Oh Knut, sweet Knut!

It has been entirely too long since I've written. My schedule has been insane, I've been sick twice (and I'm rarely ever sick), and I've just felt a lack of inspiration - whether due to the previous causes, or for another reason entirely, it doesn't matter.

But I bring to you now sad tidings.

Knut, the baby polar bear who captured the world's heart in 2006, died today. He was only four years old. Causes are so far unknown, though results should be available tomorrow or Wednesday. If you don't remember, Knut was born in 2006 at a zoo in Germany. His mother refused to nurse him or take care of him, so his handler, Thomas Dorflein cared from him day and night. Because of Thomas' care, Knut survived - and thrived! And kept growing bigger and bigger.

But yesterday, he collapsed suddenly after turning circles in his habitat, and fell into the deep pond in his enclosure.

We haven't had the best news so far this year - and this - just makes it ten times worse. I'm really, really saddened by Knut's sudden death. Thomas his handler passed away in 2008. Part of me was glad to read that. I couldn't begin to imagine the heartache that would come with raising such a beautiful animal from infancy, only to be snatched away so soon, and seemingly without cause. Polar bears typically live to be 15-20 years old in the wild, and even longer in captivity.

I like to think that Knut and Thomas are now reunited somewhere cold, frolicking in snow and reveling in the joy of being together again.

And so to Knut and Thomas, I bless and salute you for adding even a small margin of light into this increasingly dark world.

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John K. Samson sings about his cat ... and I cry.

As you might imagine, this has not been the best week of my life.

I've been drifting between "normalcy" and really vivid flashbacks every day. My sense of "normalcy" is understandably fucked at the moment. I've never had anything taken or destroyed like this. I've never had a living creature die in my arms. My sensory perception is all over the place. It's been hard to eat soft foods. I jumped at a dog bark today - it didn't surprise me - I saw it. It was day light, the dog was across the street and behind a fence - but I still jumped. I've been cat sitting while Lara's away, and I have trouble petting Ginny and Minerva's stomachs. I found one of Timon's hairs on my fleece sweater tonight, and almost put it in my pocket to save. But I made myself throw it away.

My dad said that Animal Control is mailing in a statement/questionnaire that I have to fill out and mail back. I'm actually planning on writing out a full account of what happened - for myself. I haven't talked about what I saw - to anyone. It's just too intense - the telling of which would inflict damage on the hearer; particularly if the hearer isn't a licensed professional. But I'm hoping that if I write about it in detail - if I just get it out - the continual shock will lessen, the piercing violence that catches me off guard will subside, and I won't have to be afraid of closing my eyes any more.

What I struggled with today was the idea that if my life could change in the course of 15 minutes on Monday, if I could have something ripped away from me that quickly, what's to say that it won't happen again tomorrow? Or the next day? Well, nothing is the answer. And I knew that before ... I've never had issues dealing with change. What I'm struggling with is the concept of change without consent. I'm actually dealing with the concept of murder. And while it's on a comparatively smaller scale, it's clearly having a profound impact on my life.

I heard this song on my way home from dinner and a movie with my Dad. He told me that no pet he's ever had has effected him the way Timon's death has. I think that's true for all of us. I broke into sobs while driving.

"I can't remember the sound that you found for me..."



Fiona left a lovely message on my facebook:

"Perhaps stars are not stars, but rather openings in heaven, where our loved ones shine down on us to let us know they are happy."


I made Timon the middle star in Orion's belt. That way I can always find him.

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When sorrows come....

I promised you a post on the road trip I just took with my dad. And I will write it. However, if you're expecting this to be it, I'm sorry to disappoint.

Warning - if you don't need anything sad in your life right now. Please stop reading.

A family cat that we've had for 14 years died in my arms this afternoon, as I was driving him (as fast as the law might let me get away with) to the emergency room.

I won't get into details, but he was attacked by a loose pack of three dogs whom I've never seen in the neighborhood before. I was all alone at the house when it happened. He liked to challenge other cats when they dared set foot on the property. He often lost these challenges. When I heard him cry, I thought it was another cat.

One of the most wonderful qualities about this cat was that he loved dogs. A lot. Some of you might recall my post about the death of our family labrador, Lady. We had to put her down shortly before Christmas due to complications with cancer. Timon, our cat, loved Lady beyond belief. He would groom her, cuddle her, follow her around the house. We often used to joke that Timon was part dog. There's another black lab who lives elsewhere in the neighborhood, who was walked every evening at the same time. After Lady passed away, Timon would follow the lab and his owner for about half a block, thinking it was her companion. I'm not sure Timon ever realized that Lady had died; merely that she was living and being walked by an entirely different family for some unknown reason. It is then doubly tragic to think that Timon, the feline lover of dogs, would probably have walked right up to these dogs in a friendly greeting, an exposed belly, and dip of his head, which was his standard greeting to just about everyone (except other cats).

When I found him I yelled at the dogs and chased them away. I ran into the house, grabbing my keys, wallet, and cell phone, before running and grabbing a towel from the bathroom. I threw my wallet and keys in the car, dropped my cell phone, which split apart, hurriedly threw the pieces into my car. I scooped him up as gently as I could, got in the car, and started driving.

As a I turned onto one of the exiting streets of our neighborhood, I saw the devil dogs casually trotting down the road, and a non-chalant teenager walking past. By this point I was wailing in my car - he could probably hear me. I kept saying "please!" over and over again ... I kept checking him, to make sure he was awake. The emergency animal hospital is less than two miles away - it felt like hours. I finally pulled into the parking lot; I didn't bother to park.

Sometime between me pulling into the parking lot, and me giving him, sobbing uncontrollably, to the vet tech to be taken back to surgery, he died, though I didn't know it yet. The vet tech took me into a back room. I sat there shaking, trying to fill out paperwork. The vet came in, I looked up, he shook his head and said, "I'm sorry." He asked if I'd like to see Timon, if he wrapped him up. I said that I would. It all seemed completely insane (it still does) - Timon had been lying next to me all day while I worked on my bed. I let him out when I was putting away the dishes. I went to pull my laundry out of the drier, I heard him cry, I went outside, and then I was sitting in an exam room, waiting for the vet to bring in my poor, beautiful, kind, loving cat, the body that was no long living wrapped in a towel. When they brought him in, all I could do was pet his head and say, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

I've been wondering all night what would have happened if I had bothered to check the mail as I let him out, or if I had managed to make it outside faster than I did. And I know that it was a freak occurrence - I'd never seen these dogs before, let alone any *loose* dogs in the neighborhood. But I can't help feeling as though there was something I could have done to prevent this. Because if I had, he'd be curled up right next to me right now. And I wouldn't be crying, my heart wouldn't be breaking, and the necessity for this post would be non-existent.

Instead, my entire family is mourning, once again, for the loss of a family member. And all I can think to say is, "When sorrows come, they come not in single spies, but in battalions."  I know it's not my fault. I know that when dogs form packs they go crazy, and even the most kind dog can be vicious. I know that plaguing myself with "what if's" is fruitless. But I will never get that image of him out of my mind. And I will never stop wishing that he were still lying next to me.

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I am a cliche, new-age country song.

[Authors Warning: This post is a total downer. I apologize profusely; I'm not having the best week.]

So remember when I told you about Lady's awful visit to the veterinarian? My parents decided to put her down. Tonight. Lady is no longer here with us. She took a turn for the worst, stopped eating, stopped her nightly/morning routines, and her breathing was greatly labored. It was definitely the right decision; this does not, however, make it any easier.

I do find great comfort in the fact that we had the option to put her down; that the end of her life was not dictated by pain, medication, or a poor quality of life. In fact, she had a pretty damn good life. It makes me never-endingly grateful that Lady was, indeed, a dog. If she had been a human, we wouldn't have been able to do a thing to ease her pain, which is unfathomable to me. But again I say, I am very grateful.



You think dogs will not be in heaven? I tell you, they will be there long before any of us. ~Robert Louis Stevenson

I love you, Lady. I hope that Shadow, Skippy, Megan, Molly, and Murphy are there to greet you, so you won't be alone. I hope I see you again, one day, too.

It's been a very sad week in the Bradac household.

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In much less mournful, yet annoying news, my laptop is broken. Apparently there's a defect in the AMD Turion/NVIDIA chipset in Hewlett-Packard/Compaq computers. I have no sound, no operating CD drive. This laptop, by the way, is less than 18 months old. If you're in the market for a new laptop, I do not recommend mine.

(This constitutes the "new-age" part of my country song.)
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Finally, I found out yesterday that a person I used to date (very briefly) after college is getting married. Normally, I would issue my congratulations, except that this individual is in possession, and has been in possession of a book of mine for 5 years. And has not given it back.

The book in question is by Anna Deavere Smith, entitled, "Talk to Me." Anna talks beautifully about her history, the events/political issues that inspired her toward documentary theatre, and the process she's developed to create the phenomenal pieces she performs. For those unfamiliar with Anna Deavere Smith, she is best-known for creating one-woman shows in which she portrays anywhere from 20-40 people. The plays are from the true stories/experiences of communities affected directly by racial tension and violence. "Fires in the Mirror: Crown Heights, Brooklyn," "Twilight: Los Angeles, 1992."

The truth is that the person in question actually has more than just this book of mine. In fact, I think she has three or four. The others I've already replaced. So why am I upset about this book? Because this book was not only signed by Anna Deavere Smith, but was given to me, by her - personally. I met her, and she gave me this book. I don't have many "heroes," but Anna Deavere Smith is one of them. I based my Senior Thesis around her and her work. The night that Anna gave me this book, she spoke at my university. Afterward, two of my best friends and I had, I maintain, the best night of our collegiate career.

And that book is somewhere in the bowels of Maryland, kept by a person that has such little regard for me and my feelings, that not only has she not sent it back to me in 5 years, she hasn't even had the decency to answer my calls or e-mails. I am not an inauthentic person, I am not an ungenerous person, I am not impatient, pushy, vindictive, or spiteful.

But 5 years of this ... only to find out that this thief is getting married. A thief, by the way, who has nothing to do with theatre AT ALL (of what interest is my book?!). To this person, I cannot even find happiness in my heart to give.

I hope your wedding sucks.

The Cliche, New-Age Country Song Tally:
1. My dog is dead.
2. My computer is crashing.
3. My book is being held hostage by an ex, and I'll probably never see it again.

[I would attempt to put my song to lyrics, but I feel that such an act would be glib, distasteful, and self-pitying....and I can't think of anything that rhymes with "paramecium" or "entrails"]

Hank Williams, you ain't got nothin' on me.

And for Tracy: The current total of my "Christmas in Canada Fund" is $50.00.
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This blog post is brought to you by:

Hank Williams, Hank Williams, Jr., Hank Williams III
Trader Joe's Dark Chocolate Star Cookies
Dogs everywhere

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Ode to another Polar Bear ...

There aren't many other polar bears in the world - not the metaphorical kind, though if we're talking literal bears, there won't be many of them left soon if global warming gets its way, but I digress. I can't think of very many people whom I could call a fellow polar bear. I suppose I should characterize this. To be a polar bear, one must be bold, one must have a certain something in one's appearance - but above all - one must have an absolute ferocity concerning that which they believe in.

In other words, Ted Kennedy is a polar bear.

I came home this evening from a meeting concerning an upcoming production of Macbeth, only to find out that the youngest child of Joe and Rose, passed away.

I can't quite believe it. Ted Kennedy has been the figurehead of liberal America for over 40 years. He fought hard for not only the citizens of Massachusetts, but all American citizens, pushing fiercely for gun control, greater rights for immigrants, a strong candidate for women's rights, a fierce protector of the environment, and one of the most outspoken advocates of civil rights for ALL people - not just whites, not just men, not just heterosexuals - ALL. He was the last REAL democrat; certainly the democrat that I compare others too. Barbara Boxer is now my last hope.

And while he was a Kennedy, privileged and affluent, he was possibly one of the best examples of what a politician should be. Sure, he was a flawed man. But that's part of what made him great - he knew he was flawed, but he worked so very hard to fight for what he believed in, despite his shortcomings. There was never anything in his political career that made me guess or question his motives; not one time where I didn't know where he stood. If you'd like to take a look at his rather impressive voting record, you can check it out here. (The only bummer I can see is that he voted to reauthorize the Patriot Act...)

Well, done, sir. Well done, and thank you. And although you're often referred to as the liberal lion of the senate, I beg to argue that you are, in fact, a polar bear.
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This blog is brought to you buy:

Polar Bears everywhere

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Ode to a Jellicle Cat ...

I found out last night that, Gladys, aka The Bag, aka Queen Cat of Christendom,
cat of Annie (sister of my soul, mentor, friend, confidant, mother of my two favoritest children)
and Zach (cousin, coolest family member award for the past 10 years, father of my two favoritest children) ... passed on to the Heaviside Layer ... or in plainer terms ... has passed away.

That was not only confusing to write, but I'm sure confusing to read. My apologies. But how do I summarize the passing of the coolest cat I've ever known? How do I explain that this cat was more than a cat - she was just as much a part of this family as any other human? She helped raise children, she comforted the sick and sad, could levitate like Yoda, and held the wisdom of the world within her half-lidded eyes. This was the cat that could turn the most adamant "dog person" into a lover of felines. She was the feline reincarnation of Mother Teresa, Queen Elizabeth I, and Buddha.

Okay. I exaggerate slightly. But the powers of this incredible cat are truly unparalleled. I have never been fond of musicals, but I firmly believe that Gladys, in all her glory, is ascending to the Heaviside Layer . (The musical of course, comes from TS Eliot's Old Possum's Book of Practicle Cats, and therefore, I don't mind referencing it ... particularly as TS Eliot is one of my top 10 favorite poets) And in her ascendency, I can't wait for Gladys to come back in her next form - to rule the world again. I can only hope I'm lucky enough to know her when she comes.

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