Condolences

To Mr. E on the passing of his kitty, Hazel , this past Friday night. I never had much contact with her--whenever I visited Mr. E's cozy abode, she generally kept her distance from me, though I recall one occasion where she not only came within arm's length of me, but actually allowed me to pet her.

That's not unusual--I know many pets who are shy around strangers, but who are warm and loving with their people. So it was with Mr. E and Hazel, and they had 16 1/2 great years together. There's not enough love in this world, much less unconditional love. 16 1/2 years' worth of time spent with a friend who smiled when her chin was scratched is worth quite a bit, it is.

Ernie

Last year, when Ms. Christopher had to be put to sleep, I was in no emotional or financial shape to play host to my annual Halloween Movie Bash (or HMB, as it's known amongst my friends).

Fortunately, Superbadfriend and her husband, Scott, very kindly allowed me to shift the HMB from its usual venue, La Casa del Terror, to their place.

There was much fun and festivity that night, significantly aided and abetted by Superbadfriend's kitty, Ernie, who greeted me, JB and Dee upon their arrival and more than occasionally "worked the room" (i.e., stopped by each person to rub their legs and/or offer his head for petting), making an already comfortable and welcoming atmosphere even more so.

Ernie was always like that. I've visited Superbadfriend and Scott many times (either at their old place in Boystown or their current abode in Buena Park), and I never failed to get a friendly welcome from their feline companion.

Even when their other cat, Other Ernie (who passed a couple of years ago), hissed or even took a swing at me (because he could smell my kitties on me and took offense), Original Ernie never gave me anything but affection.

If a gentleman could manifest himself in the feline form, that would be Ernie--with a special emphasis on the "gentle" part of the equation.

Even in recent times, when Ernie's overall health declined due to kidney problems and caused him to lose a good deal of weight, he still made the rounds, giving everyone an opportunity to stroke his soft fur and feel his strong purr.

On the Sunday before Labor Day, we sat out on their deck, drank wine, ate brownies and generally had a grand old time. More than once during the course of the evening, Ernie wandered out, walking between legs and sticking his head between the bars of the railing to look down into the darkness below before wandering back inside.

Last night. Superbadfriend had do the thing all pet owners know they must do someday as part of the deal for all that unconditional love--she had to say goodbye to her sweet, furry, funny little friend after 17 wonderful years together.

He'll be missed by everyone who had the pleasure--the honor--of knowing him.

Gigi

She was a small kitty--one of those tiny felines who never grows much beyond the age of six months. But as is so often the case when one considers small packages, this one contained more heart and warmth than cats five times her size.

Whenever Dee invited her friends over to her spacious apartment, Gigi would come out several times to "work the room," visiting each person and offering her head to be petted. Many times, she would jump up into one of the visitor's laps and spend a few minutes there, talk loudly and frequently (as calicos of every size often do) and then jump down to give someone else in the room a chance.

When Gigi wasn't in the room, we'd often joke that she had run off to my place to have a wild party with my kitties, Olivia and Ms. Christopher. We imagined the three of them trashing the joint and leaving much debris in their furry wakes. (In truth, given the usual state of organization in La Casa del Terror, I doubt I'd be able to tell the difference if they had trashed the joint.)

She was an elderly girl when Dee adopted her from the shelter several years ago, but with much love and attention from her "mom," she enjoyed life despite the occasional health challenge.

This past Thanksgiving Day, though, Dee had to take Gigi to the emergency veterinary hospital, where she was told that Gigi was experiencing renal failure and heart problems. After a couple more days at her regular vet, Gigi came home, where she and Dee continued to fight the good fight with the aid of syringe-fed meds and IV fluids.

This past Friday, the fight ended. Gigi moved on over the Rainbow Bridge, where she no doubt met up with Ms. Christopher to pass the catnip hookah and share a laugh or two at all the fun and frolic they had with their human friends, left behind to mourn their passing.

That is if, in fact, cats actually laugh. I know that they smile--and bring many smiles in return.

Swimming Underwater

That's what it's felt like the past couple of days.

After rallying somewhat over the weekend with her new, improved meds, Ms. Christopher declined suddenly and rapidly starting Tuesday, when she was unsteady on her feet (never a good sign for a cat, one of the most surefooted creatures on Earth) and not inclined to eat, through Wednesday night, when I coaxed her to chow down on some Meow Mix lobster & crab combo even though she was having trouble walking, through Thursday morning, when I put her down on the floor (after keeping watch over her all night and getting not a wink of sleep) and watching her try to stand, cry out in pain and sit back down.

Superbadfriend told me a few days ago that Christopher would let me know when the time had come. She was right.

I kept her comfortable for the remaining hours before dawn, made the earliest appointment I could with the vet (who was as heartbroken as I was at this sad, sudden turn of events) and got her there by cab as quickly as possible (rush-hour traffic nothwithstanding). The vet made a brief examination, determined that Christopher's liver had finally given out and did the only thing left that we could do for her--end her suffering.

I would later take Chris down to Mom's house and, with my brother's help, lay her to rest, with one of her favorite catnip toys tucked between her paws, in the backyard, just a few feet away from Gray Cat (my Russian Blue who made it to 20 years old before having to be put down in 1997), Monkey (Mom's cat who passed last year) and several other family pets. I went to work for a few hours--sick as it sounds, the distraction was welcome--and finally, regretfully returned La Casa del Terror, which still smelled strongly of sick cat on a day that was too cool for open windows.

Olivia ran up to me and begged for food and attention, but then started searching the apartment for Christopher, looking under the bed and couch (two of Chris's favorite hiding places), around corners, in the litter pan. The two cats didn't like each other much, but they'd been roommates for nearly four years and Li'L O couldn't understand why the big fluffball wasn't there. "She's not coming back," I explained to her as calmly as I could through tears. "It's just you and me for now." And there were phone calls and messages from friends from coast to coast, grieving along with me.

The hardest part, though, was the minutes spent in the examination room, comforting my poor, dying Girlish Girl--my friend who'd blessed my life with unconditional love for 13 of her 15 years--while the vet and her assistant administered the muscle relaxant to ease her pain and the final injection to end it. The whole time, the vet, the assistant and I stroked Christopher's fur, telling her what a good, sweet kitty she was, even well after she couldn't hear or feel us anymore.

And so she was, as anyone who ever met her--and quite a few who didn't--knew well.

The Thanksgiving Cat

The feline in my brother's arms was small--probably only weeks past the point where she would still be considered "a kitten"--with shiny black fur flecked with beige and gold (what some people call "a tortie") and large yellow-green (green-yellow?) eyes that were, at this particular moment, darting in all directions, trying to soak up unfamiliar surroundings without panic and/or fear being absorbed as well.

He'd found her in Mom's backyard, running for her little life from very loud, very animated, very pissed-off squirrels. (Think that's funny? Consider: When you've seen or heard a squirrel perched on a fence or a telephone pole yelling its fuzzy head off, did you run up to it and offer a hug? No, you more than likely steered clear of the little rodent until it calmed down a bit. Now imagine that the angry/upset squirrel is actually charging you. You'd probably back away from it, at least. Now imagine that you're roughly the same size as the charging, pissed-off squirrel. Not so funny now, is it?)

Once he's rescued her from the fury of the nut gatherers, my brother carried her inside, where her reaction to the presence of Mom's cats was almost as extreme as her reaction to the squirrels had been--it appeared that she hated other cats, or at least hated seeing so many other cats in one place at one time. So he brought her upstairs to his apartment (which had been mine for about a decade before I moved into the original La Casa del Terror) and kept her there. He also gave her a name: Peanut. (Because she was attacked by squirrels. Get it?) Now, he was showing her to me--with a purpose in mind.

It had been over a year since I'd had Lottie put to sleep. In that time, Ms. Christopher and I had more or less adjusted to harsh reality: her sister was gone, and we were on our own. I knew, though, even as we were becoming accustomed to being alone with each other, that I wanted to add another cat at some point, if only to have company for Christopher on those days when I got stuck at work until whenever. And my brother wasn't enthused about the prospect of Mom bringing in another stray, no matter how pretty that stray might be.

So, for all intents and purposes, I was conducting an interview with this cat.

My brother explained her idiosyncrasies to me--not only her apparent aversion to other cats (a possible complicating factor for bringing her into a home with a kitty already in it), but her hatred of toes (she attacked them constantly, whether they were covered or not, which may have lead to her being thrown out by Mom's next-door neighbors for being "too mean") and her love of chasing pieces of paper (crumple up a receipt from Walgreens, toss it across the room and watch her bat it around for hours, sometimes even bringing it back for a game of "fetch"), though she also enjoyed catnip-filled mice, little puffy balls and shoestrings as much as the next feline.

After he'd told me everything he felt he needed to, he handed the little calico to me and I lifted her to my shoulder, where she propped her tiny black paws, her claws digging through the fabric of my shirt and into my skin ever so slightly--not for defensive purposes, though she probably was at least a little scared to be held in the arms of a stranger, but to keep from falling, though I had no intention of dropping her. I stroked her smooth, soft fur and scratched her chin. She began purring hard enough to rattle my fillings out.

I wanted to take her home right then and there--if this had indeed been an interview, she'd have been hired on the spot.

Of course, it wasn't that simple; nothing ever is. She needed to be spayed, and Mom volunteered to pay for this (a point which I didn't argue). Mom also had her front claws removed--I'm not the biggest fan of declawing (Ms. Christopher still has all of hers), but given her toe-attacking tendencies and love of "sharpening" against the furniture, it's just as well that Mom went there.

The cat would need at least a couple of weeks (maybe more) to properly recuperate from the operations in the relative privacy and comfort of my brother's apartment, then I could take her home--most likely on Thanksgiving Day, when I would have the whole four-day weekend to watch how she interacted with Christopher and to keep her from wrecking the joint.

I wound up picking her up the day after Thanksgiving, though I did make a point to spend time with her the night before. I brought the large orange crate that we used for toting cats in (with a clean blue towel tucked into it for comfort), and my brother brought the little calico down. Once again, her eyes were wide and darting, but this time when I took her she was not purring, but shaking--panic and fear had set in and taken a firm hold.

As I put the kitty in the crate, Mom came out. "Bye, Peanut," she said, obviously sad and seemingly fighting back tears, "Sorry you can't stay." Maybe Mom had set her heart on keeping the cat, or thought I would back out of the deal for whatever reason. She didn't try to talk me out of it, though, as I walked out the door, headed for the nearest major street and flagged a cab.

Once in the cab, I did my best to keep her calm, reaching through the holes in the crate to stroke her forehead or rub her chin. For the most part, that worked--she only cried out a few times on the long ride home, and each time I was able to quiet her down again. I also started calling her by her new name: Olivia.

It wasn't that I had anything against the name Peanut...okay, I had plenty against it. I thought it was a stupid name, and I've always liked the name Olivia; if I'd ever had a daughter, that would have been her name. Instead, it went to a small, thin and, at this particular moment, frightened little cat.

I hauled her up the three flights of stairs to La Casa del Terror, set the crate down on the kitchen floor and popped the door open. Olivia slowly came out, low to the linoleum floor, carefully inspecting her new surroundings with what appeared to be interest rather than dread.

Then Olivia came face to face with Ms. Christopher, who had come out from her resting place in the living room to see what was going on in the kitchen--and found a trespasser on her turf. It was not, as you'd imagine, love at first sight. There was a great deal of hissing from both cats, and Olivia retreated to the safety of the crate, where she settled on the blue towel and did not move again until Christopher left the room.

The same scenario played itself out from time to time over the next few days: Cats meet; cats hiss (sometimes even exchanging blows); cats separate. Lather, rinse, repeat. You might expect that Christopher, being more than twice the size of Olivia and still having front claws, would win the majority of these bouts. And you would be wrong--Olivia, being younger, faster and more aggressive, soundly thumped the older, more passive fluffball each and every time, then retreated to her crate in the kitchen until I finally closed the door and put it away.

Some of Olivia's personal quirks faded with time. Her obsession with attacking feet went away, although there were mornings when she would reach under the bathroom door like some '50s sci-fi monster to try and take a toe or two. She still doesn't get along with Ms. Christopher, though--they rarely are found in the same room and only sit on the same piece of furniture if they've called a truce because I'm sick or sad. Even then, they don't sit together; they'll bookend me on the couch or sit at opposite ends of the bed. When feeding time comes, though, they each attend their own bowl and don't even notice the other's existence.

Olivia is no longer a small, scared kitten, though. She's filled out a bit--not fat necessarily, but not skinny anymore, either--and walks around La Casa del Terror like she owns the joint. At the Halloween Movie Bash, she's the cat who comes out and works the room, rubbing up against the legs of guests and perching on the arms or back of the couch while Ms. Christopher hides under the couch until she gets hungry or needs to use the litter pan.

Olivia likes to cry loudly for my attention, whether it's first thing in the morning when it's time for me to get up and put a tin of Friskies down, or in the evening when I get home and she gets vocal before I even put my key in the front door. When friends drop me off after an evening out, they can usually hear her calling me from the living room window.

She's also become quite the cuddle kitty, often curling up next to me while I watch TV in the evening--much to Christopher's chagrin. The old fuzzball still gets attention all her own, though; since Olivia isn't really a lap cat, Christopher can claim that territory, even if she's still a good deal more than a lapful. Christopher would get that attention anyway. She's 14, and even though her appetite is hearty and she gets around just fine, jumping on and off my tall bed with relative ease, I know that she'll be joining Lottie at the Rainbow Bridge sooner rather than later, so I pet her and hold her close whenever I get a chance--much to Olivia's chagrin.

The younger cat gets more than her share of attention, though, and rarely has reason to complain (though she often does so anyway). Whenever I crumble up a piece of paper or cellophane wrapping, her eyes widen--with eager anticipation, rather than fear or panic--and when I toss the paper down the hall, ricocheting it off the walls, Olivia races after it, muscles flexing, coat shining, clawless front paws batting the freshly minted plaything back and forth until either she loses it under some piece of furniture that she can't reach under or, more likely, she pins it down, picks it up in her mouth and trots back to me with her prize, smiling with pride all the way.

Quickies

No, not that kind of quickie. Get your minds out of the gutter for just a moment. As most of you know, my job is keeping me insanely busy and likely will through Thanksgiving, if not Christmas. That being said, I'd still like to sneak in updates where I can. So here are a few short ones, most of which go back to essays past:

My Artistic Friends
Superbadfriend used to be a co-worker and is still one of my best friends. She's also one of the most creative people I know, working with encaustics (paint made from pigments, beeswax and resin) and found objects. And now? She has a website. Go there and check out her amazing work. If you see something you might want to hang in your own home (like the miniature pieces I'm honored to have hanging in mine), shoot her an email and ask about prices. And even if you don't want to buy anything right now, just shoot her an email anyway--she's one of the sweetest, most friendly, most supportive people you'll ever talk to.

This Sporting Life
Cubs fans: You don't need Alex Rodriguez--you already have enough overpriced players who can't hit in the playoffs. White Sox fans: Aaron Rowand is a free agent--hope the team signs him and regains some of that spark back that they had when they won the World Series. Blackhawks fans: Getting home games on TV is a great place to start--hope they put something on the ice worth watching. Bulls fans: You don't need Kobe Bryant--he won't win you any more championships by himself than he won in LA by himself. Bears fans: With no running game, defenders who can't tackle and a former Pro Bowler with an arthritic back and a pissy attitude (hey, it's the media's fault your back hurts, Mr. Urlacher), the quality of your starting quarterback is suddenly the least of your concerns--happy now?

The Daley Grind
So nice of you, Mr. Mayor, to set aside your obsession with the 2016 Olympics (which a lot of Chicagoans don't want anyway since it'll make us more of a terrorist threat and create bigger traffic headaches than we already have) and your record tax increase proposal (so enormous that quite a few of us, myself included, might have to move out of the city in the near future because we won't be able to afford to live here anymore) in order to focus, if only for a minute or two, on the budget crisis at the CTA. Good to know you can pay attention to the near future--as in literally days from now--instead of going glassy-eyed like an addled 5-year-old who starts dreaming about Christmas Day in April.

Speaking of the CTA...
All those lovely, laminated signs you have taped up at bus stops and those equally eye-catching ones on the trains where paid advertisements usually are found must have cost some serious coinÑcoin you keep telling everybody and anybody with ears on their heads you don't have. I know the CTA needs a permanent funding solutions, I don't want any of my bus or train routes getting axed, and I do want our Governor and Speaker of the House to stop their dick-wagging contest because they're both coming off like short, short men. But printing and distributing all those signs and flyers makes it look like you've got money to spare or that the agency isn't particularly well managed or both--not the best impression when you've got your hand out.

The Rainbow Bridge
Sometimes, pet names qualify as truth in advertising.

Example: Stubby, a gray calico who was small, short and missing at least three joints off her tail. Her nickname, Squally, fit as well: for something so small, she sure was loud. She lived a long and mostly placid life with Mom, but even long and placid lives have an end. She'd been sick for some time--can't remember whether it was her kidneys or her thyroid--and when scheduling dinner recently, Mom told me Stubby' s time was nearly at hand; she was barely eating and had lost a lot of weight (and she never weighed much to begin with).

So the next time I came over, I sought Stubby out. She was in a cardboard box in the dining room, small and frail in the darkness. I reached in and stroked her head; she rubbed against my hand and purred loudly. As I walked away, she rose unsteadily, vaulted from the box to the dining room table (as much as a cat on her deathbed can actually "vault") and staggered unsteadily after me. I picked her up (she weighed next to nothing), carried her to the living room and set her in my lap, where she stayed for the remainder of the evening, alternately purring at being petted and staring off into the distance at something the rest of us couldn't see.

One Last Thing
Halloween is my favorite holiday. Has been since I was a kid. Always loved decorating my apartment for the occasion, watching movies with my friends, the whole deal. (Okay, not so much the dressing up part--once you spend an evening in a Lancelot Link, Secret Chimp costume, you're pretty much scarred for life.) So tonight, I'll be in front of the TV in La Casa del Terror, tasty treats at hand, remote in hand, and monsters traversing my scream...er, screen. Have a happy and safe Halloween, one and all.

The Rainbow Bridge

One advantage I've found in having cats is that there's really no reason to set an alarm clock. They know when they're supposed to be fed, and they won't let you forget it either. Olivia parks beside my bed and, spying the slightest movement, begins to yowl like she hasn't been fed in weeks, months even. And Ms. Christopher? She usually hangs out on one side of my head or the other and begins to bark the moment my eyelids flicker open.

There's no use trying to ignore them or argue the point; I have to get up and go to work anyway, right? (Except for Saturday or Sunday, of course, but it's easier to pop open a tin of Friskies, throw it in the matching bowls and head back to bed.)

One morning, not long ago, I was getting ready for work, stumbling through my hallway to get some clothing, when I spotted something on the hardwood floor. I didn't have my glasses on, so I assumed it was just a lump of Ms. Christopher's fur (she leaves them everywhere, being a n enormous puffball of a cat).

Until I touched it. It was wet. And and close up, I could see that it had a tail.

It was a mouse. And it was dead.

After washing my right hand half a dozen times, I covered the mouse with tissue, got a plastic bag and picked it up. Only Olivia showed any interest in this operation, so I assume she was the one who caught and killed the little rodent.

This is new for me. I've never had a mouse in the house before--at least while living on my own. (We used to get them occasionally at Mom's house, which was pretty suicidal, given how many cats she has.)

Could have been worse. Cats love to show off their trophies. And love to bring them to you. I could have found it in a shoe. Or on my bed. So...the hallway's not so bad, really.

It turned out that this wasn't Olivia's first kill. Before I brought her to La Casa del Terror, she lived with my mother and brother for about three months. She stayed upstairs with my brother, since it seemed that she didn't get along at all with other cats and most of Mom's cats were (and are) elderly. She was allowed downstairs for short periods, though, and in one of these, she chased down and killed what must have been a mouse with an especially powerful death wish while the other cats either sat and watched or paid the rodent (and Olivia) no attention at all.

"You worthless sacks of fur!" my brother yelled at the other cats. Maybe that was unfair. Maybe they'd lost their hunting instincts after so many years of life as housecats. Whatever the case, Olivia did what they either wouldn't or couldn't then, and even without front claws (Mom had her declawed before handing her off to me), she was still able and willing to do it now.

One of those "worthless sacks of fur" was Monkey, a black-and-white tomcat whom Mom had brought in ages ago. He was the kind of cat only an owner could love. He had clumps of fur all over his body. He was snaggle-toothed. His head was enormous and his body thin, so he looked like a walking, fur-bound bobblehead. And he smelled awful. He looked like he'd been hit by a truck, and maybe he had.

The other cats couldn't stand Monkey and regularly took turns beating his ass. Mom loved him, though, and he was utterly devoted to her. Rare was the night when he wasn't curled up next to her--for protection, sure, but also for the attention she lavished on him and the affection he returned to her.

Nobody, including the vet, knew exactly how old he was. He was an older cat when Mom took him in, and she had him for about 15 years until one recent Friday night when, after having spent much of the night with Mom, he cried at her bedroom door to be let out, probably so he could get some water or use the litter pan, and didn't come back the rest of the night.

Saturday morning, a couple of the cats went up to my brother's bedroom window and began meowing. That's something they just didn't do--something was wrong downstairs. He got up and followed them downstairs. Monkey was lying perfectly motionless. My brother woke Mom up to tell her he was dead. When he returned to Monkey, though, his body had shifted position; he wasn't dead, but had the look an animal does right before its time has come, with an unsteady head and sightless stare. He passed on later that morning.

While Monkey was being laid to rest, another cat belonging to someone close to me was seriously ill as well.

Jessie had two cats named Ernie--unusual, you might think, weird even, until you know that she owned one Ernie, a large tabby, before acquiring the second, a gray-and-white tomcat, from her sister, who had to give her Ernie up because she was moving into a studio apartment and didn't have the room to keep him. So she brought him north to Chicago from Ft. Lauderdale, and here he happily lived with Jessie, her husband and Ernie the First (also known as Ernest) for several years.

Ernie always hissed at me at least once whenever I visited Jessie, probably because he could smell the Girlish Girls on my clothing, my shoes, my backpack. But he never bit me or took a swing, and he always let me pet him at least once per visit and even take his picture.

A few weeks ago, Ernie became seriously ill--his eyes looked funny (and not in a "ha ha" kind of way), he stopped eating and going to the litter pan, and he constantly cried, as if in pain. Jessie didn't know what was up; she thought he was having a relapse from the illness he suffered during the tainted pet food scare a few months back.

Then Ernie, without explanation, went blind.

Jessie took Ernie to a specialist in the suburbs to determine the source of the blindness and pain and, when she visited the day before he was scheduled to have an MRI, she brought out his favorite toys, CDs with soothing sounds and even, Ernest, who was not happy to be stuffed in the cat carrier, but was perfectly happy to spend time with his old partner in crime.

The attention seemed to soothe Ernie who, for the first time in weeks, closed his eyes and took a nap. According the vets, this should have been impossible--his eyes were paralyzed open. But sometimes, if only for a few blessed minutes, the impossible is possible again.

Unfortunately, the MRI yielded the worst possible results: Ernie had cancer of the nose (who knew there was such a thing?). It had spread to his brain. It was inoperable. There was nothing Jessie could do but ensure that her friend would not be in pain any longer. She gave the specialist the needed authorization; Ernie never woke up.

When I called Jessie that night, I didn't know what to say. The situation reminded me so much of when I had to have Lottie put to sleep--both the same age (10), both with inoperable cancer (Lottie's was in her abdomen), both owners receiving that horrible call. Even after four years, I can't talk about Lottie without breaking down. By the time I got off the phone with Jessie, I was crying, both for her loss and my own. I continued for a good while after.

When Lottie died, both my regular vet and the 24-hour facility I took her to sent me sympathy cards. In the one from my vet was a photocopy, several generations old but still legible, of the story of the Rainbow Bridge. It pretty well matches what Jessie posted on her MySpace page:

Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge. When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable. All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by.

The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind. They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster. You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart. Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together.

I hope that Lottie was there to greet Ernie and Monkey at the Rainbow Bridge and that she keeps them company until their "very special" persons--or hers--are there, ready to escort them to the other side.