Boqui

Ninina had The Pootie. Panni had Boqui, a tuxedo cat who lived to be twenty years old. He adopted her when he was seven years old. She took very, very good care of him. He was prone to cystitis, and nearly lost all of his lives several times. When Panni insisted that the vet "turn him into a girl," he recouped several of those lives. She kept him going, as long as he had "a quality of life." For Panni, that meant until he could no longer climb up on the ledge of the tub to lick a trickle of water from the faucet. Everyone -- Panni, the vet, and his staff -- cried when Boqui was put to sleep. Soon afterward, she wrote the following:

BUCKY

BY ANA RAAB MARRERO

My best friend, died.
His coat was shiny and soft and smelled so good. His eyes were gleaming like emeralds in the night as he slipped around making rounds ---- my little feral cat.
For a long time he did not seem to age since he adopted me many years ago. He gave me unconditional love and friendship to my friends.
His presence was discreet and elegant, with his black coat, white collar and paws, and his moustache was also white. He remained a playful little cat for many years, he liked to climb one particular tree in front of the house – and then he could not come down! The boys next door needed a ladder to catch him and bring him down. He never hurt the little birds on the tree and I think the birds knew that he was a friend. They kept flying around and tending to their chicks, while Bucky was laying (sic) motionless under the tree, apparently minding his own business.
For a long time he did not seem to age. He spent three months boarding at the vet, when I was sick and they took good care of him. The aging process started taking its toll, I don’t remember when he stopped running on the street and climbing the tree. His appetite declined, but he kept keeping me company dutifully, politely, and lovingly around the house.
He loved the fresh water dripping from the faucet over the bathtub, which I kept always open. Then he could not climb over the edge of the bathtub any more. That was the beginning of the end. He stopped eating and dragging himself (began to drag himself around the house – GM).
The veterinarian’s diagnosis (dg – ARM) was possible malignancy and – old age. Twenty years old, the oldest cat they had under their care. I am not one for euthanasia: the choice being the convenience of our friend, prevailing over the caretaker’s convenience.
Bucky was put to sleep and we all cried, the vet, the vet’s assistants, the office administrator, myself.
Good bye old friend! May be we’ll meet again some day.
BUCKY O’DONNELL MARRERO
1977 – April 11, 1997
365 words – typed (and slightly edited) by Georgina Marrero, Friday, 9/26/03

(The sweet tuxedo cat in the picture, Frisky, courtesy of Catherine and Scott.)

The Pootie

This was my Pootie. I was privileged to have him in my life between 1991 and 2003. I've written tons about him, but nothing more important than to refer to him as "My Second Soul." 'Nuff said.

In 1982, I lost a Siamese kitten named "Iskra" (Spark, in Russian). Panni wrote a poem about her:

Iskra (In memoriam of a mysterious little cat)

Her little body was light and soft
Her eyes were misty and blue –
She was a rather silent little cat
But she actually looked at you.

I wondered what she was looking for
Early in the morning sitting on
My knees –
What was the meaning of
Her short life?
And the meaning of her
Untimely death?

Panni's Grand Slam, Forever: Andre Agassi

Panni paid attention to a wide assortment of things. She caught me by surprise with her interest in sports. More specifically, she kept an eye on tennis and golf. She was fascinated by Tiger Woods, by his youth and his exotic background. As for tennis: she kept mentioning Andre Agassi. I didn't really keep up with the sport for a long time, so it really floored me that she did. She was aware of his matches and his marital ups and downs. (OK, she had a deep dark secret: she periodically bought The National Enquirer.) When I least expected it, she mentioned him. It tickled me; it really did. In the past few years, I've paid more attention to both of these sports, and actually make it a point to not miss the last day of the Masters Tournament. I even cry; I really do. The other night, I fell asleep, only to wake up in time to watch Andre reach the quarter-finals in this year's US Open. I wonder who woke me up... Today, however, I was all hepped up, and ready, to watch Andre face Roger Federer in the finals. At the end of the first two sets, we experienced a power outage. Rats! Later on I found out Federer had bested him. He's younger, stronger, and--well--younger. (I refuse to say that he's better, even though Andre graciously conceded that the Swiss is the most formidable opponent he's ever faced.)
Panni's proud of you, Andre: you'll always be her (and my) Grand Slam.