. I woke Kent in a panic. He came out of the seizure and was scared and crying. I called his hospital that had a 24 hour emergency service. We took him in. At first the doctor suggested that he stay in the hospital and we put him on an IV as we did before. As he was explaining this, Brennan had a second seizure. After the seizure, I could tell from the way he was looking from side to side that he had lost his eye site. I knew in my heart that I had to let him go. It was the most difficult single moment of my life. I could hardly get the words out. We stayed by his side the whole time just talking to him. He was given one shot to put him to sleep, and a second shot to stop his heart. There was no big production, just peace. His fight was over and he could now rest. The room was quiet, and the doctor finally said "He's gone". That's all, just those two words. I asked for a lock of his fur and to have some private time with him. We stayed another 10 minutes, and left. When we got to our car, I felt as though someone had ripped my heart from my chest. I felt that a large part of me was gone and that in time, I surely would be too.

The weeks that passed are somewhat of a blur to me. I went to work, and people would comment to one another about how sad I looked. There was no way to hide it. The feeling of loss permeated every part of me. It was me. I would come home from work, pour a little orange juice into a tall glass, fill the rest with vodka. I would then go upstairs to my bedroom and take two xanax. On the way to the family room where Brennan and I spent a lot of time together, I would stop to get his fluffy green throw that he loved to sleep on. I would then drink the vodka and wait for the vodka and xanax to do their work. Mixing the two was dangerous to say the least, but at the time, it didn't matter to me. I wanted to be with him, and this was the only way. I would go to my place of being almost unconscious. With the effects of the vodka, xanax, and the green throw with his scent on it, it was almost like he was with me again.

I suppose I'm taking a risk in publishing this. After all, my friends and family will now know what we went through. We have always kept the level of our pain private and put on our best face for friends and family. We had no Christmas that year. I saw no reason to celebrate let alone embrace my own life. It was a terrible place to be in. Sure, I have lost a lot of friends in the past to AIDS, but nothing hit this close to me. I have a movie I took of him during his last months. I have yet to watch it. I'm scared of what it will do to me. Perhaps someday, I will be able to see it, and remember the good times we had together.

It's probably impossible for anyone reading this to understand. I don't ask you too. This is for my friend, Brennan. For his memory, friendship, and compassion. There is not one day that goes by without thinking of him.

"Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the day time, and falling into at night. I miss you like hell." --Edna St. Vincent Millay