I rolled over to slam the alarm off, jolted out of a trip dream. I had been on a trip, in some obscure hotel that seemed to remind me of one I knew. Monday's mind was on me, as it has been for a months.
It was Monday yesterday also, and Groundhog day was still months away.
I stumbled out of the bed, my legs less nimble than when I was younger, and sought my armor for the day ahead.
It had rust on it now, streaks of ironoxide that my tears have left, more each day since the day that the cat died.
He didn't come home.
People scoff: "I woudn't give you a dollar for a cat." But, they don't know this cat. He's a special breed, second of his kind to come to me. A Norwegian Forest cat. They are large, smart and affectionate beyond expectation. 25 lbs of love and nails.
I can hear the sounds of swords clanging from downstairs, the entertainment is at full volume. My usual company, here in the quiet where I can read and write, let his cushion go cold, and my hand empty. Yes, he held my hand.
He would place his largish paw in my hand, and gently extend his claw just to be sure he didn't slip away. or at other times, he would reach out his arm and put his paw on my arm, possessively.
Unconditional love.
Love did grow at dinner time, which was pretty much any time I wandered toward the kitchen. While preparing dinner or breakfast for the rest of the family, Poot would be insistent. If I ignored him, a paw would gently pat my thigh to remind me he was there. A few years ago, he began jumping up on me, dog like, with a more demanding intention.
The first time he did it, his razor blades were fully extended, and he got them stuck in my jeans as I screamed "murder!" While doing my best not to burn the chicken in the pan, He would catch me unaware oft time, and only on one other jump did I get bloody by his hand. He learned to hop up and not hurt me.
The day before his last day, I caught him up on his back legs, near where I was, but not on me. It was the funniest sight.
He won't be looking in my baking dish drawers anymore, nor will he follow me around the garden, acting as if he was helping me. I won't have the pleasure of wondering how he could stand to lay in the sun on a 95 degree day with all that long black fur, nor see him lay so close to the wood stove I was afraid he would cook. The wild flower garden had a path through it that he blazed through the high grasses; the path will close up now, and soon winter will take all the rest of the life out of the patch.
None of these things will happen again. He is gone. Has he voyaged to another place, his soul as vehicle? I don't know. I hope so.
For a cat, one who lived as a predator part-time, he was a loving creature. He died as he lived, the higher food chain got him, and I am a bad keeper, as ever.
I have come to accept that I am a good caregiver most of the time, but when I drop the ball, the damn orb splatters like a giant rotten tomato. I know here is only so much I can micromanage, and as an American, my megalomania has been a hard thing to live up to. I threw in the towel on being a control nut a few years back.
There is at least one reason why we want to control: one is because we fear certain outcomes. So, we truss our kids up in helmets so they can ride tricycles on the driveway, even though the road is 1000 yards away. We strap them into car seats until they are 15 years old, and heaven forgive we ever let them ride across the field in the back of a pickup truck, they shall surly be sucked out and land under the tire, as if a rapid decompression on a jetliner.
Monday's armor protects me against the back lash of these possibilities, and yet, other possibilities manifest. Inside Monday's armor, I dissociate.
When I don't dissociate, the pace becomes a New York City treadmill. Then it's a Tuesday.
I wonder when a Tuesday will dawn again.
Reply With Quote
