phool loss of pets/Tulip

The Loss of Tulip Wisteria

Tulip Wisteria
4-10-76 to 9-3-96 TULIP WISTERIA

November 3, 1996

Two months ago today, I lost my beloved Beautiful Sweetheart, Tulip Wisteria. It was just a few months more than a year after I lost my precious Pretty Princess, Daisy Hyacinth. Tulip fought an even longer battle than Daisy; she had been ill since New Years.

I had thought this would be easier the second time, but I was badly mistaken. With Daisy, there was a clear change in her condition and I knew it was time. With Tulip, the changes were gradual and I struggled for months knowing the decision would have to be made “soon.” I still am not sure if I should have acted sooner or later. Either way, I fear I may have failed her in some way.

I believe Tulip missed Daisy as much as I do and that she just decided not to go on living alone. Ironically, one of the reasons I didn’t adopt a kitten as company for her when Daisy died, is that the vet worried that Tulip might stop eating if a new pet were brought into the household. “She could sink into a hole that we could never pull her out of,” he cautioned. She stopped eating, more or less, about when we came back from a short Christmas vacation and no physical reasons could be found.

For months, I fed her baby food on my fingers to keep her alive; we almost lost her several times. Each time, she rallied at the crucial moment of decision, once quite strongly after a steroid shot (my baby, the superathlete!) She got her appetite back, but she was never herself again. Around Thanksgiving last year she was still jumping up on the kitchen counter. By March, she couldn’t reach the seat of her favorite chairs. For awhile, she was able to use the stairways of hassocks and pillows that I arranged. Eventually, I had to put her on the seats, but she could get down on her own. On nice days I would leave her in front of the patio doors so she could watch the squirrels. Her last weeks, she was no longer able to get down by herself, so she was confined to the floor. She struggled to keep going, but in the end, her little legs just gave out. Sometimes when she would fall over, she wasn’t able to get back up on her own, so we really couldn’t leave her alone for very long.

During her last months, Tulip needed a lot of attention. She got eyedroppers of potassium and baby vitamins, and a nutritional gel mixed with her food. Some days she ate on her own; others I had to feed her. Many days, I cleaned and groomed her. For a time, I gave her weekly oil rubs to alleviate severe dry skin she had developed. I came to understand better what it is to be the mother of a baby who depends on you for everything. Tulip, who had always been fiercely independent, submitted to me almost placidly in her last months. Of course, not every day, or she would not have been Tulip! We reached an understanding of sorts. If we were close before Daisy died, we were yin and yang after.

True to her character, she did not go easily from this world. The vet had some silly notion that he could just put a little tourniquet around her back leg and give her the fatal injection. Not so fast, buddy. With much hissing and attempts at biting, Tulip showed him her legs may have been gone, but her spirit was as spunky as ever. He gave her a sedative, and when she was groggy, he gave the injection as I stroked her and sang our own special song “Toolie Oolie Oolie Do You Love Me?”.

I try to dwell on the happy times--there were so many of them! I remember her little tail raised in the air as she ran perkily up and down the stairs. (She had the cutest little behind!) I remember her hunting sounds as she played with her tiny red mittens, throwing them into the air like a bolo toy. I remember how she used to sit on the bathroom sink, waiting for me to show up. Then she would cry until I turned the water on for her to drink directly from the faucet. (She learned this trick late in life--she was so smart!). I remember the night she got out at Lincoln Road and I didn’t know it. I scoured the house and called Charlie, hysterical that she must be dead in a corner somewhere. Then I heard that distinctive meow in the distance. I was always hearing that distinctive meow somewhere, and oh, how I miss it!

Mostly what I keep remembering is the first time I saw her. Someone brought her into Kindness Kennels with a litter for adoption. She was the tiniest kitten, all huddled in a little ball and overwhelmed by her siblings. I took her into my palms and thought, “This one really needs me.” I felt an instant bond, as though our hearts fused together. I adopted her and Daisy (from another litter) and the three of us became a family. Daisy was always sweet and lovable. Tulip was usually cute and adorable. Daisy expected nothing; Tulip demanded everything. She was bright, inquisitive, independent, cantankerous, and generally a mirror image of her mommy. I guess that’s why I loved her unconditionally.

Tulip was much more than my “number one baby, number two big girl;” she was my best friend. She was there for me for over twenty years, sleeping under my arm at night. To our longtime favorite songs “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” and “Be My Little Baby Bumble Bee (our dance number), we had added Daisy’s song “It’s a Sin To Tell a Lie.” In her last few hours, I carried her around the house, singing to her, as we said goodbye to her favorite places. I think she understood it was the last time she would see them. She gave me the saddest looks, as if she wished with all her heart that her little body could once again carry her up to those sunny places she so dearly loved.

The first few weeks, it was especially difficult to come home at night. No one was waiting for me to take care of her. Bedtime is even more unbearable than it was after Daisy died; at least then I had Tulip for comfort. Some nights (mostly when I am very tired), I cry only a little; others I weep uncontrollably. Often, I clutch one of my bears against me on Tulip’s side. The poor fellow is quite confused at this sudden attention. He doesn’t know he has soft fur and is about the same size as Tulip. But he doesn’t breath against my face; he doesn’t purr into my chin. He doesn’t rub against me to comfort me in my sorrow. He doesn’t even know I am sad. How can he? He is not my alter ego; Tulip was my alter ego. Tulip was me reincarnated, only I didn’t have to die for it to happen. Now she is gone and I am left to ponder how one’s reincarnation can die before oneself--a metaphysical conundrum. I have lost my heart and my soul. What is left?

Tulip’s urn is near Daisy’s pottery jar and I have commissioned a special one for her, too. They will both be at rest, side by side, in something as unique as they were.

Mommy misses you, Tulip, my Love. I hope you are with your sister, Daisy, somewhere warm and quiet, asleep in one another’s paws. Kisses to both of you. --Elaine

For Daisy's complete eulogy and full-size photo, please click here: DAISY


The Loss of Tulip Wisteria
Tulip Wisteria 4-10-76 to 9-3-96	TULIP WISTERIA November 3, 1996 Two months ago today, I lost my beloved Beautiful Sweetheart, Tulip Wisteria. It was just a few months more than a year after I lost my precious Pretty Princess, Daisy Hyacinth. Tulip fought an even longer battle than Daisy; she had been ill since New Years. I had thought this would be easier the second time, but I was badly mistaken. With Daisy, there was a clear change in her condition and I knew it was time. With Tulip, the changes were gradual and I struggled for months knowing the decision would have to be made “soon.” I still am not sure if I should have acted sooner or later. Either way, I fear I may have failed her in some way. I believe Tulip missed Daisy as much as I do and that she just decided not to go on living alone. Ironically, one of the reasons I didn’t adopt a kitten as company for her when Daisy died, is that the vet worried that Tulip might stop eating if a new pet were brought into the household. “She could sink into a hole that we could never pull her out of,” he cautioned. She stopped eating, more or less, about when we came back from a short Christmas vacation and no physical reasons could be found.
For months, I fed her baby food on my fingers to keep her alive; we almost lost her several times. Each time, she rallied at the crucial moment of decision, once quite strongly after a steroid shot (my baby, the superathlete!) She got her appetite back, but she was never herself again. Around Thanksgiving last year she was still jumping up on the kitchen counter. By March, she couldn’t reach the seat of her favorite chairs. For awhile, she was able to use the stairways of hassocks and pillows that I arranged. Eventually, I had to put her on the seats, but she could get down on her own. On nice days I would leave her in front of the patio doors so she could watch the squirrels. Her last weeks, she was no longer able to get down by herself, so she was confined to the floor. She struggled to keep going, but in the end, her little legs just gave out. Sometimes when she would fall over, she wasn’t able to get back up on her own, so we really couldn’t leave her alone for very long. During her last months, Tulip needed a lot of attention. She got eyedroppers of potassium and baby vitamins, and a nutritional gel mixed with her food. Some days she ate on her own; others I had to feed her. Many days, I cleaned and groomed her. For a time, I gave her weekly oil rubs to alleviate severe dry skin she had developed. I came to understand better what it is to be the mother of a baby who depends on you for everything. Tulip, who had always been fiercely independent, submitted to me almost placidly in her last months. Of course, not every day, or she would not have been Tulip! We reached an understanding of sorts. If we were close before Daisy died, we were yin and yang after. True to her character, she did not go easily from this world. The vet had some silly notion that he could just put a little tourniquet around her back leg and give her the fatal injection. Not so fast, buddy. With much hissing and attempts at biting, Tulip showed him her legs may have been gone, but her spirit was as spunky as ever. He gave her a sedative, and when she was groggy, he gave the injection as I stroked her and sang our own special song “Toolie Oolie Oolie Do You Love Me?”. I try to dwell on the happy times--there were so many of them! I remember her little tail raised in the air as she ran perkily up and down the stairs. (She had the cutest little behind!) I remember her hunting sounds as she played with her tiny red mittens, throwing them into the air like a bolo toy. I remember how she used to sit on the bathroom sink, waiting for me to show up. Then she would cry until I turned the water on for her to drink directly from the faucet. (She learned this trick late in life--she was so smart!). I remember the night she got out at Lincoln Road and I didn’t know it. I scoured the house and called Charlie, hysterical that she must be dead in a corner somewhere. Then I heard that distinctive meow in the distance. I was always hearing that distinctive meow somewhere, and oh, how I miss it! Mostly what I keep remembering is the first time I saw her. Someone brought her into Kindness Kennels with a litter for adoption. She was the tiniest kitten, all huddled in a little ball and overwhelmed by her siblings. I took her into my palms and thought, “This one really needs me.” I felt an instant bond, as though our hearts fused together. I adopted her and Daisy (from another litter) and the three of us became a family. Daisy was always sweet and lovable. Tulip was usually cute and adorable. Daisy expected nothing; Tulip demanded everything. She was bright, inquisitive, independent, cantankerous, and generally a mirror image of her mommy. I guess that’s why I loved her unconditionally. Tulip was much more than my “number one baby, number two big girl;” she was my best friend. She was there for me for over twenty years, sleeping under my arm at night. To our longtime favorite songs “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” and “Be My Little Baby Bumble Bee (our dance number), we had added Daisy’s song “It’s a Sin To Tell a Lie.” In her last few hours, I carried her around the house, singing to her, as we said goodbye to her favorite places. I think she understood it was the last time she would see them. She gave me the saddest looks, as if she wished with all her heart that her little body could once again carry her up to those sunny places she so dearly loved. The first few weeks, it was especially difficult to come home at night. No one was waiting for me to take care of her. Bedtime is even more unbearable than it was after Daisy died; at least then I had Tulip for comfort. Some nights (mostly when I am very tired), I cry only a little; others I weep uncontrollably. Often, I clutch one of my bears against me on Tulip’s side. The poor fellow is quite confused at this sudden attention. He doesn’t know he has soft fur and is about the same size as Tulip. But he doesn’t breath against my face; he doesn’t purr into my chin. He doesn’t rub against me to comfort me in my sorrow. He doesn’t even know I am sad. How can he? He is not my alter ego; Tulip was my alter ego. Tulip was me reincarnated, only I didn’t have to die for it to happen. Now she is gone and I am left to ponder how one’s reincarnation can die before oneself--a metaphysical conundrum. I have lost my heart and my soul. What is left? Tulip’s urn is near Daisy’s pottery jar and I have commissioned a special one for her, too. They will both be at rest, side by side, in something as unique as they were. Mommy misses you, Tulip, my Love. I hope you are with your sister, Daisy, somewhere warm and quiet, asleep in one another’s paws. Kisses to both of you. --Elaine