Maybe, just maybe, Raider's spirit lives

Tears fell the day the beloved cat died. Now, a stray brings back fond memories.

By ERIN SULLIVAN, Times Staff Writer
Published October 12, 2007

Raider, the San Antonio Animal Hospital's mascot, came to the hospital in 1998. He died Sept. 25.
	[San Antonio Animal Hospital]

ADVERTISEMENT [Carrie Pratt | Times] Veterinarian Diana Mattox, right, buries Raider, the mascot cat at the San Antonio Animal Hospital, as the staff watches. Mac, the new cat's temporary name, reminds some of Raider. [Carrie Pratt | Times]

SAN ANTONIO -- In 1997, a little old lady showed up with a cross-eyed kitten to be killed. She couldn't take care of him and was scared he was going to make her trip. No one else wanted the cat, so he was brought to the new animal hospital on State Road 52, just west of Curley Street in San Antonio.

Dr. Diana Mattox didn't want to put him down. He was gray, with long hair, and his crossed eyes were blue, that light, piercing blue of Siamese cats, of which he was probably some mix. She neutered him and gave him his shots and kept him in the office. She put him up for adoption, but no one wanted him. After a few months, Mattox and her team didn't want to give him up anyway.

He became their mascot. He wore outfits and scarves for every holiday. He "wrote" a column in their monthly newsletters. He comforted upset cats by pressing his nose against theirs through the bars of their carriers, then he would lie atop their crates until the kitties calmed down. He was an in-house blood donor for pets needing transfusions. The staff lost count of how many lives he saved.

They named him Raider because he raided any and all food. He was not fussy. He stole blueberry muffins and green beans with equal gusto. Some years ago, a new vet technician warmed up a microwave shrimp and pasta dish in the lunch room and sat down to eat it. Just then, fork raised, Raider jumped in the middle of her plate, paws, belly, nose in the food, slurping away.

It was the tech's second day at work.

"You can have it," she said. From then on she knew what the others did -- to keep food close, inmate-style, eyes peeled.

Raider quietly nibbled his way through plastic bags of dog and cat food, like a mouse, then gobbled up as many kibbles as he could before he was found out. His weight became an issue when he topped 14 pounds. Raider was put on a diet -- but it's hard to keep a stealthy food thief like that at bay. In the end, it was a truce of sorts, or an acknowledgement of reality -- his dry food was lessened to two teeny amounts a day, because he stole things anyway. He dropped to about 12 pounds, a good weight for him.

When the hospital built a new facility next door, Raider came too. Here, he had not one, but three cages all to himself, connected so he could walk between them. A "triple-wide," staffer Becky Jones called it.

She is the hospital's practice manager and took Raider home with her every weekend. She made him a soft fleece blankie, which was his favorite. Jones has three dogs, all girls weighing less than Raider -- who made it known he was boss. He would lie in wait on a table or chair and swipe at the dogs when they unknowingly would walk past.

On the morning of Sept. 25, Jones was in Wal-Mart picking up supplies for the office when one of the vet techs called her. What was said made Jones sob in the middle of the store and leave her cart in the aisle and run out the front doors. Raider died during the night. The tech found him in his kitty bed, curled up, as though it happened during his sleep. They think it was a heart attack or a stroke -- there are few things that can take a life so quickly. He was fine when everyone said good night to him before they left the office the day before.

Jones got to the hospital and came inside. Raider was on a table with staffers crying around him. Those who wanted to view his body could do so, to say goodbye. Jones rubbed his head and kissed him and said softly, "I love you. I love you." And then she asked him to look out for her deceased dogs in heaven and said one more thing in his ear, "Please don't harass them."

News of Raider's death hit the hospital like a punch. It is a myth that people who see death often don't feel its sting. They feel it deeply.

For the first few days, Jones couldn't talk to pet owners when they asked about Raider. She would go to the back of the office.

Lunchtime was quiet. It was strange for everyone to be able to leave food unprotected. Raider had them trained. Food out on a table now did not seem right.

They sent his body to be cremated, with his Halloween scarf on, and then they discussed, as a staff, what to do with his remains. They wanted to bury him, here, where he lived, and decided on a serene, sunny part of the yard next to a birdbath.

As they waited for his ashes to come back home to them, they experienced what they think is a sign -- a miracle, perhaps, or reincarnation or just the universe telling them that life does go on and you can't shut your heart because of loss.

The day that Raider died, a sandy-colored cat with gray-green eyes ran up to Mattox outside a McDonald's. At that time, Mattox did not know Raider had died. This other cat was so sweet and nuzzled her. He, like Raider, had a touch of misfit about him -- he had no control of his tail, which appeared to have been partially amputated. A lump on his back, and then an X-ray, confirmed he had broken his back at the base of his tail at one point, most likely from being hit by a car.

Mattox took this cat to her hospital. Everyone grabbed on to him like a lifeboat. They needed something to love because they hurt so much. Jones gave him Raider's blankie, which she had thought of having cremated with him, but now she's glad she didn't.

The new cat promptly acted as though it was his home. He stretched out on medical charts. He snoozed in the doctors' chairs. He demanded attention.

And he stole a whole mess of doughnuts and pizza.

"It's like Raider in new fur," Jones said.

Another staffer said it was like Raider's spirit came to this stray cat and told him, "Pssssst! I know where there is great food."

And so, when Jones sat down to write Raider's last column for the October newsletter, she introduced the office's new mascot, who has no official name yet. The staff is asking for people to send them ideas for names and then there will be a vote.

For now, he is called Mac, as he was found at McDonald's.

Raider's funeral was Thursday afternoon. After a morning of emergencies -- a German shepherd hit by a golf cart, a Labrador who had rolled on the body of a poisonous toad -- Mattox and her staff carried Raider's ashes to the side of the building, to the small hole Jones dug earlier in the day. She couldn't find a shovel, so she used a pet food scoop.

Fitting, she thought.

Erin Sullivan can be reached at esullivan@sptimes.com or (813) 909-4609.

The Angel Fund

This is a fund set up for pet patients who need help, but their owners are struggling through severe financial and personal times. Contact the San Antonio Animal Hospital at sanantoniovets@earthlink.net or call (352) 588-2132. The Web site is gobtb.com/saah/welcome.cfm.htm and their address is 32347 SR 52, San Antonio, FL, 33576.

Behind the words: Helping to bridge a most difficult time

The "Rainbow Bridge" is often talked about among animal people -- it is an imagined place where pets and their owners, both deceased, cross into heaven together. At the San Antonio Animal Hospital, when pets die, their owners are sent condolence cards and a copy of the poem from which this idea is based.

This is the poem:

"Just This Side of Heaven is a Place Called Rainbow Bridge"

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food and water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable. All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remembered them in our dreams of days and times gone by.

The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. The bright eyes are intent; the eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to break away from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster. YOU have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart. Then you cross the Rainbow Bridge together ...

-- Anonymous

[Last modified October 11, 2007, 23:56:24]