Searching for Jasper
Yesterday for the first time in four months I bought a bag of cat food and a bag of treats. And now I sit outside of a house one and a half blocks from our old house, hoping that our cat, Jasper, will magically appear.
A feeding station has been set up here, and a woman leaving the food spotted a gray tabby and took a picture of him. It was blurry, but I could convince myself it was him. This woman saw a picture I had posted of Jasper on petfinder.com a couple of weeks after the storm. My husband had just been back to the house and thought Jasper could have gotten out because he found a window broken. We had assumed from the beginning that he and our other cat, Zephyr, had perished as the flood water came up. It was 11.5 feet, according to satellite imagery. But there were signs that the cats had lived on the floating furniture. The thought tortured us. If they were going to die, we had hoped they went quickly.
My husband did find the body of one cat. (He threw my daughter’s bean bag over it so we wouldn’t have to look at it, but I could still see a flattened, matted paw reaching out.) But we never found the other. We’re not sure which one died because they had the same coloring. But we think it was Zephyr. Jasper, we hoped, had escaped. The next time my husband went to the house, though, he discovered that the broken window was double paned and only one pane was broken. On many subsequent trips, however, we never found another body in the house, we assumed the worst--until last week when I received an e-mail from a woman who had spotted some gray tabbies in our old neighborhood, where she has been feeding many surviving cats.
I came out here the other day and was shocked to see how close to our old house one of the feeding stations was. The woman who had lived here happened to be here retrieving some things (what I can’t imagine--the contents are completely ruined). She told me she was here during the storm. I stared in disbelief at her squat, one-story home. It was raised about one foot off the ground. I asked her how she survived and she said she had climbed onto the roof with her 50-pound dog. I wanted to hear more, but all she would say was, “You can’t begin to imagine what it was like unless you were here.” It must have been harrowing for her to even come back here. It is hard enough to see what the floodwaters have left behind, but to have seen the water lapping up against your home and submerging the whole area, and to be climbing onto your roof . . . She’s right. I can’t know what it must have been like.
While I talked to her, a car full of tourists from France pulled up and came over to talk to us. They were very sympathetic and concerned. But it felt awkward having them gawk at our ruined lives. One of them stood across the street in front of a white house where the water lines are very visible and had his picture taken while he pointed at them, showing how the water reached well above his head. (They aren’t alone, of course. See this story about post-Katrina tours in New Orleans.)
The woman who survived the storm told me she had just seen a gray tabby cat run across the street about 15 minutes before. I walked up a driveway, into someone’s back yard, peered into their house, and began to call out “Jasper, here kitty kitty.” No response or movement. So I walked around the block, calling his name, peeking into yards and homes where there was no sign of life. Occasionally a car would drive by. More gawkers? I wondered. Did they see me with my hands cupped around my mouth? Did they hear me calling a pet’s name? Did they feel bad for me? Did I make them think about their own pets, which they may have lost?
In the mad rush to evacuate, my husband had said that we couldn’t bring the cats. Indeed, it would have been very difficult. Zephyr never would have come. He was too wild. But we could have gotten Jasper out. He was a very affectionate, friendly cat, but not a pushover or a demanding lap cat. He was strong and had real character. My dad, who has always hated cats, fell in love with him. So did we, the first time we saw him, at a pet shelter just after Christmas in 1997. He looked straight at us and made eye contact. We felt a real connection with him. We doted on him as if he were our first born. When our daughter was born two years ago, poor Jasper lost his prized position at the top of the totem pole.
From that day on, I’m sad to say, we never fully appreciated him. How many new parents neglect their beloved animals when a baby comes? New-born love is so all-consuming that there doesn’t seem to be much room for anyone or anything else, sometimes even a spouse.
And now as I search databases and make phone calls to rescue organizations, I know I am trying to allay my guilt—for leaving him behind and not loving him enough. My husband says he will be happy if we find Jasper; he will be king of the hill for a long time. But he never wants to get another. I suppose we don’t really deserve one.
Strangely, my daughter doesn’t remember the cats. She loved them (although they only tolerated her), but how quickly they faded from her two-year-old memory. Someday we’ll have to explain, though, because there are plenty of pictures to remind us of them.
A feeding station has been set up here, and a woman leaving the food spotted a gray tabby and took a picture of him. It was blurry, but I could convince myself it was him. This woman saw a picture I had posted of Jasper on petfinder.com a couple of weeks after the storm. My husband had just been back to the house and thought Jasper could have gotten out because he found a window broken. We had assumed from the beginning that he and our other cat, Zephyr, had perished as the flood water came up. It was 11.5 feet, according to satellite imagery. But there were signs that the cats had lived on the floating furniture. The thought tortured us. If they were going to die, we had hoped they went quickly.
My husband did find the body of one cat. (He threw my daughter’s bean bag over it so we wouldn’t have to look at it, but I could still see a flattened, matted paw reaching out.) But we never found the other. We’re not sure which one died because they had the same coloring. But we think it was Zephyr. Jasper, we hoped, had escaped. The next time my husband went to the house, though, he discovered that the broken window was double paned and only one pane was broken. On many subsequent trips, however, we never found another body in the house, we assumed the worst--until last week when I received an e-mail from a woman who had spotted some gray tabbies in our old neighborhood, where she has been feeding many surviving cats.
I came out here the other day and was shocked to see how close to our old house one of the feeding stations was. The woman who had lived here happened to be here retrieving some things (what I can’t imagine--the contents are completely ruined). She told me she was here during the storm. I stared in disbelief at her squat, one-story home. It was raised about one foot off the ground. I asked her how she survived and she said she had climbed onto the roof with her 50-pound dog. I wanted to hear more, but all she would say was, “You can’t begin to imagine what it was like unless you were here.” It must have been harrowing for her to even come back here. It is hard enough to see what the floodwaters have left behind, but to have seen the water lapping up against your home and submerging the whole area, and to be climbing onto your roof . . . She’s right. I can’t know what it must have been like.
While I talked to her, a car full of tourists from France pulled up and came over to talk to us. They were very sympathetic and concerned. But it felt awkward having them gawk at our ruined lives. One of them stood across the street in front of a white house where the water lines are very visible and had his picture taken while he pointed at them, showing how the water reached well above his head. (They aren’t alone, of course. See this story about post-Katrina tours in New Orleans.)
The woman who survived the storm told me she had just seen a gray tabby cat run across the street about 15 minutes before. I walked up a driveway, into someone’s back yard, peered into their house, and began to call out “Jasper, here kitty kitty.” No response or movement. So I walked around the block, calling his name, peeking into yards and homes where there was no sign of life. Occasionally a car would drive by. More gawkers? I wondered. Did they see me with my hands cupped around my mouth? Did they hear me calling a pet’s name? Did they feel bad for me? Did I make them think about their own pets, which they may have lost?
In the mad rush to evacuate, my husband had said that we couldn’t bring the cats. Indeed, it would have been very difficult. Zephyr never would have come. He was too wild. But we could have gotten Jasper out. He was a very affectionate, friendly cat, but not a pushover or a demanding lap cat. He was strong and had real character. My dad, who has always hated cats, fell in love with him. So did we, the first time we saw him, at a pet shelter just after Christmas in 1997. He looked straight at us and made eye contact. We felt a real connection with him. We doted on him as if he were our first born. When our daughter was born two years ago, poor Jasper lost his prized position at the top of the totem pole.
From that day on, I’m sad to say, we never fully appreciated him. How many new parents neglect their beloved animals when a baby comes? New-born love is so all-consuming that there doesn’t seem to be much room for anyone or anything else, sometimes even a spouse.
And now as I search databases and make phone calls to rescue organizations, I know I am trying to allay my guilt—for leaving him behind and not loving him enough. My husband says he will be happy if we find Jasper; he will be king of the hill for a long time. But he never wants to get another. I suppose we don’t really deserve one.
Strangely, my daughter doesn’t remember the cats. She loved them (although they only tolerated her), but how quickly they faded from her two-year-old memory. Someday we’ll have to explain, though, because there are plenty of pictures to remind us of them.
posted by Scribbling Mama | 1:56 PM
2 Comments:
Oh Anne, all of your posts have been so moving, but this one really made me cry. I hope you find him. I don't know what else to say, except I know I'd feel the same guilt if I were you, even though you did what you *had* to do to get your family safely out. My heart goes out to you.
Thanks, dr. virago.
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