The Color Purple

   This week our community lost a dear friend.  By "our community," I mean not only greater Rochester, but also the large family of music educators who knew her.  To protect her family's privacy, I'll call her Tammy.  I knew Tammy from my final position as an arts director in a local outer-ring suburb.  I knew her not only from endless staff meetings, many informal classroom visits, formal observations, concerts, and the like, but also from social events - parties at my house, gatherings at her house.  For you see, music educators are a very large family.  One of the comments that appeared in my own annual performance reviews each year was the fact that I was "too close" to my faculty.  That one always made me smile.  My superintendent finally said to me, "You're one of them, aren't you?"  You bet I am.  I was, and I always will be.
   Even though I've been retired for 5 1/2 years now, I still have friends - former colleagues - in the school district who do a bang-up job of keeping me informed of all manner of news.  Sometimes I get news reports before the official word comes from their current central office administrators...This brings me to how I found out my friend and colleague was ill, a little over a year ago.   Through Facebook and messaging, I was able to follow Tammy through her slow, relentless downhill journey.  Thanks to social media, I was able to send Facebook messages, texts, and e-mails, along with one or two calls to let her know I was thinking of her, that she was in my prayers.  She was diagnosed with cancer right around the time that my brother was diagnosed...I offered to go visit her on several occasions, but she never felt well enough to take me up on my offer.
    When I realized she was no longer checking in to her Facebook account, I began posting photos on her wall occasionally.  Sunrises, sunsets, beautiful scenes that I had the privilege of seeing...it was my way of visiting.  And of course, she was always on my daily prayer list.
   This past week, Tammy passed away.  There was an amazing half-page article in the local paper, as well as a lengthy obituary.  The obit gave not only the times for the calling hours and funeral, but also a request that her friends and family wear purple to these events, as it was her favorite color.
   Purple.  The color of royalty.  I only have one or two things to wear of that color, purchased one summer to match my purple cast on whichever foot was operated on that year.  I wore one dark purple sweater with matching scarf to the calling hours at the funeral home, and a lavender top with a black jacket to the funeral itself.  And I was part of an absolute tide of purple in both places.
   The tributes to Tammy were beautiful.  There were photos of every aspect of her life, cut short at too young an age.  Her Celebration of Life was a glowing tribute to her faith, her love of family, and her adoring friends.  I must admit that I considered not attending the funeral.  After all, the family seemed surprised that I showed up at the calling hours.  I had originally decided I would remember Tammy by driving to a nearby state park to observe the "ice volcano" that has recently appeared on local news - a fountain that has a 27' ice pinnacle growing up around it.  Tammy had been a camper, a hiker, a lover of nature, interests that I share.  I would remember her by spending some time in a beautiful place.  Only, when I made the hour-long drive to see the ice volcano, the final stretch of road was closed!  I turned my car around, and realized that I still had time to go home, change into yet more purple, and make it to the service in time.
   I'm so glad I did.  The chapel was packed.  I was once again a part of a purple tide.  I saw a number of people I had worked with - music teachers, administrators, all members of that community.  I was content to sit in the back pew alone, singing along on the hymns, tearing up at the testimonials, and above all, basking in the glow of a true celebration of life.  Tammy was beloved among her peers, and that love was very evident that day.
   Today I wore purple one more time.  The funeral may be over, but I believe that Tammy is now leading a band in Heaven - I have no doubt that she's in charge of the elementary angel instrumentalists, cheering them on in their heavenly music making.  I know angels are supposed to be wearing white, but I believe Tammy and her little band are all wearing purple...the color of royalty.  After all, they are performing for a King.

When Feasts Collide

   For years our family has celebrated Epiphany with one last present, one little gift for each person in our family to remember the Magi reaching the manger.  Sometimes we even had a celebration of Twelfth Night, like a dinner party (sometimes in costume).  Epiphany still holds magic and mystery for me.  Now, as an adult entering my “golden years,” I feel the historic tension of that period in Christian history.  It wasn’t really on a silent night that Christ was born.  Holy, yes.  But silent, no.  Herod had caught wind of the birth of the Jewish King, and ordered the death of all newborn male Jewish babies.  I think of Rachel weeping for her children, who are no more.  Of the Magi, accidently alerting Herod of the birth of the newborn King of the Jews.  Of Joseph and Mary, returning home stealthily “by another way” – through Egypt – which is quite a detour.  To escape what?  Violence.  Death.  Injustice.

  This year, Epiphany collides with the Feast of the Baptism of our Lord, an interesting contrast of events.  For me, Epiphany evokes the idea of gifts, royalty, and flight from the threat of evil.  For me, baptism evokes the idea of the gift of Grace, the crowning of the young King, and freedom from sin.  These two holy days both involve gift-giving.  The Epiphany occurred in an atmosphere of flight from violence, and Baptism occurred in the symbolism of the saving grace of water, and the powerful force of life overcoming death.

   As I write this, I am looking out over Tampa Bay.  The roar of fighter jets fills the air before dawn.   MacDill Air Force Base is across the bay.  Yesterday, we went for a walk in a beautiful little nature park in urban St. Petersburg.  In a linear nature preserve that runs alongside busy I 275 South, we walked on boardwalks through swamps and by a canal in which alligators basked in the sun.  There were no fences, no barriers, no gates to keep us separate from these ancient creatures.  Walkers stayed on a raised boardwalk, sort of safe from the possibility of a charging reptile.  But these reptiles were very cold, and were happy to laze in the sun, absorbing the warmth.  The park lies next to a residential neighborhood, but residents of both habitats appear to be able to live side-by-side in peace, without fear of attack.

   Today, Rob and I will attend the simple and beautiful Episcopal Cathedral in St. Petersburg.  Then we’ll drive South to spend the afternoon and evening with grandson Brady.  Again, there is symbolism in this activity.  Brady cared for 240 college students who couldn’t escape Hurricane Irma last Fall, in a job he had just begun only a month earlier.  Baptism by fire…And yet the storm decreased from a Cat Five to a Cat Two by the time it reached Fort Meyers.  The decimation of Puerto Rico and other islands was not visited upon Florida Gulf Coast University.  I remember thanking God – experiencing gratitude for a lesser storm.  Those words came back to me today, in the pre-dawn darkness punctuated by the roar of the ascending fighter jets.  I am grateful that we are not at war on our own soil, although much of the world is suffering.  I am grateful that the beautiful, terrifying creatures of the Floridian swamplands – even in the midst of a city – still exist.  And I am grateful that today we can see our grandson at the university where he became a man, helping others through the storm. 

   My prayer today is that we might not destroy ourselves as the human race.  It has been said that if all the animals were to die on the Earth, mankind will perish.  If mankind were to die off completely from the Earth, all of creation would flourish.  Through Baptism we are marked as Christ’s own forever.  I pray for an Epiphany for this world, for the grace of God to save us from destroying ourselves, and our precious Earth.  I pray for the gift of a lesser storm.

Out with the Old, In with the New

   Good New Year's Eve!
   I've been thinking for months now that my blog needs to move in a new direction.  The experience of death, of aging, has been a central concept for me in this blog design.  I now feel the need to move it in a new direction.  Not that the work of aging and dying isn't in need of its own platform, it's just that there are other topics that I would like to explore.  I would like to include you, my readers, in this venture. Please feel free to post your own reflections, artwork, dreams, poetry...Argue with me.  Agree with me.  But by all means, please engage in dialogue with me.  Feel free to present your own beliefs, similar or dissimilar to mine.  This is about sharing, about thinking, about opening our minds in a new way...about ancient things.  Engage.
  The Holidays are difficult for many.  Both of my parents died in December; it was in December of 2016 that we realized that my brother Jim was indeed on his "journey," as we euphemistically call it in Hospice work.  He was engaged in the work of saying goodbye.  Of dying.
   Now, a year later, his family continues to process that time of unstoppable transformation.  Of preparing ourselves for the loss that would come, for the new life that would arise as a result of my brother's departure.  For example, even as he was passing, his son was expecting his second child.  A beautiful baby girl who would be named for my father, Emerson.  Her nickname is Eme.
   One soul leaves this Earth, another enters.  Are they related?  I do not know.  I do know that the cycle of life constantly revolves around death and birth, birth and death.
   It is on birth that I would like to concentrate my Blog this coming year.  Birth.  Life.  Transformation.  And yes, death, too.  Ultimately, it is Death that brings us back to Life.
    And so, my friends, I invite you to join me on this journey in 2018.  I will not judge you; I ask that you not judge me.  I will share my stories, my reflections on various readings, and I invite you to do the same.  Out with the old, in with the new.
    Blessings,
    Patricia
Christmas 2017
New Year's 2018

"Christus Natus Est" - Collage.  Patricia Wheelhouse.  Mixed papers and watercolor.

Waiting for the Light

   It's been over four months since I've posted in this blog.  I can feel the turning of the seasons; when last I wrote, it was high Summer.  Now, we're nearing the end of Autumn, beginning the descent into Winter which coincides nicely with the concept of Advent.
   I've had time to begin to more fully synthesize the unknowable concept of death.  I find myself leaning toward meditations on seeking light, on finding life in the stark landscape of early Winter.  Advent has always been a very sacred time of year for me.  This year, our priest has asked those of us in our small house congregation to consider three reflection questions for each Sunday's lectionary readings.  We've done this in the past, but this year he wants us to prepare responses to the three questions, and be prepared to discuss them the next Sunday.
   There is no grief for me in this process, and if there is loss, it is of the sadness and darkness that I have felt in previous years as the light wanes and the long, cold nights of December descend.  I'd like to share the three questions for Advent One here, as well as my responses.

   Advent One, 2017

1.               For what are you on the watch this Advent?

2.              How are you being enriched in every way this Advent?

3.              How might you need to be roused in order to cling more tightly to God?

   Advent is perhaps my favorite season of the church year.  So many personal events have happened during its long, dark nights and short, cold days…My first marriage (1975), my initial move to New York (1978), and my mother’s death (2014) all occurred on December 7^th, Pearl Harbor Day.  I was born on December 22^nd, the coldest and shortest day of the year in 1955.   I have always loved being born on the Solstice.  Sharp, bright pinpoints of light in the thick December night skies are a source of wonder and comfort for me.  In spite of the cold and the dark of Advent, I find in it a great deal of comfort, and more than a little joy.  I am a person of the shadows, and have always been on the edge, on the outside looking in.  I can place myself in the context of the Arab refugee family who could only find a humble stable, or cave, in which to give birth.  When pregnant with my first child, my first husband and I lived in a modest apartment in a very poor section of Cincinnati.  To get to my charity hospital pre-natal care appointments, I rode two city busses across town and spent several hours sitting on a folding chair in the basement corridor of Children’s Hospital.  I was a child myself, preparing to give birth.  I certainly can relate to Mary sitting on a donkey, riding over the harsh desert roads and finding someplace, any place safe to have her baby.  In fact, it was during Advent that I began lighting the Advent candles in 1975, while awaiting the birth of my own child.  It’s now been 42 years that the Advent candles have been lit in my household, although the children grew up and left, and husband number one departed, to be followed by husband number two.  Both were watchmen with me, waiting for a sign, waiting for the Word from above, guidance for the journey ahead…

   I am still on the watch for a sign from God, a word, a call…to what service?  That I do not yet know.  But I know that a fire burns within me to do more, to step out in faith and offer my life up in service.  Where am I going?  I am watching for a sign.  Perhaps I’ll be led by a star, shining in the East…

   I am being enriched this Advent by interacting with the aging, the aged…acquaintances, friends and relatives who are struggling with some form of cognitive impairment as their brains age and their arteries harden.  This is terrifying, yet enriching as I watch them and those who are their caregivers find new ways of relating.  Time becomes more elastic for the aged, who begin to pass more easily from past to present to future.  My work with the Hospice residents is also a very enriching experience…I always come away from a work shift feeling honored to have had the chance to sit quietly with the dying, to listen to them, to pray with them, to hear their stories, and to enter – however briefly – that space of waiting – like the hushed darkness of Advent – for the next life.

   In terms of being roused in order to cling more tightly to God – well, sometimes I feel that God uses me as a rabble-rouser, stirring up uncomfortable ideas and questions during Mass and in conversations… like bringing up the over-abundance of our Thanksgiving feasts juxtaposed with the huge eyes of the starving children of Yemen, or mentioning the uncomfortable (inconvenient?) truth that our Native American sisters and brothers have quite another context for the event that began the first Thanksgiving.  I think I rouse myself with these queries, and I certainly need to cling more tightly to God.  It’s a big, scary world out there, full of darkness and light, and I am but a small, aging human who cannot begin to stand up to its challenges without the grace of God.  I believe that I am being roused by the fire burning within me that constantly prods me, saying, “You could be doing more…” And so I look to the heavens, and listen deeply.  And begin to follow that star.

On Hallowed Ground

   This weekend, four months after my brother’s death, I travelled to northeastern Ohio for the interment of ashes in my mother’s grave.  My mother’s grave is in a small town cemetery in her hometown, a beautiful piece of land in a verdant river valley.  Her ancestors and relatives’ graves are all over the cemetery…many generations of German Irish people whose stories we have heard for years fill these grassy plots…And now my mother’s ashes are crowned with my brother’s ashes.

   Any thought that this would be less emotionally-charged than the memorial service a few months earlier were quickly dispelled.  My nephew read the Committal of Ashes from the Anglican Book of Common Prayer, which I had coincidentally printed out for our use.  My copies were put aside for people to take home as my nephew, a man of the cloth and wearing all black, read the service while our extended family stood in a circle around the new grave in the old.  Several people spoke a few words.  Quiet sobs accompanied the memories.  We prayed the Our Father, and the service was concluded.

   We took family photos.  Some of us went to other parts of the cemetery to find other relatives’ graves, and there were many – probably five generations worth, at least.  Ultimately we caravanned to an Amish restaurant out in the country where we had a huge long table on which an ample country meal appeared.  Then we said our goodbyes to those who lived south, in Central Ohio.  Those of us from other states – Florida, Arizona, New York, and Pennsylvania, as well as those who lived either in town or within driving distance – drove back to our hotels either for rest or for further visiting.

    I chose to go to the lake outside of town where all of us cousins used to vacation together every summer.  Two cousins and I headed out to the lake with our swimming suits, looking forward to a swim on a beautiful summer day.

   As we drove through the lovely old town that cradled our mothers, I was aware that we were treading on hallowed ground.  Sure, there were plenty of stories that were anything but straight-laced, but the sense that we were driving through God’s country was undisputed.  Even if we did marvel at the fact that it’s a miracle that our older brothers are still alive after driving the Ridge Road while under the influence at high speeds…the land is still beautiful.  The valleys are still green (my mother used to love to gaze out over valleys and murmur, “How green was my valley!”), the farms are still operating, and very little has changed.

   Then, the lake.  So blue, so calm, so inviting…we drove into the leafy green paradise that sheltered our aunts, uncles, grandparents, and now some of our children and their children…small cottages and some larger homes are nestled in the forested hillside that leads down to the lake where boat slips and a small private beach beckon.  The memories that this residential woodland holds for us are endless.  We walked these roads when we were toddlers, with our parents and their parents.  Now we’re the grandparents, and the little ones at the beach are my second cousins.

   We stepped into the cool, sweet waters of the lake, and sank into the silky softness that has its own distinctive perfume.  Again, the hilarity of the past shenanigans of our siblings – the hiding of beer under the dock, the times we rocked the raft so hard it flipped over – the many family reunions – echoed in our ears and hearts like the soundtrack to a very old film.  We’ve lost two cousins, all of the aunts and uncles, and certainly our grandparents.  But we’re still here – for now.

   Then, a member of the next generation offered us a ride on the family boat.  Oh, yes – this would complete my total joy at being here again.  We threw some clothes over our wet swimsuits, and climbed aboard the pontoon boat.  Off onto the larger lake we went – past forests, houses, cottages, docks, and eventually the more remote valley and beach where we rented cottages fifty or sixty years ago.  We pulled into the cove where my father kept our little wooden rowboat, where we all fished, where my older cousins swam, and yes, where they stashed their beer for late-night rendezvous. As we pulled out onto the larger lake once more to head back toward the glens from which we had come, I received a text that yet another relative - my husband's aunt, the last of his mother's generation, had just died up in Canada.  Another soul had launched from Earth to Heaven, and coincidentally, she had been a sailor.  Perhaps it was the day, or the way the wind blew, or the incredible shade of blue of both water and sky...All of the memories coalesced into that boat ride on that gloriously beautiful summer afternoon.  My brother had been laid to rest, it is true, but now he is part of the great heavenly host of relatives whom I imagine are still out there enjoying the lake, the cottages, the children, the memories.  This is hallowed ground, and holy water.

   From dust we come, and to dust we shall return.  It is true.  And perhaps our tears become the raindrops that fill the lake, and our laughter becomes the wind rustling in the trees along those beautiful wooded lanes.

   There is loss in death, without question. But as we grow older, and as more of us pass on to the next world, the boundaries begin to waver and fade, and our beloved family homeland becomes a thin place, as the Irish say.  A place where one can walk between worlds.

The Long, Long Journey

   This is perhaps the most difficult blog post I will have written to date. During the last eight years, my daughter Jessica and her husband Bryce have tried every possible method to have a child. They suffered through every combination of IVF, even trying donor eggs and donor sperm. Nothing worked. There were a few hopeful moments, but they always ended in tragedy. There were painful injections, painful procedures, a miscarriage...Jess was finally actually pregnant, but it ended in an ectopic pregnancy.
    As the years ticked by, their hopes and dreams seemed dimmer and dimmer. I wept with them, sent flowers, prayed, and did everything in my power to make the universe welcoming for that infant grand baby that just never came. Finally, two years ago, Jess and Bryce decided to adopt. This was great news! She had a shower at school (she's a teacher.) She had a family -and -friends shower. The happy couple outfitted a nursery fit for a prince or a princess, with every doodad and invention that had ever been created to welcome a newborn into the family. And then they waited. And they waited. And they waited. They made a book about themselves as required by the adoption agency that was so well done. Jessica is a writer, and her well-honed skills came to her aid. But still they waited. And they waited some more. 
   Every now and then we would get an update that there was almost a match…They had 6 opportunities. Once, they were actually chosen, but the expectant mother ultimately chose to parent. The waiting couple weren’t getting any younger, and expectant moms seemed to want to choose couples who already have another child. My daughter and son-in-law continued to hope…again, they waited. And waited. Finally, the constant state of readiness and disappointment came to a head. There was too much physical and emotional stress involved in the constant waiting. They decided to stop the adoption search.
    Now, they are beginning to heal. Now, they are celebrating who they are, not who they wanted to be. They have emptied the beautifully-appointed nursery, and donated all of their equipment, clothing, and furniture to a shelter for young mothers in crisis. Jess has carefully re-created the little empty nursery into a beautiful writer's nook, a lovely office that is calm and welcoming. There may never have been a baby in that room, but I know for sure that many great ideas, stories, and poems will be born in that space. I am so in awe of Jess and Bryce. They have had such strength throughout their eight years of waiting...Jess's mother-in-law and I have ridden that roller coaster with them for all these years, eagerly awaiting that miraculous moment when our first grand baby would come into our children's lives. Now we can all move on. We can celebrate the children that we have, the adults they have become, and the tremendous talents and abilities they bring to the world, just the two of them. May we all have the grace to accept what we cannot change as well as these two amazing people.
    I have struggled to accept this loss the same year that I lost my brother, and even my cat - all within a few months. I'm 61 now, hardly a spring chicken. I, too, must focus on what I have - who I have - and not dwell on the infant grandchild who never arrived, the brother I lost too soon to cancer, and even the beloved feline companion who left us so abruptly. I am a person of faith. I don't have answers as to why all of this loss happened, but I do know that it is all part of life. In previous generations, when tragedy struck, people didn't ask "why" as we do today. More often, they asked "how." How do we carry on? How do we pick up and move forward in spite of our sorrow? That is the question. It is my belief that we do not walk this long, long journey alone. The Almighty sits with us in the silence, in the sorrow, in the slow realization that life will not happen as we assumed it would. God is not Santa Claus, filling our stockings with all of our desired gifts. However, prayer can help us focus...on strength, on compassion, on wisdom, and on finding contentment with who we are, who we love, and the life we've been privileged to live. I must dry my tears and move forward, celebrating the family that I do have - a terrific husband, two wonderful step-grandsons, two fabulous daughters, and the two sons-in-law who are so very perfect for my girls. I can and will continue this journey, with all of its highs and lows - grateful for what - and who - I have.

   To visit Jessica's blog, My Path to Mommyhood,  click on this link:
My Path to Mommyhood

The Rainbow Bridge

This weekend I said goodbye to my beloved companion, Tobey. Tobey was my cat. Not just any cat, but The One True Cat. Like all of our pets, Tobey was a rescue animal. My eldest daughter Jessica fostered him as a kitten, then adopted him as he grew. When she met the man she would marry, Tobey wreaked havoc on their household for three days before they made the decision that he wasn't going to blend into the family in a good way. Tobey then went to live with my younger daughter, Amanda. She loved him, he loved her, and all was rosy until she ended up in the emergency room with a super-bad asthma attack. She was allergic to Tobey. Tobey came to live with us. It was love at first sight. Aside from the fact that he couldn't tolerate any other animals in the house, it was a perfect match. Tobey behaved much more like a dog than a cat, at times...he played fetch, was very social, and was quite possibly the most affectionate animal I have ever known. He continued playing whole-heartedly well into his senior years. We estimated that he was about fifteen years old this year. Because we are avid travelers, we had several friends and neighbors who took turns taking care of him while we were away. Tobey educated each and every one of them in the ways he liked to play. One of our neighbors, a retired social worker and the neighborhood Cat Lady, began creating intelligence tests that masqueraded as games. He would eagerly rise to each challenge she presented to him, often causing a lot of hilarity when we came home. Once when I arrived home from a trip, Tobey joined me in the bathroom, hopped in the tub, and looked at me expectantly. Then he blinked, looked at me with complete disgust, as if to say, "Get with the program! Don't you know what we're supposed to be playing now?" I'd call Joan, and ask her what exactly I was supposed to do with a cat in a bathtub. And she would tell me... Tobey had an amazing ability to look deep into our eyes and communicate...well, I'm not sure what, but it was incredibly deep. What he didn't communicate was that he was in pain. Mortal pain. Last week, he began throwing up. We were annoyed. Then he stopped eating. I took him to the vet. She drew blood, but his lab reports came back negative for diabetes, kidney disease, and hypothyroidism. She suggested a scan of his abdomen. Meanwhile, Tobey became very weak. The day of his scan, he wouldn't come out from under the love seat in the sun room, his favorite room. I crawled as far under as I could, stroked his head, and he meowed the weakest, most tired meow I've ever heard. I knew his time had come. Weeping, I asked my husband to take him to the vet clinic early... Tobey never came home. His scan showed a belly filled with cancer. The best thing for him was to end his life. My husband brought him home in a tiny kitty casket, wrapped in a blue blanket. He looked like he was sleeping, his body curled in a little ball, his paws crossed over his nose. A pose I have seen so many times. Joan came over to say goodbye. We sat with his little casket between us, stroking his soft, soft fur. My husband and I packed up our weekend bags and took Tobey with us to his final resting place, the Memorial Garden at our little camp in the Catskills. We drove three hours to get there. I sat in the passenger seat with the little coffin on my lap. Once we arrived, my husband dug a grave in the soft earth of the garden. We said a little prayer, placed the box in the ground, and covered him over in the earth. I put one of his favorite toys in his box, and put more toys and his brush (he loved to be brushed) on the rocks of his cairn. Then I put a candle my daughter had given me on the stone. It had been raining as we arrived, and the rain continued for three more days. That candle didn't go out for 52 hours. It burned night and day, clearly visible from the road when we took our walks in the rain, and didn't go out until the morning of our fourth day there. When it did finally sputter out, I took it as a sign that it was time to let Tobey go. Several friends wrote to me that Tobey had "crossed the rainbow bridge," a concept I had never heard. I asked Rob what it meant. His response: "Maybe he went to Canada?" (There is a Rainbow Bridge in Buffalo...) And so Tobey lies at rest in the garden that I have filled over the years with little wooden plaques bearing the names of family members who have passed. I filled the garden with impatiens, geraniums, begonias, iris, bleeding heart, star flower, and peonies. It already had the Harry Lauder Walking Stick Tree my in-laws had planted in memory of my father, and the climbing white rose bush that friends of the family bought to memorialize my mother-in-law. I added a wind chime that hangs in the ornamental cherry tree over Tobey's grave, a small cherub holding a bird in her hands next to the bird bath, and finally, a black steel bench that my husband assembled for folks to sit by the beautiful garden and meditate. Tobey is the only pet of many buried there that has his own wooden plaque. Tobey was a member of our family, a friend, a mentor, and a cat who thought he was a dog. As for that Rainbow Bridge, I finally know what it means. A number of dear friends and family members informed me that when our beloved animal companions leave us, they go to a place just this side of Heaven. There is sunshine, no pain, lots of food, toys galore, and no illness or death. There, they wait for their human companions to join them. Then, together, they cross the Rainbow Bridge, and enter into eternal life. Some of us have several pets waiting there for us. I hope Tobey is enjoying the view...