Treasuring time with an animal companion

The story of

Marley & Me

, now a hit movie based on the popular book, reflects what author John Grogan shares with many other people: Animal friends have lifted their humanity and happiness to their potential.

The Humane Society reports that 73 percent of American households include an animal companion. I was among them - that is, until several days ago, when I lost my pal Hobette to organ failure.

Hobette was a homeless cat who came to my door one day looking for something to eat. He came in and stayed for 16 years. It was a happy 16 years.

There's little question that the bond some people shape with their animal companions is so strong that it often transcends relationships with humans.

Animal companions fill the roles of friends, even children. They love unconditionally, without regard to age, race, physical appearance or socioeconomic status. They're uncritical; they don't tell you you're too old or fat, that your face is lined like a prune, or that you're losing your hair. They're not greedy or deceitful or manipulative. They're grateful for affection - a scratch, a brush, food.

They're family. They light up lives like slants of sunshine.

I know. When I was writing, Hobette would leap onto my desk and sit next to me. When I was reading in bed, he would lie next to me. When I was eating, he would hover by my chair (hoping, I'm certain, to get a morsel).

When I came home, he would be perched on the top of the sofa, looking out the big bay window for me. Once he saw me, he would run downstairs to greet me and, knowing I would check the answering machine, follow me into my office, hop onto my desk, and nuzzle my arm.

Hobette could reawaken the child in me, that innocence that sometimes gets lost - or at least misplaced - in becoming an adult.

Those who can't - or won't - understand this emotional relationship say: It's only an animal; it doesn't have any self-awareness; it's an unfeeling, unthinking creature. Rene Descartes described an animal as nothing more than a "mindless machine," and I sometimes encountered a similar view of Hobette: "It's a pet, for crying out loud."

Baloney! I never considered Hobette a pet. Pet implies ownership. I didn't own Hobette. He was my pal, my companion.

A study at the University of Minnesota revealed that 70 percent of people choose to take in an animal solely for palship. And I never needed Euclidean proof to conclude that there was a "self" - a consciousness - behind Hobette's eyes. I knew he was able to think, communicate, express sentiments, and feel pain, joy, grief and anger.

One survey revealed that a majority of those with animal companions say that they can sense their animal's mood, and that their animal can sense theirs. So, yes, as philosopher Tom Regan said, "Animals have inherent value."

It's difficult to get over the loss of a companion animal. We mourn for this family member. The stronger the bond, the stronger the grief. Often, the strength of the grief acts as a referendum on whether to get another animal pal or not.

Psychologist Jeffrey A. Kelly says that, because animal companions can bring their human companions unbounded joy, those who lose an animal friend often will get another one.

I'm not so sure right now; Hobette is still too much a part of me. But if I do decide to get another animal companion, I know it will be between a tear and a smile.