The house is too still. Her non-stop action was just what I looked forward to at the end of the day. And on her last day she had helped me wake by moving from a spot by my knees to lying on my pillow with her paws over my chin and her face on my face. We would do the routine: get up, go to the kitchen, put on the tea kettle, open a can of cat food, and look out the window to assess the day. I would head to the bathroom, she would use her cat door and go outside. I would make the tea and bring it back on my tray to savor the first moments of peace. She would bounce back in and join me on the bed, licking her paws and cleaning her face, she would then sit in my lap for the obligatory pet and purr.
At the end of the day she would be on the counter, across from the kitchen door, or sometimes come out the cat door to greet me. On her last day, she was in the kitchen picture window watching me in the car making that last call. I was tardy and so she left the window, went around to the study and her door, bounced out and when I opened my car door, she jumped right in. Up on the dashboard, waiting for a drive, or just announcing that she was in my space, she was my companion.
Mum had returned from her trip to Spain and she had been greeted and loved by Mouse. I gave her the update of all the shenanigans and adventures she had the week before. Dinner was made, mouse served first, and I was off to a meeting. Long day with Hospice and tomorrow was going to be long as well. I needed balance.
I returned home to Mum’s bedroom light on. That was strange. Her goal was to stay up till 7:30. It was later than that. The kitchen light was on, she was sitting at the table, TV on but muted.
What’s wrong Mum? She couldn’t speak, then she whispered, “I have bad news. Mouse is wrapped in a towel in the garage.”
I retrieved the bundle, and unwrapped her to see her limp and lifeless, a bit of blood out of her ear stained the towel. No broken bones, no gaping wounds, she was still a bit warm and listened for a purr as she was in the morning. Her eyes were open but it was clear that she was gone. I brought her back into the kitchen so that Mum could say goodby and I dug a grave under the apple tree. I laid her down, curled up as she was with me, looking peaceful and said goodbye. Gently covering her up I gave thanks, checked back in with Mum and bid her goodnight.
She had gone out on her own accord and had been under the lilac bush. She had been hunting bumblebees and flying bugs as of late and I imagine that she had darted out in full chase and unaware of the car. The driver didn’t stop and I hope didn’t know. The next driver saw her on the side of the road, stopped and looked for the owner. Mum wouldn’t go to the door when they came knocking because she didn’t know them, but our neighbor stepped up, and brought the news to the door.
Fast and lethal. I knew it was a risk to have and inside outside cat. I knew that she might live a long and fun packed life. I balanced that with the knowledge that she might be hit by a car, taken by a coyote or otherwise killed. I took the risk because I needed to have life and non-stop-action to balance my work. Life is a risk. I got her at the shelter and gave her the best life I could in the short time we had. No regrets there. But I have learned a huge lesson.
We are all created in nature and in nature we should live. I just don’t live in a place where she had a fair chance. And I am guilty for thinking that getting clipped by a car was a smaller risk. I felt she was smart enough to learn fear of cars. I didn’t count on her natural predatory instincts over-riding that awareness.
I yearn to be where I can walk a dirt road, be in nature, and have a pet. This week was full of patient deaths. It was full of tending to those who are grieving. I found myself tearing up in a staff meeting and coming home bawling as I park next to the apple tree. I found myself lost in the vastness of the silence and rethinking the cost of living off the farm.