So slowly, I hadn't noticed

Evening and I'm just now sitting down to blog, something I almost always do in the morning, when I'm fresh. I haven't been fresh all day: achiness from a poor sleep, red, dry eyes and a general malaise of sadness. My dear companion of almost 20 years is missing and I am in mourning.

Him Kitty, a perky, golden tabby with green eyes is out there somewhere. Declawed, suffering from dementia, sans his thyroid meds and hungry or dead.

Thursday, I gathered him up on my lap after dinner and loved on him til he was ready to get off me and the couch. I gingerly set him down and he found Tad's dinner plate to lick the remains. That's my last memory. A few hours later, as I began to go to bed, I looked for his constant presence on the living-room rug to pet his head and say goodnight, our ritual. One I began three years ago after we sat all day with him as he suffered through a stroke to miraculously emerge the next morning. He wasn't there, nor anywhere else in the house I could detect.

Still absent the next morning as I departed to drive the hour and pick up my youngest at camp. She was devastated when I delivered the news. Too busy to really think about it til dinner. Near bedtime, my 12 year old was still up and we made a few rounds outside. Ah, he's just hiding, we told ourselves and went to bed. The next day our search proved no better and our second cat seemed concerned. Buffalo basks in the flow of attention, so I was surprised he missed the old guy.

Somehow, I felt comforted that he'd taken off to die, yet also wary that we'd smell him before we'd find him. I was okay with it all.

Until Monday evening when a well-intended neighbor reported he'd been in his yard two days earlier, but he'd been injured and ran off. Well, that set me off BIG TIME and I went hunting at dinner, after dinner, this morning and later this morning. I was tortured by the idea he was hurt and alone, My husband reminded me so many cats around here look alike and would a 19-year-old feline run away?

I've shed my share of tears and prayed my heart out, even though I have been trying to live into a message I received in worship 10 days ago to surrender and lay it down ... all of it. I'm thinking that means my worry, guilt and anxiety over the cat. I attempted to meditate and get a sense of the cat but failed thanks to an overactive mind and conscience.

My prayers drifted from be with him to I want to see him NOW and everything in between. At some point, I did release him to God, but I'm sure I waffled and took it back.

Late this afternoon my younger sister called from Maryland. She'd been meditating earlier and shuddered with the image of Him Kitty hunting in the wild: his choice and where he wanted to be. Back to nature, from where he emerged and into my life at six months. In my grief, I almost didn't take her call. Thank God, I did.

It gave me great peace. Did I say great? I am so grateful she meditated, was open and called to tell me of her experience. I had tried to open my heart to my cat, but was too full. Perhaps, Spirit gave the image to my sister because she was truly unblocked.

I am able to let settle what I let the neighbor's call stir up. Not his fault; mine. I had been at peace until there seemed some kind of hope that played into my attachment.

God answered my prayer in the call from my sister. It feels doubly answered as I look out my studio window and notice the gi-normous spider web and am reminded of nature's beauty in all of its seasons and cycles. Nineteen years is a good run and the last three were, perhaps, miraculous.

Goodbye dear friend and companion. Thank you for sparing me the decision to put you down or find your body. Even in death, you have been a real friend. I can now surrender you back to the earth and Spirit.

I will remember you as the vision my sister had: out in the wild hunting and doing what you chose.

UPDATE: It took all I had last night to write this; couldn't think up queries, record or post. Today, however is different. I slept well knowing Himmy is where he wants to be, happily and by choice. In our meditation after yoga, I experienced his green eyes piercing me and felt as if he'd decided to transfer his life force to me. About five years ago, I'd been petting him when I felt a sudden and strange twinge in my hip, the one that had been frozen for years from a car accident. There was a release. I have such gratitude for my time with this wondrous creature. Thank you, Spirit, for the beautifully long, rich and generous life of Him Kitty. 

• How have you connected with an animal?
• How has that softened or transformed your spirit?
• What dimension do animal add to spirituality?
• How do they help us open our hearts?
• How can you detach from them and just be grateful?


golden-green, penetrating
eye begging for
food, attention, love, companionship

so simple, really

to love a furry creature
unconditionally;
they make no real demands,
can't talk back in language we
always understand

and yet they love
so easily, so
completely

to the point
of not burdening us
with death

except that my heart
aches in a new place,
one stretched from
the old, over almost
20 years

so slowly, I hadn't
noticed

Listen to this post:

Badges of survival

Him Kitty napping in the sun/Tad Barney

Soooo not the morning I expected, yet I think I was open to it. Open being the key word here. Maybe open and present.

I was jarringly awakened with my chest pounding. Thankfully, it was 5:40 am, much later than I had expected. My alarm was set for 6 and I soon heard the comforting sounds of my oldest closing the bathroom door, then flushing. It used to annoy me, now I embrace it.

I was reminded of Sunday in worship just how comforting my children have always been to me; not, of course, that that is their main function in life. They certainly have their imperfect moments, illiciting comments I’d rather not repeat here. When I ambled into worship, then, too, my chest was pounding. I asked God for peace in that hour. No sooner was it off my heart then I felt the whirlwind of nearby activity (my eyes were closed) settling as each of my daughters took a seat beside me – bookends. And I felt great and deep peace.

The residue of worship must still be with me as I lolled in bed another 15 minutes, sat up to gently stretch and realized I’d experienced a solid night’s sleep. A little more alert this morning, I descended the stairs, debating whether there was time to make coffee before I swept the kids to the bus and hit the pool. While I was measuring the coffee, the girls announced that the cat was having a “spaz” attack. By the time I could turn around to look, he was still and staring into space, his typical past-time at the ripe old age of 18. Then I noticed the puddles and my heart fluttered. I have been dreading this furry friend’s imminent end. He has weathered thick and thin with me. Three years ago we thought he was a gonner after surviving what we believe was a stroke. Him Kitty made a strong comeback: his constant circling to the right and occasional staring at the fridge, the only tell-tale signs.

I cleaned up the mess, grabbed an old towel and cuddled him in it. He purred, which signaled things were ok. I whisked the girls out the door and returned to Him Kitty napping in the bay window. Nothing unusual. Before heading to my studio, I asked my husband to bring up a litter box up in case the cat couldn’t manage the basement stairs. I was finally out the door when the unearthly distress cry cats make made me drop my wallet, keys and laptop.  My instinct was to return to the living room, but I had just checked that cat and the noise was outside. I looked and saw our other indoor cat staring out the porch door at our adopted outdoor cat wrestling in the bushes. “OMG, the groundhog’s got him,” I thought. I went closer and saw there was only one animal and no struggle. Patches was experiencing a seizure. Tad had seen it once before and almost gave him mouth-to-mouth. I spoke soothingly to Patches to let him know I was there and perched on the edge of the deck as his white-with-black body thrashed in the brush and branches. It broke my heart. I prayed and began to weep. He sensed me there and I spoke again, softly, telling him not to worry about me. A few long, excruciating minutes and he was up, at my hand nudging to be petted … as if business as usual. Except that my heart was ripped to shreds.

I have been struggling with my own resiliency only to witness the suffering of these two cats. It’s really made me ponder how our society treats usefulness. I instinctively knew to tend to these creatures, maybe only accompanying them as they suffered. God was responding through me and, perhaps, I complied because I was opened and present this morning. Maybe it was the worship experience or the fact I’ve been bumbling through a fibro flare-up and empathetic.

However, I am beginning to think it’s because I have been faithful in doing something my heart has desired for a VERY long time: offer spiritual-nurture classes in my studio. What I affectionately call my Turtlebox group. Our first three sessions have been on pain as teacher, opening to the Divine and deep connection. I can’t teach what I don’t know so, in prepping for these, I have explored all of those in myself and opened some wounds.

After a wonderfully long run of high energy and low pain – enough to get Artsy Farsty, a non-profit art exploration for under-served, local kids launched – I hit a blip and, I freely admit, sank into some self pity, whining and yelling at God.

Perhaps, if I take the example of these two cats, I can pick myself up and carry on. I may have a little pee on my tail or dirt on my coat, but I can look at those as badges of survival and carry their wisdom with me … out into the world.

• What has opened me recently?

• What affect do children and animals have in opening me?

• How have they been a comfort?

• What have they taught me?

• How can I carry their wisdom out into the world?

happily napping

in the sun,

circling only

to the right

or staring for

what seems like

forever at the fridge

I know my Him

Kitty is all right

when I cuddle

him and he purrs

It’s our signal

the constant

contact and

attention

from all

of us

jump-starts

his motor

doesn’t

Spirit do

the same

for me?

 Listen to this post:

Seizing cat, circling cat

Himmers resting in the sun/Tad Barney photo 

Listen to post:

Over the 20-plus years we've lived here, my yard seems to be the repository for sick, diseased and orphaned cats, which is funny, given I am allergic to the furry creatures. I'll be the ONE in a room full of people the cat immediately snuzzles, purring for petting.

That has not kept me from bringing in a few in along the way, finding homes for and, sadly, taking a few to the no-kill shelter.

They must have radar for the one with the weakest defenses, the human they know can't resist their big-eyed-kitty charms. Or do they have an elaborate underground communication network that, in some symbolic way, tags a cat-friendly yard? During the Great Depression, tramps had markers for food-friendly homes, I figure cats do, too.

I learned the hard way not to leave food out. Someone had warned me I’d be asking for trouble, but my big heart wanted to feed ALL of the hungry cats. I did not anticipate they’d fight for the food, mark their territory and leave an awful mess. That only lasted a few days and then I adopted this motto: If I feed, I fix.

Three marvelous strays have become our house cats. One was lost and stuck under our deck. I crawled part-way under with a flashlight, rescued and fed her. She continued to hang around and the older companion that had escorted her to our yard soon disappeared. We referred to her as Girl Kitty because we weren’t keeping her … well, not until some neighborhood girls tried to take her twice. We had her for 15 wonderful years, though she began to glower when the second housecat arrived.

Him Kitty (my young niece named him to go with Girl Kitty), affectionately known as Himmers, survived most of a winter sitting butt-to-butt like bookends with his clone on my front-porch wicker loveseat.  Early one spring morning, he meowed at me in desperation and I fed him; his partner was nowhere to be seen. Soon, he was living inside. Himmers is now somewhere between 17 and 18 and doing fairly well, except for his idiosyncratic circling to the right in the kitchen.  I think it’s the attention and loving he gets daily.

Buffalo, our third indoor pet, got a real name because my daughter, Autumn, insisted. She had not been around when the first two arrived. Him and Girl really were my first two children. They also taught me how to de-stress and relax. You can learn a lot observing, holding, petting and caring for cats.

We’ve held Buff almost since birth. He was born in our detached garage with four siblings. We managed to find homes for the rest and hung onto him. He’s a big, beautiful Maine Coon and a youngster compared to Himmers.

In between these three, two very sick cats have come to die in our yard. Both, I held, fed and cared for until, at the very end, they crawled off to leave this earth. In a strange way, I was honored that they showed up for their final days. Guess the cat message got around.

I have a small studio in our garage and, while I have loved sharing it, fleas and cats dying in the rafters have been unwelcome guests. I once found one frozen and flat in the back alley.

More recently, Patches, has been living in our yard. Years ago, Tad caught him in a raccoon trap and carted him off to the vet to be neutered and immunized. We did that with three, thinking they could survive on their own; beats euthanasia. Patches had been cared for by the neighbor across the street, who is a mega cat lover. Her health prevents that now. One morning not so very long ago, I discovered him holed up in a corner of our deck. The same corner Himmers inhabited the weekend we think he had a stroke. Naturally, I believed he was ill. He wouldn’t move. We fed him for a couple of days and he seemed fine and, eventually made his way back outside. Probably scared inside by an intimidating animal. We now feed him regularly and I know Betty appreciates it. It’s one less worry for her. She had warned me he had seizures. I thought, perhaps, it was her illness talking. I’d spent a lot of time with this cat and never witnessed one.

Tad did over the weekend. I had never mentioned Betty’s diagnosis, so he tried to help, then went to get a box to drag him to the vet. “How did you get that close to him (Patches does now let us pet him on the head)?” I asked. “He was in no shape to argue,” Tad said.

Fortunately, Patches recovered rather quickly and was back to his normal self. But I was so touched that Tad, who pretends he doesn’t care, would schlep this wild cat off, once again, to the vet.

Somehow, I think we’ve adopted Patches if only on his terms (to live outside, but provide food and winter shelter) and to ease Betty’s mind.

What is it about this furry creatures that is so enduring and alluring … enough that I fight my allergies to be with them?

• What’s my best cat story?

• How has a pet transformed my life?

• What have I learned from animals/pets?

• Where do I feel pets belong in God’s kingdom?

• Why is it easier, sometimes, to care for a pet than a person?

bad day,

cranky attitude

no matter what is it

my cats always have

time for me

well, not that

they have a choice

and their mere

existence

calms me,

transforms

whatever I was

feeling into

a warm peacefulness

how can God

not be near?