Calvin and Hobbes

Calvin died.

She was very sick.  And even though I knew – somewhere in my mind – that it was serious, even though I thought to myself the night before, “Calvin, please don’t go off and die somewhere,” I wasn’t prepared.  She had disappeared earlier in the day.  But she did not go off somewhere to die.  She came home.  And she died right outside the porch gate.

That image of her, eyes half-open, stiff as a board, is seared across the insides of my eyelids.  And it hurts.

One might say that Calvin’s cause of death was “complications due to surgery.”  Just over three weeks ago, I took her and Hobbes to the vet in Changuinola to get spayed (their first trip outside the community, their first bus ride, their first time in the city – it was a big day).  My neighbors had been telling me that they had seen my two female kittens “playing” with the male cats in the area, so I decided the responsible thing to do was what many pet owners in the US do and almost no pet owners in rural Panamá do – get them fixed, before they had a dozen new kittens that I would be completely unable to care for.

Hobbes recovered almost immediately from the operation.  Calvin didn’t.  First she ate little, then not at all, losing all her strength and energy.  Took them back to the vet to have their stitches removed, was told that she had an infection.  Left them with my host family (their original owners – after all, these were the kittens that were born on my bed when I was living there) to go to Mid-Service Training in Panamá City, with instructions for treating the infection.  Returned to find her still in bad shape.  Thought if she didn’t improve – with my care – in a few days, we would go back to the vet, on a day when I didn’t already have a meeting planned.

And then she died.

All that day I asked myself over and over what I should have done differently, how she could have gotten better, what I did wrong so that she didn’t survive the recovery from the otherwise-routine surgery.  And after exploring the (multitude) of instances where I could have made a different choice, in the end – maybe there wasn’t anything else I could do.  I did what I thought was right.  It all turned out fine for Hobbes.  I don’t know why Calvin didn’t get better.  It hurts all the same.

It hurts because I miss her.  I miss the dynamic between her and Hobbes, always playing together, always fulfilling the somewhat opposite – yet similarly mischievous – personalities of their namesakes.  It hurts that she was my responsibility and I failed to protect her from all the risks of the world.  And there are a lot of risks in this world, in this little corner of the earth where bug bites turn into flesh-eating bacteria infections (leshmaniasis), where worms can enter your body from your bare feet in the mud (ascaris), where gut-wrenching parasites lurk in all the untreated water (amoebas)… (Just re-read the 10 plagues limerick from A Peace Corps - Panama Passover for the many delights found in the province of Bocas del Toro.)  It’s a dangerous place, especially for the young, the sick, the old, the injured.

I have though many times since my arrival here that this place is ill-suited for babies (especially while I was vomited out of a hammock, feeling like a sick baby, surrounded by the crying of sick babies).  There are so many risks, and life is so fragile.  I just didn’t want to experience that firsthand, personally.

Of course, pets are seen differently in rural Panamá than they are in the US.  They serve a purpose – to catch mice, to protect the house – rather than companionship.  This is obvious from all the mangy dogs wandering around the community, ribs showing, so skinny that they can fit between my gate posts to steal my food.  And if there often isn’t enough food to feed the children, why waste any resources giving more than chicken-neck-bone-scraps to the dog?

Fortunately for me, Ángel understands this – having seen the way each of the previous Volunteers handled their pets.  So that day I retreated to the sanctuary that is Ángel’s house, seeking support from his family, using the ample cell service to seek support from fellow Volunteers and friends and family back home, finding solace in the isolation and beauty of that lovely house on a hill overlooking the sea.

I remember back when I first arrived, Ángel had said that they think of death differently, as a freedom from suffering (CampoWisdom).  I still don’t think I can wholly buy into that mentality – I too much profoundly value our gift of life – but maybe there is something to that.  Calvin was suffering.  Now she is free.

But I still miss her. 

I guess I’ll just have to love Hobbes twice as much, now.