Posted in A&I

Do Cats Grieve?

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                                                 Daphne and the cats

By Bob Buddemeier

My wife, Daphne Fautin, exercised the Death with Dignity option on March 12.  I have written about the human aspects of the process, but humans aren’t the only creatures in our lives or our household

Before

Why cats? Well, they’re family.  Frank, the compulsively friendly Siamese and Kip, the neurotic but amusing Tabby, had been with us since somebody dumped them at our house in rural Kansas in 2013.  We named Frank after Sinatra with his blue-blue eyes.  And Kip was named from Yom Kippur, the holiday we were celebrating when they arrived at our doorstep.

Frank and Daphne

Going beyond that, when you start trying to look Death in the eye, I think it makes you more appreciative of all forms of life, not just your own.  Frank was especially close to Daphne – both in terms of bonding and physically.  They spent many hours together on the couch, with Frank napping up against her leg while she read or did crosswords

As her time dwindled down, one of her most frequently expressed regrets was her inability to explain to the cats what was going on.  Other cat people at RVM (there are many) would say “Oh, they know.”   I have to agree, professional skepticism notwithstanding.

                                    Kip

As time went on, Kip, although a stand-offish cat for 7 years, started sleeping on the bed –even when Daphne took a nap there in the afternoon. Then in the last month, she would get up on the edge of the bed in the evening when Daphne was lying on her back reading.  Kip would put her forepaws and chin on Daphne’s ribcage or belly, and sit propped against her until the lights went out.

At about the same time Frank (always friendly anyway) adopted a new behavior – he would get onto Daphne’s lap, press tight against her chest, and push his head up under her chin.  About as close to a hug as you can get when you have short forelegs.

Neither behavior was seen before that, or with anybody else.  Do they smell leukemia?  Is there some “it’s almost over” cue in body language?  Nothing is certain, but if I had to bet, I’d say that some kind of recognition was going on in their little kitty minds.

After

Daphne died on a Friday; the atending relatives left on Monday.  That morning: Kip didn’t put in an appearance until 11 a.m., and when she did, she was almost completely silent. Both behaviors are very atypical.  Frank got up 6:30-ish and went out on his leash – but only for a very short period. When he came in, he went to sleep on the couch for the rest of the morning.  Also very atypical. Visitor fatigue?  Grief? The answer probably depends on how much of a cat person you are.  The next week cements it in my mind – definitely grief. If a cat can be said to mope, he mopes – sleeps even more than his usual 16 hrs/day, doesn’t claw or climb his cat tree, lies on the floor (instead of on elevated surfaces), responds to but doesn’t solicit petting.

Kip comes back into a more normal mode after a few days, but it’s almost 10 days after Daphne’s death before Frank starts to play with things, rub against legs, and sneak out w/o leash to find his neighborhood buddies who dispense belly rubs.  I continue to try to remember that I need to seek him out and give attention.  He’s a little like Daphne – I’m supposed to know when I should pay attention and not wait for invitations.  A totemic animal — I’ve apparently been married to a member of the Cat Clan for 34 years.

Neither of the cats has ever demonstrated again the behaviors that they consistently showed with Daphne in the interval just before she died.

I put the attractive little chest containing Daphne’s ashes near one of Frank’s favorite napping spots.  Rank superstition?  Positioning the unrecognizable remains of a dead person and an animal as if it would make a difference to either?  Well, so what.  It felt right so I did it.  I spend enough time thinking.

More Six-Word Novels

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Another batch of 6-word Covid novels submitted by RVM residents. Our thanks again to Eleanor Lippman for kicking off this project.

Too much time on our hands.     (Mary Bjorkholm)

Sun’s shining. Sky’s blue. All’s well.      (Willi Zilkey)

Joy to all residents living alone.      (Carolyn Shirk)

Enough! Six words are too much!     (Doyne Mraz)

No longer working, grateful for retirement.     (Janet and Jere Scott)

Is we is, is we isn’t?     ( Gail Schaffer)

Every moment together is a gift.     ( Kay Presnell)

My dog brings me pure joy.      (Dottie Prideaux)

Darn mask fogs up my glasses!     (Jim Quan)

Ready to go? Got your mask?     (Victoria Gorrell)

We are thankful to be thankful.    (Carol Solomon)

2020 frenzy, morbid Covid, monochrome syndrome.   (Janet and Jere Scott)

Wearing a mask is such a task!   (William Silfvast)

Vaccination, maxvacation going out at last!   (Patricia Robb)

Dreaming Praying for Covid-19 to end!   (Anita Sumariwalla)

I’m not throwing away my shot!    ( Ron Silverman)

To SIP has a new meaning.     ( Dolores Fisette)

Remind me – what is your name?      (Alex Maksymowicz)

I miss seeing so many friends.      (William Silfvast)

I am grateful to be here.      (William Silfvast)

To mask or not to mask .     (Barb Field)

All is quiet except for RVMlist.      (Janet Ross)

Our fudge tastes so very good.      (Carol Solomon)

Can hardly wait to get some.      (Sue Silfvast)

Music provides for me much pleasure.     (William Silfvast)

So thankful to be an American!      (Helen Russ)

Positive thinking yields a happier life.      (Robert Carter)

Where do the brown bags go?    (Sol Blechman)

RVM = shelter from the storm.    (Pratibha Eastwood)

Apart but together, still a community.    (Victoria Gorrell)

What will I not do today?   (Ken Kelley)

EAT…WALK…NAP…ZOOM…EAT…T.V.     (Bill & Dorothy Powell)

Inspection, Detection; Infection, Dejection; Injection; Protection. (Dennis Murphy)

In cocoon with love and meows.    (Karen Frair)

Watching birds at feeder every day.     (jbbardin)

Makeup? hmmm…give up, mask up!    (Janet and Jere Scott)

Mired down, Tired, Wired, Fired up.    (Edwin Bennett)

Multiple months inert. Possible to revert?    (Don Vermeer)

Hawaiian Native Arts

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by Tom Conger

Hawaii, the most remote socio-economic complex on the planet, has been a reliable source of residents for RVM since our CCRC opened in 1961. The culture in Hawaii is fairly young, having only been exposed to “western” mores since the 1820 arrival from Boston of Christian missionaries from the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions. In the brief couple of centuries since, the original Polynesian culture—presumably brought with original settlers to the isles from the Marquesas ca. 400 CE—has been flavored by influences from many global cultures; these include Asian contract workers, Portuguese middle managers, Scottish and German engineers, and other imported population groups who came to work in the lucrative agricultural economy which prevailed from the time of the Kamehamehas until recent decades when the last sugar cane and pineapple were harvested and the processing plants shut down. This rainbow of influences, including languages, food, clothing, and other cultural customs has contributed to what is often seen as a “melting pot” society. And from that variegated melding of diverse cultures has emerged what is now regarded as the “aloha spirit.” Exactly how that is defined is subject to any number of different perspectives, but an attitude of friendly tolerance does pervade in the islands.
(And they eat a lot of SPAM… 😁)

There is no question that RVM does maintain a certain Hawaiian flavor, as anywhere from 10% to 17% of all residents have some roots in the Aloha State. The reasons for this are many; foremost is the astronomical cost of living in Hawaii, coupled with comparatively reasonable pricing of accommodations here at RVM. Given that imponderable cost of living in the most remote civilization the world, with its single industry economy, many of today’s young adults are making their careers/lives elsewhere from the isles of their birth. Thus retirement on the left coast of the vast US affords retirees simpler contact with their kids and grands.

To make the transition from that youngest and most unique state in the union requires one to move away from many distinct cultural factors which make up life in Hawaii. Some facets of that distinct lifestyle are what binds many of us to our native shores, and most displaced kama’aina seem to do what they can to replicate on the mainland their accustomed culture.  Among the most common carryovers are food, fashion, and furnishings. For purposes of this series of articles, we want to focus on the artifacts which folks bring with them when they relocate (see: fashion & furnishings). As this writer moved into RVM a mere fortnight before the lockdown, and this presentation is getting under way as pandemic restrictions are just beginning to loosen up, we will have to start small and expand as we make more contacts amongst our Hawaiian contingent, and exposure to more artifacts is made possible.

Shelly Campbell brought with her a nice collection of articles made in Hawaii which serve as daily reminders of her 46 happy years there.

She has two Hawaiian quilts, both apparently hibiscus pattern, which adorn the master bed and a daybed/pune’e.

                           

Please note the koa bedstead by Martin & MacArthur.

Also by Martin & MacArthur is this koa coffee table with ceramic palm frond inlay

This handmade koa dresser is a lovely addition to the boudoir.

Also the koa nightstand

 

A fine painting by contemporary artist Russell Lowery depicts Lanai island as seem from a Maui beachfront:

These are some examples of Hawaii artisanship serving proudly in the cottage of one resident.  To round out this first installment, here are a few items from the writer’s own treasures:

Lauhala hat with feather lei hatband (Maui craftsfolk): birthday present (l-o-n-g ago).
Koa chest by Maui woodworker from 1984.

Koa calabashes and coffee table (family heirlooms)

Koa rocker by Martin & MacArthur (late 1980s)

So, as you can see from just two ol’ kama’aina, there is a nucleus of Hawaii crafts here on campus. We encourage readers who might also have items of historic or artistic significance to contact The Complement and share what’s made it from that distant archipelago to the Rogue Valley in southern Oregon. Me ke aloha pumehana. ( for non Hawaiians, this means Warmest Aloha)

Little Doors

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St. Patrick’s Day Manor Door Decor

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photo collage by Reina Lopez

Main Manor residents like to decorate their doors, especially for holidays.

 

Karen Frair- Computer Artist

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Botox in the Lake

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NIT WIT NEWZ

 

(Nit Wit Newz is an unauthorized, often unreliable, on-line news source designed to keep Manor residents abreast of the inconsequential, trifling and superficial events that dramatically shape and inform our everyday lives here at Rogue Valley Manor.)    

 

LAKE CLEANUP DREDGES UP MYSTERY WRECKAGE

 

Annual February cleanup of Manor lake reveals capsized “small ship.” Puzzled landscape crew finds hull of Quail Point Yacht Club boat filled with empty Botox containers.

Initial fears dismissed that seepage of chemicals from containers may have adverse effect on carp and koi well-being. Inspection by marine biologist declares, “Fish are fine”—but expressed surprise to discover previously encountered wrinkling in older fish “has vanished!”

News sweeps through Lake Village homes.

Residents make demand of new Grounds Manager, Alexander Baldwin. Want refill of lake to include abundant amounts of Botox additive. Despite continued chilly weather, same residents rush to order new spring line of swimwear from Amazon. Form committee to consider feasibility of bringing in sand and adding cabanas to make access to age-reversing waters more resident friendly.

Meanwhile, mystery remains: Who owned sunken vessel? Why was it carrying chemical cargo?   What caused sinking?  Date for official inquiry not yet set.  Yacht club commodore insists he’s “…not a person of interest.”

 

—A. Looney

‘Ua (Rain)

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‘Ua  (Rain)

by Tom Conger

 

Tom Conger is a kama’aina haole (Hawai’i-born White) who has lived and worked many places, but still has his roots firmly embedded in volcanic soil in the mid-Pacific.  A published author, he graciously shares his skills and insights with his companions in retirement.

 

Rain. Windless rain came down in heavy globules, too big for drops, and rumbled onto the metal roof. The sky had darkened long before the first scant spatters, which began slowly—almost hesitant—then swelled in volume, pouring straight down, a good soaking certain. It was the kind of rain that falls seemingly unbidden from the clouds, not the pounding thunder showers which seem expelled by force; this was more a build-up which could no longer be contained, falling gravity-bound through the murky half-light to puddle resolutely in the gravel.

I didn’t used to like rain—always preventing something I wanted to do, or make, or plant. Upcountry life changes all that—too little water, too many farms. The power brokers in Wailuku use water to impose their dominion over honest citizens: “No meter, no permit,” they de­cree, as they jealously hoard the meters—almost a punitive reign of dictators. We ran the last one out; she couldn’t understand the “ser­vice” part of public service. But the bureaucrats railroaded in her successor—one more of the same. So we must rely on the rainfall to keep the pastures green.

Now I like a good downpour, having done too often without rain—an artless commodity, so precious, so restoring, so intractable. I had transplanted some poha shoots; they’ll welcome getting drenched. The night-blooming cereus is hardly ever thirsty—it’s really a cactus after all—but will take what it’s given, as will the dandelions and crabgrass. The rain’s not choosy; it even soaks the one-eyed cat, rushing back to the house from an afternoon hunt amongst the coffee trees. He licks my hand as I dry him off.

The rain dwindles, then stops. The sky brightens. The clouds be­come distinct, each defined by golden trim.

I look up from towelling the kitty. “Thanks,” I say, “we needed that.”

Here, Kitschy Kitschy

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A Flourish of Fabulous Felidae

Artifacts from the shelves and counters of Daphne and Bob

Photography by Reina Lopez

The mama cat at middle left is a matryoshka doll; take her apart at the navel and find a series of smaller cats inside.

 

Cupcats!  Hair’s to you!  (There’s a napkin holder at the bottom– he lives on the counter under the cups)

 

 

Itty-bitty kitties (penny for scale)

Inaugural Poem

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