Jane & Jack & Karre the Emperor
Member Since 2009
Dear Friends
As the incomparable Terry Pratchett once reminded us, “In ancient times, cats were worshipped as gods. They have not forgotten this.” Our angel cat, His Majesty Karre the Emperor of Basically Everything, remembered it every day of his life, and he made certain none of his minions forgot it either. Karre was born on the 28th of May 1996 in Pretoria, South Africa, with his two brothers Lucci and Beni. They all shared Jack’s birthday – just one of the many miracles of their lives. When they were ten days old, my husband Jack found them under the roof of his house and knew, instantly, that his life had not only been saved, but blessed. He had been in great need of friends who would never, ever fail him. He found three of them, that day.
He raised the three tiny brothers with an immense, unadulterated love. Beni, a beautiful gray tabby, went missing one day. We choose to believe that someone thought him lost and in need of a loving home. So the two remaining brothers, Lucci and Karre (“Kah-Ri”), went with Jack and his family on the long journey down to Cape Town, where they were given their very own kingdom. They lived happily together until the 4th of July 2009, when Lucci earned his wings on his very own Independence Day. He died at home with the help of our vet, having fought against lymphoma for months before letting us know that he was ready to leave. He came to both Jack and myself individually the day he died, sat next to us purring, and said goodbye as clearly as if he had spoken words aloud. He is buried in the garden under the pink camellia tree he loved.
I had not known him long yet, then. I first met him and Karre in 2006, when I was between my MA and my PhD universities, and spending a four-month hiatus here in Cape Town to get my bearings. As it turned out, I got a whole lot more. I fell in love with Jack, whom I married four years to the day after we went on a weekend away together as friends and came back as partners for life – we had been friends since Jack and his family moved down to Cape Town. I also fell in love with cats, and especially these two cats, and learned about the sheer miracle of their existence through Lucci and Karre that summer.
Karre decided that I needed to be taught rather a large number of lessons about my place in the world, especially in relation to *his* place in it, and in Jack’s world in particular. The first night I ever slept over at Jack’s house, Karre jumped up onto the bed and stood directly over my face, his front paws on one side of it, his back paws on the other, and his fuzzy black tummy fur tickling up my nose. He wouldn’t move for several minutes. I was still severely allergic to cats at this point – but even a dim-witted minion such as myself realised in that moment that to move would be madness. When he felt he had demonstrated with sufficient clarity that this bed, and the man in it, were *his * first and would always remain so, he graciously stepped over my face and curled up, purring. He had never before insisted on sleeping in Jack’s bed, and he never did again. I learned my first lesson as a minion to the Emperor.
In mid-2008, when it became clear that the PhD programme I had chosen was the wrong fit for me, and more importantly, when my father was growing weaker from his own battle with cancer, I moved back to Cape Town. Karre went on educating me about cats – as did Lucci, but in his very own, very gentle way. When my father died, Karre comforted me in ways I would never be able to describe no matter how many dictionaries I learned by rote. In October 2008, Karre himself fell very ill. He was diagnosed with diabetes-induced acute DKA and hepatic lipidosis, and he nearly died. We learned about feline diabetes, joined the marvellous FDMB, forged priceless friendships and connections, and managed to bring Karre back to perfect health. He was insulin-free for three and a half years.
Last winter, when he was sixteen, his health began to decline. He developed pancreatitis. Then cholangiohepatitis. He had bouts of anorexia, and we went through some times together when we were very frightened that he was readying himself to make his journey away from us. Still, every time, he found his way back.
This time, he really was ready. Those of you who have experienced animal communication situations, and probably many of you who have not tried out any “official” animal communicators or communication, won’t struggle to imagine it – he told us he was ready to leave. Jack took a course in animal communication. I have always had my own ways when it comes to that. But he told us both. He was tired. He was weary of fighting. He felt his body failing. He wanted release.
A few weeks ago, he developed an extremely high fever out of the blue. At the vet, he was diagnosed with unexplained enterotoxaemia. He was bleeding internally. Again, he nearly died. The vet told us that when we took him home, he was amazed that he had survived and fought his way back.
We think he stayed for our sake. To give us time to be ready – as ready as anyone can ever be to break their own heart in releasing another’s. To give us time to go and talk and cry and struggle through the endless cycles of doubt, fear, sadness and knowing, with that immense pain, that none of those changed anything about the fact that here was a cat ready to leave. When was discharged from hospital after three days, he seemed to rally a little. He ate on his own for a couple of days, if tentatively. He accepted his meds and the syringe-feedings with few objections. But once the antibiotic course was completed, the fever returned instantly and with equal force. We took him back to the vet. He went back on antibiotics. We learned how to give subQ fluids. We syringe-fed.
And then he stopped eating. He simply refused. When previously he had accepted a little food when we offered it by hand and sat for a long time encouraging him, he now simply turned his face away quietly. Jack and I spent tearful days and nights thinking and talking about what to do. And then, a few days ago, we tried to ask him. Both in our own ways. Karre’s answer was clear. He wanted to go on his journey. He was weary and tired of being ill. He would never again accept syringe-feeding. We tried to make him understand, in whatever ways we could, that if he did not eat, he would die. We feel that he replied, in his own way, that he knew that, and he was alright with that. He was ready.
That day, a few days ago, we told him that we will respect his wishes, and we would stop syringe-feeding him. We would continue the fluids and the antibiotics, but it was his choice whether or not to eat. By now, he had grown so weak – having lost over a kilo of his bodyweight in a mere matter of weeks – that he could not make it into or out of his bed in one go. He’d have to stop and rest in between. He would shake and tremble with weakness and effort. Before, he had begun to fight the syringe-feeding so hard that afterwards what little strength he had left was utterly used up, and he would lie, unmoving, for hours, exhausted. We considered a feeding tube. But we rejected it because of what we feel Karre told us, and because of some of the things we ourselves have experienced with humans who were dying. A human being can speak out and refuse food, medication, or other help. For Karre, forcing food into him when he had chosen not to eat any felt wrong in every possible way. Feeding tubes save lives and have their absolutely unquestionable place in treating anorexia – but not for our Emperor. He did not want it.
So, on Thursday, Jack and sat discussing the options as tears came and went and Karre lay beside us with his eyes open. I wonder if he was listening. He decided we would have another conversation with our vet about the options, which we did, on Friday. When we had described Karre’s condition, the vet simply said that a worsening downward spiral could be a terrible thing both to watch and to have to live through, and that he agrees that it is an act of decency and love to offer a beloved animal an ending when they do still have their dignity. Karre changed, after the conversation we had beside him. He got up and ate four times. Since then, he has again refused food resolutely. It was as if he was relieved to know that he would no longer be stopped from walking the path he chose.
On Friday (yesterday), the sun came out again. On Thursday, it had been raining all day – but while we drove up from the vet’s practice, and Jack and I were talking about how we thought this was the right choice for Karre, a rainbow appeared. A vast double rainbow that lit up the sky for a few seconds. In under a minute, it vanished again. But we both hoped it was a sign of peace for all of us and the choice that was made. And on Friday, Karre had a beautiful little quarter of an hour in the sunshine on the lawn in the garden, being brushed, purring, smelling the breeze. I told him over and over again that I love him so much and always will. I asked him to forgive me for crying in front of him, and for not being able to make him well again the way we had hoped. I told him what beautiful friendships he has given me, by being diabetic and bringing me to FDMB. I said how grateful I am to know him, and to have loved him – and served him as a faithful minion, of course, because this Emperor insists on laughter and courage even in darkness – and that I was so very sorry that we would have to say goodbye for now. All I got from him was a feeling of immeasurable, impenetrable peace. He was looking inward. Not into my eyes. But inward, to where he was going.
Jack is losing a soulmate and friend of almost two decades. I am losing a great teacher, and one of the great loves of my life. We are heartbroken. But at the same time, we feel it was the time Karre himself chose, and there is a little comfort in that.
The vet is coming this afternoon. Karre’s grave will be beside Lucci’s, filled with one of every flower in our garden – there are hundreds. The African Pride is saying goodbye to their fearless, stoic, beautiful leader, and none of us will ever forget what a great, great blessing it was to have Karre in our lives. We will think of him and love him every day, until maybe, one morning, we will happen upon a fiercely royal little black kitten and recognise in him a soul we have longed for since he left us. They do have nine lives. They were worshipped as gods.
Karre was worshipped as the Emperor he was. He was loved every single day of his life. He felt safe and happy. We say goodbye to him in deepest sorrow, but also in the deepest gratitude to have known and loved him, and to have been, in every way, in the presence of greatness.
Thank each and every one of you who took part in Karre’s journey. Thank you all for the kind words you have already posted in the condo Linda opened for us – and thank you so much, Linda, for your wonderful kindness in doing this. I have posted this condo now, a few hours before the vet arrives, because I am not certain I will manage to post later on. Thank you all for thinking of our Emperor today as he makes his way to the bridge. We know that thanks to all of you, and the love we all feel for him, Karre the Emperor’s journey will not be a lonely one, and that he will be greeted by his kind – by angel cats.
Jane, Jack, Maggie, Luca and Henry.
Here is a photo of Karre on the blanket I knitted him for his 17th Birthday a few days ago. We love you Karre. We always will. Safe journey, dear friend. Fly free.
Condo posted by Linda and Bear Man
As the incomparable Terry Pratchett once reminded us, “In ancient times, cats were worshipped as gods. They have not forgotten this.” Our angel cat, His Majesty Karre the Emperor of Basically Everything, remembered it every day of his life, and he made certain none of his minions forgot it either. Karre was born on the 28th of May 1996 in Pretoria, South Africa, with his two brothers Lucci and Beni. They all shared Jack’s birthday – just one of the many miracles of their lives. When they were ten days old, my husband Jack found them under the roof of his house and knew, instantly, that his life had not only been saved, but blessed. He had been in great need of friends who would never, ever fail him. He found three of them, that day.
He raised the three tiny brothers with an immense, unadulterated love. Beni, a beautiful gray tabby, went missing one day. We choose to believe that someone thought him lost and in need of a loving home. So the two remaining brothers, Lucci and Karre (“Kah-Ri”), went with Jack and his family on the long journey down to Cape Town, where they were given their very own kingdom. They lived happily together until the 4th of July 2009, when Lucci earned his wings on his very own Independence Day. He died at home with the help of our vet, having fought against lymphoma for months before letting us know that he was ready to leave. He came to both Jack and myself individually the day he died, sat next to us purring, and said goodbye as clearly as if he had spoken words aloud. He is buried in the garden under the pink camellia tree he loved.
I had not known him long yet, then. I first met him and Karre in 2006, when I was between my MA and my PhD universities, and spending a four-month hiatus here in Cape Town to get my bearings. As it turned out, I got a whole lot more. I fell in love with Jack, whom I married four years to the day after we went on a weekend away together as friends and came back as partners for life – we had been friends since Jack and his family moved down to Cape Town. I also fell in love with cats, and especially these two cats, and learned about the sheer miracle of their existence through Lucci and Karre that summer.
Karre decided that I needed to be taught rather a large number of lessons about my place in the world, especially in relation to *his* place in it, and in Jack’s world in particular. The first night I ever slept over at Jack’s house, Karre jumped up onto the bed and stood directly over my face, his front paws on one side of it, his back paws on the other, and his fuzzy black tummy fur tickling up my nose. He wouldn’t move for several minutes. I was still severely allergic to cats at this point – but even a dim-witted minion such as myself realised in that moment that to move would be madness. When he felt he had demonstrated with sufficient clarity that this bed, and the man in it, were *his * first and would always remain so, he graciously stepped over my face and curled up, purring. He had never before insisted on sleeping in Jack’s bed, and he never did again. I learned my first lesson as a minion to the Emperor.
In mid-2008, when it became clear that the PhD programme I had chosen was the wrong fit for me, and more importantly, when my father was growing weaker from his own battle with cancer, I moved back to Cape Town. Karre went on educating me about cats – as did Lucci, but in his very own, very gentle way. When my father died, Karre comforted me in ways I would never be able to describe no matter how many dictionaries I learned by rote. In October 2008, Karre himself fell very ill. He was diagnosed with diabetes-induced acute DKA and hepatic lipidosis, and he nearly died. We learned about feline diabetes, joined the marvellous FDMB, forged priceless friendships and connections, and managed to bring Karre back to perfect health. He was insulin-free for three and a half years.
Last winter, when he was sixteen, his health began to decline. He developed pancreatitis. Then cholangiohepatitis. He had bouts of anorexia, and we went through some times together when we were very frightened that he was readying himself to make his journey away from us. Still, every time, he found his way back.
This time, he really was ready. Those of you who have experienced animal communication situations, and probably many of you who have not tried out any “official” animal communicators or communication, won’t struggle to imagine it – he told us he was ready to leave. Jack took a course in animal communication. I have always had my own ways when it comes to that. But he told us both. He was tired. He was weary of fighting. He felt his body failing. He wanted release.
A few weeks ago, he developed an extremely high fever out of the blue. At the vet, he was diagnosed with unexplained enterotoxaemia. He was bleeding internally. Again, he nearly died. The vet told us that when we took him home, he was amazed that he had survived and fought his way back.
We think he stayed for our sake. To give us time to be ready – as ready as anyone can ever be to break their own heart in releasing another’s. To give us time to go and talk and cry and struggle through the endless cycles of doubt, fear, sadness and knowing, with that immense pain, that none of those changed anything about the fact that here was a cat ready to leave. When was discharged from hospital after three days, he seemed to rally a little. He ate on his own for a couple of days, if tentatively. He accepted his meds and the syringe-feedings with few objections. But once the antibiotic course was completed, the fever returned instantly and with equal force. We took him back to the vet. He went back on antibiotics. We learned how to give subQ fluids. We syringe-fed.
And then he stopped eating. He simply refused. When previously he had accepted a little food when we offered it by hand and sat for a long time encouraging him, he now simply turned his face away quietly. Jack and I spent tearful days and nights thinking and talking about what to do. And then, a few days ago, we tried to ask him. Both in our own ways. Karre’s answer was clear. He wanted to go on his journey. He was weary and tired of being ill. He would never again accept syringe-feeding. We tried to make him understand, in whatever ways we could, that if he did not eat, he would die. We feel that he replied, in his own way, that he knew that, and he was alright with that. He was ready.
That day, a few days ago, we told him that we will respect his wishes, and we would stop syringe-feeding him. We would continue the fluids and the antibiotics, but it was his choice whether or not to eat. By now, he had grown so weak – having lost over a kilo of his bodyweight in a mere matter of weeks – that he could not make it into or out of his bed in one go. He’d have to stop and rest in between. He would shake and tremble with weakness and effort. Before, he had begun to fight the syringe-feeding so hard that afterwards what little strength he had left was utterly used up, and he would lie, unmoving, for hours, exhausted. We considered a feeding tube. But we rejected it because of what we feel Karre told us, and because of some of the things we ourselves have experienced with humans who were dying. A human being can speak out and refuse food, medication, or other help. For Karre, forcing food into him when he had chosen not to eat any felt wrong in every possible way. Feeding tubes save lives and have their absolutely unquestionable place in treating anorexia – but not for our Emperor. He did not want it.
So, on Thursday, Jack and sat discussing the options as tears came and went and Karre lay beside us with his eyes open. I wonder if he was listening. He decided we would have another conversation with our vet about the options, which we did, on Friday. When we had described Karre’s condition, the vet simply said that a worsening downward spiral could be a terrible thing both to watch and to have to live through, and that he agrees that it is an act of decency and love to offer a beloved animal an ending when they do still have their dignity. Karre changed, after the conversation we had beside him. He got up and ate four times. Since then, he has again refused food resolutely. It was as if he was relieved to know that he would no longer be stopped from walking the path he chose.
On Friday (yesterday), the sun came out again. On Thursday, it had been raining all day – but while we drove up from the vet’s practice, and Jack and I were talking about how we thought this was the right choice for Karre, a rainbow appeared. A vast double rainbow that lit up the sky for a few seconds. In under a minute, it vanished again. But we both hoped it was a sign of peace for all of us and the choice that was made. And on Friday, Karre had a beautiful little quarter of an hour in the sunshine on the lawn in the garden, being brushed, purring, smelling the breeze. I told him over and over again that I love him so much and always will. I asked him to forgive me for crying in front of him, and for not being able to make him well again the way we had hoped. I told him what beautiful friendships he has given me, by being diabetic and bringing me to FDMB. I said how grateful I am to know him, and to have loved him – and served him as a faithful minion, of course, because this Emperor insists on laughter and courage even in darkness – and that I was so very sorry that we would have to say goodbye for now. All I got from him was a feeling of immeasurable, impenetrable peace. He was looking inward. Not into my eyes. But inward, to where he was going.
Jack is losing a soulmate and friend of almost two decades. I am losing a great teacher, and one of the great loves of my life. We are heartbroken. But at the same time, we feel it was the time Karre himself chose, and there is a little comfort in that.
The vet is coming this afternoon. Karre’s grave will be beside Lucci’s, filled with one of every flower in our garden – there are hundreds. The African Pride is saying goodbye to their fearless, stoic, beautiful leader, and none of us will ever forget what a great, great blessing it was to have Karre in our lives. We will think of him and love him every day, until maybe, one morning, we will happen upon a fiercely royal little black kitten and recognise in him a soul we have longed for since he left us. They do have nine lives. They were worshipped as gods.
Karre was worshipped as the Emperor he was. He was loved every single day of his life. He felt safe and happy. We say goodbye to him in deepest sorrow, but also in the deepest gratitude to have known and loved him, and to have been, in every way, in the presence of greatness.
Thank each and every one of you who took part in Karre’s journey. Thank you all for the kind words you have already posted in the condo Linda opened for us – and thank you so much, Linda, for your wonderful kindness in doing this. I have posted this condo now, a few hours before the vet arrives, because I am not certain I will manage to post later on. Thank you all for thinking of our Emperor today as he makes his way to the bridge. We know that thanks to all of you, and the love we all feel for him, Karre the Emperor’s journey will not be a lonely one, and that he will be greeted by his kind – by angel cats.
Jane, Jack, Maggie, Luca and Henry.
Here is a photo of Karre on the blanket I knitted him for his 17th Birthday a few days ago. We love you Karre. We always will. Safe journey, dear friend. Fly free.
Condo posted by Linda and Bear Man
