She teaches art so when she named her kitten ‘Henri’, her students just assumed his name was spelled with an ‘i’ as in Henri Matisse, the French artist.
I never met Henri. He hid when I visited her place in Colorado Springs. I know he had a feline buddy, Lola, and a canine buddy, Cai, a Welsh Corgi. And Jenn, my friend, the one who fed him and cleaned his litter box.
Henri died the other day.
I cannot imagine losing one of my cats.
They’re not dogs – creatures who come running and wagging when you enter your home. They might come. They might not. The occasional welcome is a grand occasion.
They don’t do tricks. They will chase toys. Or not. Depending. When they do, it is enchanting.
They make trouble. Occasionally knocking over a vase. Too often scratching upholstery. Stealing snacks from forbidden counters.
And they are rude -- wandering, uninvited and without averting eyes, into the bathroom.
Still. When the world overwhelms me and one of my cats climbs onto my lap (or shoulder) and I stroke his softness, feeling the responding purr, I am comforted, soothed. And when the other unexpectedly pounces out from behind a door, I laugh, delighted.
To lose one such creature -- a being from an entirely separate species-- who places his whole being in your hands with absolute trust – is to lose a part of your heart.
So my friend mourns Henri. And I understand.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Memorial Christmas
My sister-in-law died October 17, 2011.
Somehow, we managed Christmas. Christmas was hard for my brother – not just because of his immeasurable loss but also because Jayne had always done most of the Christmas stuff – buying the presents, wrapping, baking, decorating, addressing and mailing the cards (Bill put up the tree and created the cards). We all muddled through.
I didn’t expect much this year. On Christmas morning we gathered in my nephew’s home to open presents. None of us thought Bill would give us anything extraordinary.
We were wrong.
Bill gave his younger son the beautiful porcelain cup and saucer that had Jayne had always kept on her dresser to hold her best necklace. Michael had long admired them and the story Jayne told to go with them. When my nephew opened the box, he knew immediately the significance. His thank-you was laced with tears.
My two great nieces – Emily and Iris – each received one of Jayne’s necklaces – ones that they ‘visited’ every time they were in Bill and Jayne’s home. Now they both have a Jayne memory to cherish and wear. Emily, the oldest – the one who had more Jayne memories – burst into to tears when she saw her present and dissolved into a hug on my brother’s lap – the love and memory of the wonderful woman overflowing (and filling the living room).
My older nephew’s wife opened a package with the pin Jayne always wore on her coat. Later, Bill told me the story of the pin. Lance (my older nephew) was premature, born when Bill was stationed in Germany. Too small to go home, Lance was on life support in a Munich hospital, 45 minutes from Bill and Jayne’s. Every day for six weeks, Bill and Jayne would drive the 45 minutes to visit their firstborn son, then, later, drive the sad 45 minutes back, with Jayne crying all the way. It was so incredibly hard for both parents, but especially for Jayne. Searching for something to cheer her up, Bill saw a pin with a star sapphire (Jayne’s favorite stone) in the PX at the base and bought it for her as a way to hold the promise that Lance would be okay and, soon, be out of the hospital and home where he could be held forever.
Bill gave me a beautiful locket that I will cherish but I think the greatest gift of all was being in that living room when all those lustrous mementoes were given to the people who loved Jayne most.
It was a privilege and a memory I will treasure forever.
Somehow, we managed Christmas. Christmas was hard for my brother – not just because of his immeasurable loss but also because Jayne had always done most of the Christmas stuff – buying the presents, wrapping, baking, decorating, addressing and mailing the cards (Bill put up the tree and created the cards). We all muddled through.
I didn’t expect much this year. On Christmas morning we gathered in my nephew’s home to open presents. None of us thought Bill would give us anything extraordinary.
We were wrong.
Bill gave his younger son the beautiful porcelain cup and saucer that had Jayne had always kept on her dresser to hold her best necklace. Michael had long admired them and the story Jayne told to go with them. When my nephew opened the box, he knew immediately the significance. His thank-you was laced with tears.
My two great nieces – Emily and Iris – each received one of Jayne’s necklaces – ones that they ‘visited’ every time they were in Bill and Jayne’s home. Now they both have a Jayne memory to cherish and wear. Emily, the oldest – the one who had more Jayne memories – burst into to tears when she saw her present and dissolved into a hug on my brother’s lap – the love and memory of the wonderful woman overflowing (and filling the living room).
My older nephew’s wife opened a package with the pin Jayne always wore on her coat. Later, Bill told me the story of the pin. Lance (my older nephew) was premature, born when Bill was stationed in Germany. Too small to go home, Lance was on life support in a Munich hospital, 45 minutes from Bill and Jayne’s. Every day for six weeks, Bill and Jayne would drive the 45 minutes to visit their firstborn son, then, later, drive the sad 45 minutes back, with Jayne crying all the way. It was so incredibly hard for both parents, but especially for Jayne. Searching for something to cheer her up, Bill saw a pin with a star sapphire (Jayne’s favorite stone) in the PX at the base and bought it for her as a way to hold the promise that Lance would be okay and, soon, be out of the hospital and home where he could be held forever.
Bill gave me a beautiful locket that I will cherish but I think the greatest gift of all was being in that living room when all those lustrous mementoes were given to the people who loved Jayne most.
It was a privilege and a memory I will treasure forever.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
A Feline Advent
Like most women, I find this time of year exhausting: decorating, shopping, wrapping, writing cards, mailing packages, and cooking comprise endless (but joyful) chores. Plus everyone feels obligated to stage some event that will fail utterly if you do not attend.
But I am surviving (so far) because of one of my cats, Guinness. At least once a day, I spend about five minutes with this feline meditation tool.
Sometimes the moments happen when I am at the dining room table (when he jumps up onto the morning paper) or when I am at the computer (when he walks in front of the screen) or when I am addressing Christmas cards (when he sits on the greetings).
First, he climbs onto my shoulder. He stays there, purring, for a while then maneuvers around so he is lying upside down in my arms like an infant. Purring.
His tail modestly covers his privates. His hind legs contract and extend in ways that only mammals with excessive joints can bend appendages. His front paws bend charmingly. His golden eyes look deep into mine.
So of course I pet him, stroking his tummy, under his chin, on top of his head, and behind his ears.
He closes his eyes and purrs.
And I don’t do anything else because it is not possible to do anything else. And nothing could be better for either of us – a few moments to just be. Together. With at least one of us purring.
And the stillness settles as a blessing.
But I am surviving (so far) because of one of my cats, Guinness. At least once a day, I spend about five minutes with this feline meditation tool.
Sometimes the moments happen when I am at the dining room table (when he jumps up onto the morning paper) or when I am at the computer (when he walks in front of the screen) or when I am addressing Christmas cards (when he sits on the greetings).
First, he climbs onto my shoulder. He stays there, purring, for a while then maneuvers around so he is lying upside down in my arms like an infant. Purring.
His tail modestly covers his privates. His hind legs contract and extend in ways that only mammals with excessive joints can bend appendages. His front paws bend charmingly. His golden eyes look deep into mine.
So of course I pet him, stroking his tummy, under his chin, on top of his head, and behind his ears.
He closes his eyes and purrs.
And I don’t do anything else because it is not possible to do anything else. And nothing could be better for either of us – a few moments to just be. Together. With at least one of us purring.
And the stillness settles as a blessing.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Beauty and Truth
They are Sandhill cranes
and these are snow geese
They winter together, peacefully, on (among other places) the
Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge in New Mexico
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
the geraniums are dead
Today is a beautiful, warm, sunny day.
But the geraniums are dead.
Blue purple pansies still bloom
But the geraniums are dead
The last of the leaves piled under the hose and by the back door have been swept away.
The geraniums are dead.
I watered both trees.
Thanking them for their beauty and summer shade.
This is the in-between time --
The last days between Halloween and Thanksgiving.
The lull before the holiday marathon.
So, even as I toss the dead leaves and geraniums
Into the yard waste container
I savor the quiet --
The warmth --
The gentle breeze.
I try to absorb the peace
And slanting light,
Storing it up.
Grateful
But the geraniums are dead.
Blue purple pansies still bloom
But the geraniums are dead
The last of the leaves piled under the hose and by the back door have been swept away.
The geraniums are dead.
I watered both trees.
Thanking them for their beauty and summer shade.
This is the in-between time --
The last days between Halloween and Thanksgiving.
The lull before the holiday marathon.
So, even as I toss the dead leaves and geraniums
Into the yard waste container
I savor the quiet --
The warmth --
The gentle breeze.
I try to absorb the peace
And slanting light,
Storing it up.
Grateful
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
so much for arrogance
We are the most arrogant species – often behaving as if, even believing that, we are the whole point of creation.
And yet.
And yet when a beloved pet is ill – or worse, dies – we become acutely aware of our deep emotional attachment to at least one other specimen of one other species.
Remington, my friend’s beloved dog died this week. Another friend’s dog, Cai, is in jeopardy. So one friend is bereft and the other scared. If you believe in that sort of thing, please send them both good energy/prayers.
My cats had their annual check-up/shots last week. Guinness passed but Herbie had to go back today for dental cleaning and a possible tooth extraction.
When I brought him in, the receptionist gave me a form – authorizing treatment, anesthesia, blood work, and a dozen other things – and basically exonerating the veterinarian from legal liability.
Not the kind of thing you want to sign for a being who has been with you for ten years.
My instructions were to stop giving him food after 10 p.m. last night and to give him no breakfast this morning.
I was to bring him in between 8:30 and 9 a.m. I didn’t have breakfast until 9:30. I couldn’t eat in front of him.
As a UU (Unitarian Universalist) I believe in the interconnected web of all creation -- and today especially my deep interconnection with my cats.
[Herbie’s home now and fine, thank goodness.]
And yet.
And yet when a beloved pet is ill – or worse, dies – we become acutely aware of our deep emotional attachment to at least one other specimen of one other species.
Remington, my friend’s beloved dog died this week. Another friend’s dog, Cai, is in jeopardy. So one friend is bereft and the other scared. If you believe in that sort of thing, please send them both good energy/prayers.
My cats had their annual check-up/shots last week. Guinness passed but Herbie had to go back today for dental cleaning and a possible tooth extraction.
When I brought him in, the receptionist gave me a form – authorizing treatment, anesthesia, blood work, and a dozen other things – and basically exonerating the veterinarian from legal liability.
Not the kind of thing you want to sign for a being who has been with you for ten years.
My instructions were to stop giving him food after 10 p.m. last night and to give him no breakfast this morning.
I was to bring him in between 8:30 and 9 a.m. I didn’t have breakfast until 9:30. I couldn’t eat in front of him.
As a UU (Unitarian Universalist) I believe in the interconnected web of all creation -- and today especially my deep interconnection with my cats.
[Herbie’s home now and fine, thank goodness.]
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Anniversaries
The cats are integral to my days and most of the components thereof.
Mornings of course. I have learned to awaken carefully lest I roll onto one of them. Herbie is usually near my head; Guinness, in the curve of my legs. But not always. Sometimes they are spooned – the dark gray tabby and cream almost-Siamese like a furry yin yang symbol.
They have learned to wait for breakfast. Most days they stay on the bed while I shower and dress. When I’m ready to go downstairs, I announce, “breakfast time.” Guinness meows a response and jumps down, racing to the steps. Herbie often raises his head then resumes his slumber.
There are breakfast routines and lunch expectations.
During the day, our activities are synchronized. If I work at my computer, the cats perch in the study. If I work in the yard, I am supervised from window ledges. If I go out, they are there to greet me when I return.
It is no longer possible to keep an accurate cat toy inventory. Some are upstairs, some downstairs. Some in appropriate receptacles. Others, under furniture or the washing machine. I do try to play with them each day. If not before, then at bedtime.
Each day one or both of them does something that makes me laugh.
When I am ill or sad or scared, they spend more time with me, cuddle more closely.
We’ve been together ten years now. Our relationship seems to be working.
* * * *
[Ironically, I filed for divorce just before my tenth wedding anniversary. That relationship didn't work.]
Mornings of course. I have learned to awaken carefully lest I roll onto one of them. Herbie is usually near my head; Guinness, in the curve of my legs. But not always. Sometimes they are spooned – the dark gray tabby and cream almost-Siamese like a furry yin yang symbol.
They have learned to wait for breakfast. Most days they stay on the bed while I shower and dress. When I’m ready to go downstairs, I announce, “breakfast time.” Guinness meows a response and jumps down, racing to the steps. Herbie often raises his head then resumes his slumber.
There are breakfast routines and lunch expectations.
During the day, our activities are synchronized. If I work at my computer, the cats perch in the study. If I work in the yard, I am supervised from window ledges. If I go out, they are there to greet me when I return.
It is no longer possible to keep an accurate cat toy inventory. Some are upstairs, some downstairs. Some in appropriate receptacles. Others, under furniture or the washing machine. I do try to play with them each day. If not before, then at bedtime.
Each day one or both of them does something that makes me laugh.
When I am ill or sad or scared, they spend more time with me, cuddle more closely.
We’ve been together ten years now. Our relationship seems to be working.
* * * *
[Ironically, I filed for divorce just before my tenth wedding anniversary. That relationship didn't work.]
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