Remembering Murphy.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 9th january 2005.
Written by E. L. Wong.

The most heartbreaking thing about pet ownership is that we often outlive our pets. Yet, if the situation were reversed, the consequences would be nothing short of tragic.

What makes people keep animal companions? What impels us to adopt an animal and love and provide for it as an honorary family member? It could be that in an increasing alienated society, we need someone with whom we can be truthful and accepting, and to receive truthfulness and acceptance in return.

Or it could be that animals simply have such warmth, sincerity and personality that we cannot help but invite them to be part of our lives.

Murphy came into our lives in August 1994. I must admit that the timid, trembling puppy that I brought home in my bicycle basket did not impress anyone then. He had a limp and his skin was sore with scabies.

We named our newest family member "Murphy" and plastered his diseased skin with sulphur solution until he yelped for mercy. Once he made full recovery, however, his true personality shone. He was "only a mongrel" to others, but he was, until the end, always our "Handsome Boy".

Murphy was grateful and never tried to conceal the fact. He hungered for our approval and we gave him unconditional love: We locked away shoes from his destructive jaws rather than punish him for being a puppy.

He was quirky and affectionate. His particular idiosyncrasies were leaning his body against ours whenever we sat down to do the laundry or gardening, and turning back for Mum each time we went jogging - he feared her being left behind. When he grew tall enough to reach the kitchen window, we came to expect his front paws and doggy grin at the windowsill each time we did the washing up. Murphy was the type of dog that gave new meaning to the words love, loyalty and friendship.

He brought our family closer together with his guileless ability to love. He greeted each of us, no matter how short our absence, with such emotion that we regarded him with the tenderness we never allowed ourselves to express with other human beings. He was just so happy to be included in everything we soon arranged festive occasions around him. He had his share of Lunar New Year steamboat dinners; moon cakes for the Mid-Autumn Festival; his place at each birthday celebration; and birthday cakes and presents of his own.

Murphy watched over our house with formidable seriousness and, soon, his inclination to watch over the neighbours' homes and visitors' cars parked outside became legendary. He minded my bike at the shop, watched over visiting toddlers and won over the hearts of non-dog-loving friends.

Having Murphy made me even more sensitive to the plight of homeless animals, and he inspired me to volunteer with the animal shelter and campaign for responsible pet ownership.

His ability to empathise astounded us. When a scraggly waif of a kitten wandered into our garden, Murphy promptly adopted her, showered her with licks and unwavering attention, shared his food with her and shielded her against nosey parkers. He curled his body protectively around her in sleep, and when the kitten left him (the mother cat presumably came back for her delinquent), Murphy cried with grief and refused to eat. It was several days before he stopped trying to look for her.

During his best friend Simba's last days, Murphy stayed by his side, treating him with utter gentleness, seeming to understand that his buddy was no longer capable of rough play. Simba's demise left Murphy withdrawn and melancholic. For year afterwards, whnever Simba's name was mentioned, Murphy would rush to the side gate, peer anxiously and then, with a sigh of resignation, walk slowly back to us.

The last time I saw Murphy was on the morning of my birthday. The night before, I had brushed his hair and he had stretched and grunted with pleasure. I told him that t I would be back on Saturday. He never made it to the weekend.

The following day, I was admitted to the Bar. That same evening, I received the dreaded phone call that Murphy was "no longer moving". The commute home was the longest, saddest and most bewildering of my life. My parents had, upon their return from witnessing my Call to the Bar, taken a nap. Murphy had been running around the garden as was his wont, and then decided to take a nap close to them. He never woke up.

In retrospect, Murphy was blessed in that his death was so peaceful. He had probably waited to see that my parents reached home safely, and had waited for my return. I guess he couldn't hand in there that long. He was almost 11, and his heart wasn't that strong as before.

That evening, my brother and I carried Murphy for the last time. We lifted his body gently, feeling his shiny coat for the last time. We buried him in the back garden so he could remain close to us and we could always watch over him. We were ourselves buried in our sorrow. Our sense of loss was palpable. It really is that heart that feels the pain.

The house was grimly cheerless and quiet without Murphy. My routine was so in tune with his that I got up several times at the usual time to prepare his dinner, only to remember that he wasn't with us any more. Everything reminded us of him.

Our best buddy is gone from our touch but never our hearts. We can only thank him for showing us how easily love and happiness can be found.

Murphy, I hope Heaven isn't so big a place that we cannot find each other one day.

Great expectations.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 28th November 2004.
Sent in by Terence Wong.

A butcher watching over his shop is surprised when a dog walks in. He shoos it away, but soon enough, the creature comes back. As the butcher walks towards it, he spots a note in its mouth, which reads: "Can I have 12 sausages and a leg of lamb please?"

The dog has something else in its mouth. The butcher looks inside and, lo and behold, there is a RM10 note! He takes the money, puts the sausages and lamb in a bad, and places it in the dog's mouth. Quite impressed by now, he decides to close shop and tail the dog home.

The dog walks down the street and when it gets to a level crossing, it puts the bag down, jumps up and presses the button. Then it waits patiently, bag in mouth, for the lights to change. When the green light comes on, it walks across the road, with the butcher close behind.

The dog then comes to a bus stop, and stops to look at the timetable. It halts the bus by pulling it's left leg up, and then hops on board, with the butcher following suit. The dog shows the conductor a ticket tied to its collar. It then sits beside the driver, and looks out throughout the ride. As the vehicle nears a bus stop, the creature stands up and starts wagging its tail.

Then, without waiting for the bus to stop, it jumps out and scampers to a house by the road. The dog opens the big iron gate and makes for the front door.

Suddenly, it changes its mind and heads towards the garden. It goes to the window, beats its head on the pane several times, jumps off, then walks back to the front door, and sits down to wait.

The butcher watches as a big guy opens the door, ans starts swearing at and kicking and punching the dog. Shocked, he runs up to stop the guy.

"What in heaven's name are you doing? This dog is a genius/ He could be on TV!"

To which the guy shouts: "You call that clever? This is the second time this week the stupid dog has forgotten his key!"

Drops of succour.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 17th October 2004.
Sent in by Cindy Han.

It was one of the hottest days of the dry season. We had not a drop of rain in almost a month. The crops were dying and the cows had stopped giving milk. The creeks and streams had long dried up.

Every day, my husband and his brothers would go about the arduous process of trying to get water to the fields. Lately this had involved taking a truck to the local water plant, filling it up and driving it back to our farm. But severe rationing had cut off supply. If we didn't get some rain soon, we'd lose our crops and everything else.

It was on this day that I witnessed a miracle and learned the true lesson of sharing.

I was in the kitchen preparing lunch for the guys when I saw my six-year-old, billy, walking toward the woods. he wasn't walking the usual carefree abandon of a kid. I could only see his back, but he was intent on something, and trying to be as careful as possible.

Minutes afetr disappearing into the woods, he came running out, towards the house. I went back to making the sandwiches, thinking that whatever he had been doing was done. Several minutes later, however, he was walking purposefully towards the woods again. This went on for about an hour - walk slowly to the woods, run back to the house, walk again ...

Finally, my curiosity get the better of me. I crept out of the house and tailed him, taking care not to be seen as he was obviously doing important work and didn't need his mummy checking on him.

I sneaked up close and saw that Billy had cupped his hands in front of him, so as not to spill some water he held in them. There were perhaps two or three tablespoons of water in those chubby hands. Branches and thorns slapped his little face, but he did not try to avoid them. He had other things in mind.

As I leaned in to spy on him, I saw the most amazing sight. Several large deer loomed in front of him ... and Billy walked right up to them. I almost screamed at him to get away. A huge buck with elaborate antlers looked dangerously close. But the buck did not threaten him; he didn't even move as Billy knelt down. And then I saw a tiny fawn on the ground, obviously suffering from dehydration and exhaustion, lift its head with great effort to lap up the water cupped in my beautiful boy's hands.

When the water was gone, Billy jumped up. I ducked behind a tree, then followed him back to the house, to a spigot which we had used to shut off the water supply. Billy opened it all the way up and a drop trickled out. He knelt there, waiting for the drops to fill up his "cup" as the sun beat down on his back. Then I remembered the trouble he had gotten into for playing with the hose the week before. The lecture he had receive about the importance of not wasting water. The reason he didn't ask me to help him.

It was almost 20 minutes before he stood up to make the trek b ack into the woods, once again. As he turned, I was there in front of him. Billy's eyes filled with tears. "I'm not wasting," was all he said.

As he began his walk, I joined him, with a small pot of water from the kitchen. I let him tend to the fawn. It was his job. I stood on the edge of the woods and watched as the most beautiful heart I'd ever known worked so hard to save another life. As the tears that rolled down my face hit the ground, they were suddenly joined by other drops ... and more drops ... and more. I looked up at the sky. It was as if God, himself, was weeping with pride.

Some would probably say that this was all just a coincidence. That miracles don't really exist. That it was bound to rain some time. I can't argue with that; I won't try to. All I can say is the rain that came that day saved our farm, just like the actions of one little boy saved another creature's life.

New pets ease the pain.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 12 September 2004.
Written by See Yee Ai.

I had been pinning for Maxi and Manna since the day I gave them away as I couldn't bring them to the United States with me. Mentally I told myself that I would not have any more cats. It was just too stressful and painful to go through the whole process again.

But one day, I caved in to temptation and looked up pictures of cats and kitten available for adoption in Overland Park (our suburb) and chanced upon an announcement that the Humane Society was having an off-site adoption drive at our local pet store.

I suggested to my husband that we go and look. Then we debated about why we shouldn't have cats yet. We weren't sure if we were staying in Kansas or elsewhere in the United States. (He said we were.) Could we afford it since I was still going to school and we were a one-income family? (He said we had quite a comfortable savings margin.) I couldn't live with the pain again. (Just because you've lost children doesn't mean you stop wanting to have any.) Finally, it would be a betrayal to Maxi and Manna. (he said they would have wanted us to have other cats.)

So, that Saturday, the coldest day this summer (it was raining cats and dogs), we braved the icy rain and went to the Petco store. There we saw a while bunch of adorable kittens, all less than three months old. A grey tabby with white bib and socks was the first to catch my eye. He was the handsomest and most precocious baby I'd met in my life.

I still wasn't sure whether we should adopt kittens, but my husband took matters out of my hands by filling in the necessary forms. The Humane Society of greater Kansas City didn't allow prospective pet adopters to take animals home immediately, to discourage impulse adoptions. They also asked lots of questions, to ensure people knew what they were in for.

Since it was summer and high kitten season, they were having a two-for-one offer - you could adopt two cats or kittens for the price of one (US$80 or RM304). We looked around and saw a tuxedo male with the cutest pink nose that reminded me of a kitten I had fostered last year. He had an all-white baby sister, myrtle, who was deaf. Myrtle had to go to a home with one of her siblings and I was tempted to pick Ike (the tuxedo) and her.

In the end, we settled on Ernie (the grey tabby) and his brother, Everett. When we got home, I decided to rename Everett, Ham (after Noah's son, who supposed to have moved to Africa and is the fore-father of all Africans) because he was jet-black and Ernie, Japheth (after Ham's younger brother, who went West, and was fore-father of the Caucasians). My husband thought they were typical highfalutin names. Anyway, at home, they are Hammie and Jaffie.

The follwing Monday, my husband called up the Humane Society about our application. They then phoned our apartment management to confirm that cats were allowed. An hour later, our application was approved. Both of us jumped around and hugged each other in glee after their call.

We could only take the kittens home on Wednesday because they had to be spayed and vaccinated first. So early that morning, we drove to the society, housed in an attractive, red-brick building on the outskirts of Kansas City, to claim our kittens.

Animal lovers will be pleased to know that animals are treated much, much better here and that you actually feel good for those living at the Humane Society. With greater awareness and better funding, animals in developed countries get treated better as well. Many of the staff members bring their pets to work. The cat-house, which faces the reception area, is so nicely rigged up with toys and paraphernalia that you feel a bit guilty taking the cats away.

The kittens were allowed the run of the room and three of them were chasing an assortment of toys across the floor. Some of the older cats were in individual cages labelled with their special dietary needs - for example, light hairball formula, over weight formula, etc.

Ham and Japheth had been brought up in a foster home with their mother and hence were even more family-friendly. My husband and I both believe that the US$80 we paid for them didn't quite cover the services we received: both had been spayed, de-wormed and given booster shots. We were to bring them back for two extra jabs, plus their rabies shots, at no extra charge. Both the kittens had been micro-chipped for identification. They also gave us a bag of cat food (Science Diet, no less!), a pet carrier and three toys.

We were made to sign an agreement to treat the animals well and ensure they receive proper vet care. If, for any reason, we couldn't care for them any more, we had to return them to the society. It was an agreement we read carefully and intended to fulfil.

The package they gave us contained some 20 pamphlets ranging from why cats should be vaccinated annually, to proper litter box training, to how to clip their nails. Armed with this information, no owner can claim not to know how to care for his cats.

The staff at the shelter knew both Ham and Japheth by name. I was pleased to note that they were treated as individuals and not just generic strays. Their pet passports, which are their health records, list when they were born. So now we can celebrate their real birthdays, instead of giving them "pretend" birthdays, as we did with our other cats.

Life with two boisterous kittens required some adjustment; we had to remove all our ethnic table runners, stow and tie up all loose cables and wires, and ensure there were no loose strings or sheets of paper lying around.

We also have to be more vigilant about closing doors and watching our step, especially in the dark. (Kittens have a habit of appearing out of nowhere.)

Sometimes, when I watch them sleep, I think of my other cats. I haven't forgotten Maxi or Manna, but these two sure help ease the pain.

Farewell my beloved pets.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 5th September 2004.
Written by See Yee Ai.

When my husband and I planned our move to the United States, we always assumed that our cats, Maxi and Manna, were coming with us. "They're family, you see," we told our friends, smug in our belief that taking them would be a cinch. After all, nothing in our research on the Internet warned us that it would not be possible, or even the hassle and cots involved.

When we finally booked our tickets, we informed out travel agent that we were taking two cats with us and she gave us the provisional okay. However, after our flights confirmed, she told us the airline's policy on cats in cargo: no cats younger than 18 weeks or older than six months were allowed. It was the first blow: Maxi is seven-and-half years old and Manna is a ripe two-and-a-half.

I contacted my vet, hoping that he would know someone who could arrange for pet transport. He passed me to his associate, who handled all the transportation arrangements. My initial interview with the pet transporter was promising. She assured me that shipping cats to the United States was easy - easier than shipping them to Australia or South Africa, for example. While she prepared the quote, I decided to hedge my bets and contacted an international transport company.

The time, the view was a lot less optimistic. I was told that since Kansas City, where we were relocating to, was considered a tertiary destination, it was going to be tricky, if not impossible, to ship them all the way. The problem was that no one airline flew all the way from Kuala Lumpur, and airlines were reluctant to carry animals they had not "seen". Our cats could only be shipped to Chicago and we would have to arrange alternative transport to Kansas. In addition, it would cost us about RM5,000 to ship them to Chicago, which was more than what we had budgeted for.

This gave us several sleepless nights until I contacted my pet transporter, who, again, reassured me that it would not be a problem. My husband left on June 16, thinking that the cats and I would join him on July 1. In the mean time, I sent them for their rabies vaccinations and the required health checks, in preparation for their export permit.

Six days before I was due to leave, my pet transporter informed me that she could only get an airline to fly my cats to Chicago. I remember exactly how I felt when I took the call; I felt my body chill to the bone and had this sense of detachment - as if I was watching someone else take that call. I promptly phoned my husband, asking him about alternatives to ship the cats from Chicago to Kansas City.

To cut a long story short, the options were not very attractive - it was too risky and expensive. I had to make the decision that I'd hope I never had to. I had to find my cats a new home.

That night, I cried myself to sleep. I didn't realise how much my cats meant to me until then. They had been my constant companions for over four years, and despite denying it vehemently, I thought of them as my surrogate children. Maxi, as if sensing what was about to happen, slept with me that night, curled up in my arms. She hadn't done that in a long, long time.

The next day, I messaged as many friends as I could, telling them of my plight. About a year ago, I had sent out a plea in Sunday Star about five kittens I had fostered. The response had been overwhelming, and many potential adopters went away empty-handed. They were now my last best hope.

One of the people I called was Mohamad Khairul. I must have surprised him as I got his contact from his sister, who emailed me about his interest in kittens. Khairul agreed to come over to look at them the next day. I kept my fingers thightly crossed and prayed hard that he was the right person for my cats.

Khairul came the next day. He was a very sweet young man and fell in love with both Maxi and Manna. The cats seemed to warm to him immediately. I was upfront with him about Maxi's health problems. She had not been well cared for before I rescued her from a shelter and had lost all her lower teeth. She could only eat wet food, which was more expensive than dry food. In addition, her teeth had to be scaled annually.

Hoping to give at least one cat a good home, I told him that he didn't have to take both cats if he didn't want to. He said, "No I want both of them!" I could have given him a kiss and a big hug then.

We agreed that Khairul would come for them the next day, as he needed to prepare his house for them. That last day, I had mixed feelings. On the one hand, I was glad that Maxi and Manna were going to a good home and didn't have to be surrendered to a shelter where, I believe, because of her age and teeth, Maxi would definitely be put to sleep. on the other hand, it tore me apart to know that I may never see them again. I felt that I had betrayed them and had not lived up to my promise to care for them all their lives.

Khairul came on the dot, again, the next day. My in-laws, with whom I was living, were there. So were my best friends, Sherm and Jenny. They both knew what my cats meant to me and were there to give me moral support. I kept a brave front until it was time to put them in their carriers. I began to sob uncontrollably.

Before he drove off, Khairul told me, "I will love them." I think that was all I needed to hear.

On my way to the airport, Khairul's mother, Maria, called to give me an update on the cats. She thanked me and my husband for them and invited us to visit when we came back to Malaysia. Khairul was introducing the cats to their new home by the book - they were confined to his room with food and water in order for them to settle in. But on the first night, both of them crawled into bed with him. It was a good sign.

A few days after my arrival in Kansas City, my mother-in-law called. They had visited their "grand-daughters" at Maria and Khairul's and were full of good news. Maxi, always the timid one, was still in hiding. But Manna, the bold hussy, behaved like she owned the place. the cycle was complete. I could now move on.