I was going to write a happy post today, one that was funny and witty and completely not my usual style. Then I found out that an 18 year old girl, a senior in high school, was murdered by her ex-boyfriend this morning. He then shot himself.
My mood took an extreme downhill. All day long, the story has been at the back of my mind. These were young people, on the verge of...who will ever know, now? Those lights have been snuffed out forever. All because that boy decided that he couldn't live without her and therefore she shouldn't live without him.
Breaking up with someone is difficult. It is supposed to be difficult. Relationships should be begun with the idea that they will last awhile. When they don't, a tsunami of emotions spill out. Anger. Grief. Pain. Relief. Things can get messy as they come to light. I can remember being dumped. I can remember being rejected. I can
remember feeling like my chest was a singularity,
sucking all the brightness out of the world around me as it broke.
I may have been angry. I may have felt abandoned. I may have felt abused. I would wish the worst forms of plague upon my exes, or wish that they would leave town and never come back. Yes, my heart got broken, but I always decided that anyone who left me wasn't supposed to be there after all. End of chapter, onto the next.
What I never, ever thought about? Killing.
Sometimes the things that happen in life are too terrible to really
confront head-on. If you are brave enough to look such events in the
eye, there's a good chance that you might see a piece of yourself in the
mix. Not everyone can handle that. It is easier to pretend that it
never happens.
I've thought about these two people, the lives of their families destroyed. An entire senior class has been traumatized seven weeks before graduation. It would be easy to say that this was all the fault of the media, dismiss this horror as kids being kids. Unfortunately, this is a very adult sort of crime. Dating violence is real, just like domestic violence and child abuse. We can't keep saying that it is a cultural thing, or a married thing, etc. This happens every where, every day, and that is too much. This kind of intimate violence is a cancer, eating away at families. It should not still be happening.
I'll think of something witty to say tomorrow.
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Monday, April 11, 2016
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
Not A Metaphor
From the blackest
corner
of my room,
comes just
the faintest sigh,
a quiet exhalation.
A strange coldness
crawls over my skin
as I lay there,
the stench
of funeral flowers
encircling me.
He swore
that death
would not
ever separate
us.
corner
of my room,
comes just
the faintest sigh,
a quiet exhalation.
A strange coldness
crawls over my skin
as I lay there,
the stench
of funeral flowers
encircling me.
He swore
that death
would not
ever separate
us.
Friday, November 8, 2013
Time Be A River
This is a photograph of my Uncle Mike and Aunt Rosie on their wedding day, circa the late 40s. See that little kid in the front row, looking off camera? That's my father, and behind him are his parents, my grandmother and grandfather. My father looks as though he would rather be anywhere else on earth than posing for pictures. I've seen that same look on my own child, when I can get him to stand still.
The idea that my own father was once a child, and that my own child will one day be an adult with children of his own, always fills me with wonder as well as melancholy. It's quite a revelation to finally understand that all things are born, and all things must die, including the people we love. Most people shy away from ever thinking about death, and I'm no different on most days. But then I see photographs like this, and I understand that time is indeed a river, and all of us are fallen leaves floating wherever the current takes us.
Those who came before us aren't really gone; they're just downstream.
Saturday, July 6, 2013
Free-Write
The world, she spins,
'Round and round,
A Bride, radiating joy,
In a wedding dance.
Every turn brings her
Closer to her Beloved,
Who stands, with Scythe,
Ready
When the music finally
Stops.
The prompt this weekend is 33 words of free-write.
Friday, March 22, 2013
Through the Doorway
Her mental rebellion ended,
Virginia sat alone.
Waiting.
The sky darkened,
the rain approaching.
She was afraid.
"Remember me, Ginny?"
Lenny stood smiling
in the doorway.
Ever the gentleman,
He had gone first.
Joyfully,
Ginny followed.
Virginia sat alone.
Waiting.
The sky darkened,
the rain approaching.
She was afraid.
"Remember me, Ginny?"
Lenny stood smiling
in the doorway.
Ever the gentleman,
He had gone first.
Joyfully,
Ginny followed.
This weekend, we are revisiting a prompt we've done before. We are giving you three words and asking that you add another 33 to them to make a complete 36-word response. You may use the words in any order you choose.
Our three words are:
remember
rain
rebellion
Now you give us yours.
Our three words are:
remember
rain
rebellion
Now you give us yours.
My grandmother, Virginia, passed away this morning. My grandfather, Leonard, passed on two months ago. They were married seventy years. Ginny, as my Grandpa called her, took care of him for many years, until dementia whittled her mind, and all that she was, down to nothing. I'd like to imagine that, at the end, she came back to herself, if only for a brief moment. It's what I've been thinking about all day. My piece sprang from those thoughts.
Monday, January 28, 2013
Snapshots of Grandpa
My grandfather, Leonard Peter Meyer, died last Tuesday. He was 94 years old, and had not been well for some time, so it was expected. But expected doesn't necessarily make it easier. I chose not to go to the funeral, not just because I'd probably have my pay docked, but also because I don't want my last memory of him to be anything other than what he was: a tiller of the soil. A farmer. I think that the day he sold his farm was the beginning of the end.
There are people out there that you think will live forever just by sheer force of will, and my grandpa was one of them. He came from a family of farmers. He had an eighth grade education, but he still managed to run a small farm and work several jobs. He was married for 70 years and supported a family of eleven children. He raised his own animals and grew his own crops. If there was something that he wanted, he usually built it. How many people do you know who can do that? His gift certainly did not pass on to his granddaughter, if my lifetime ban on the use of power tools is any indication.
My grandfather poured the concrete for the basement of their home in one piece, he told me proudly. The basement had a fully functioning kitchen, and that's where the family would often gather for Christmas and other events, because there was a long table down there that my grandfather probably built. The basement was perfect for summer days--in a home without central air, it was often the coolest part of the house.
My grandfather would sometimes take me with him when he went out, mostly to feed stores. It was a sweet deal--I got candy from the shop owners, and my grandpa got to talk. Grandpa loved to talk and tell stories. He was very sociable off the farm. During the day while he was working the farm, he didn't talk much. I think that he was focused on his duties and had no time for foolish children. But after he'd cleaned up, had a meal and nodded off sitting in his chair, he'd relax a bit and talk. We'd sit out on the porch swing and he'd tell me about how he would ride a horse to school or go in a horse drawn cart. The house he grew up in did not have indoor plumbing, as I found out when I went to visit his mother, my great grandma. Grandpa used to tease me about falling into the hole in the outhouse; perhaps something similar happened to him?
Lenny liked dogs, and my childhood favorite was Ginger the beagle, of which there were three incarnations. My grandpa raised hogs, and let us carry them scraps. When we accidentally on purpose caused a chute to roll down the hill and almost into the barn, he just laughed. He never said a word when we would practice our hog calls to see how fast the hogs arrived, but he made very clear that we were never to enter the hog pens. And all the grandchildren listened, because he hardly ever told any of us no.
My grandfather used to set me in front of him on the tractor while he drove. Sometimes he let me steer, especially if my mother wasn't looking. My grandpa decided that he was going to "teach: me how to drive when I was 16, never mind that I already had my license. I went racing around on the gravel while he 'supervised', and I narrowly missed a cow in the middle of the road while he told me how to brake on gravel.
When an actual guy my age showed up on the farm one day, and I made my grandmother take me out into the field to meet him, my grandfather was tickled. He would tease me about "That Cransby boy", letting me know what that young man was up to for years after. Once he started wearing hearing aids, my grandpa was notorious for turning them off when he wanted some quiet, and sometimes I secretly admired him for that.
When I brought my husband Larry to Quincy, my grandpa offered him some homemade raisin wine. Before he poured the shot glasses, Grandpa looked Larry right in the eye, his best smile in place.
We drank raisin wine that was likely higher in alcohol content than the finest whiskey. To his credit, my husband was able to remain standing after the first drink. I think that it impressed Grandpa that Larry didn't keel over after two shots.
My grandfather wasn't perfect. He thought that women weren't capable of managing money. He expected a clean house and a meal on the table when he was ready to eat, and didn't much care about mitigating factors like crying children. But he did the best he could, and that is all anyone can ask of him.
Rest in peace, Grandpa.
There are people out there that you think will live forever just by sheer force of will, and my grandpa was one of them. He came from a family of farmers. He had an eighth grade education, but he still managed to run a small farm and work several jobs. He was married for 70 years and supported a family of eleven children. He raised his own animals and grew his own crops. If there was something that he wanted, he usually built it. How many people do you know who can do that? His gift certainly did not pass on to his granddaughter, if my lifetime ban on the use of power tools is any indication.
My grandfather poured the concrete for the basement of their home in one piece, he told me proudly. The basement had a fully functioning kitchen, and that's where the family would often gather for Christmas and other events, because there was a long table down there that my grandfather probably built. The basement was perfect for summer days--in a home without central air, it was often the coolest part of the house.
My grandfather would sometimes take me with him when he went out, mostly to feed stores. It was a sweet deal--I got candy from the shop owners, and my grandpa got to talk. Grandpa loved to talk and tell stories. He was very sociable off the farm. During the day while he was working the farm, he didn't talk much. I think that he was focused on his duties and had no time for foolish children. But after he'd cleaned up, had a meal and nodded off sitting in his chair, he'd relax a bit and talk. We'd sit out on the porch swing and he'd tell me about how he would ride a horse to school or go in a horse drawn cart. The house he grew up in did not have indoor plumbing, as I found out when I went to visit his mother, my great grandma. Grandpa used to tease me about falling into the hole in the outhouse; perhaps something similar happened to him?
Lenny liked dogs, and my childhood favorite was Ginger the beagle, of which there were three incarnations. My grandpa raised hogs, and let us carry them scraps. When we accidentally on purpose caused a chute to roll down the hill and almost into the barn, he just laughed. He never said a word when we would practice our hog calls to see how fast the hogs arrived, but he made very clear that we were never to enter the hog pens. And all the grandchildren listened, because he hardly ever told any of us no.
My grandfather used to set me in front of him on the tractor while he drove. Sometimes he let me steer, especially if my mother wasn't looking. My grandpa decided that he was going to "teach: me how to drive when I was 16, never mind that I already had my license. I went racing around on the gravel while he 'supervised', and I narrowly missed a cow in the middle of the road while he told me how to brake on gravel.
When an actual guy my age showed up on the farm one day, and I made my grandmother take me out into the field to meet him, my grandfather was tickled. He would tease me about "That Cransby boy", letting me know what that young man was up to for years after. Once he started wearing hearing aids, my grandpa was notorious for turning them off when he wanted some quiet, and sometimes I secretly admired him for that.
When I brought my husband Larry to Quincy, my grandpa offered him some homemade raisin wine. Before he poured the shot glasses, Grandpa looked Larry right in the eye, his best smile in place.
We drank raisin wine that was likely higher in alcohol content than the finest whiskey. To his credit, my husband was able to remain standing after the first drink. I think that it impressed Grandpa that Larry didn't keel over after two shots.
My grandfather wasn't perfect. He thought that women weren't capable of managing money. He expected a clean house and a meal on the table when he was ready to eat, and didn't much care about mitigating factors like crying children. But he did the best he could, and that is all anyone can ask of him.
Rest in peace, Grandpa.
Monday, January 14, 2013
Way Too Existential
Zane and I have started taking our pup Maisy on long walks. It's just he and I, because Larry's ankles/Achilles are shot and he can't be on his feet for long periods. We don't walk around our neighborhood, but go behind the houses into the "wilds" behind the subdivision. Nobody else has been out there, except for the usual squirrelly teenagers, and it's been fun exploring. Saturday we found out that there's a pond back there, of all things. We could see it in the distance, and only the muddiness of the terrain and the fact that we'd already hiked two miles kept us from heading there.
It's great walking with my boy, having our bonding time. I truly appreciate our adventures. Zane has a sharp mind and is interested in just about everything, just like me, and I love that. I hope that he never loses that excitement about the world around him, and I am almost always happy to answer any and all of his questions.
Except that I need some preparation for some of them. Inquisitive minds want to know the answers, and often Zane is not content with a single, monosyllabic response. He seems to instinctively understand that life does not boil down to just black and white answers. And I am afraid to admit that I sometimes cringe at his questions. Some of them are pretty heavy, and I find my own questions rushing through my head. Is he old enough for the answers? Should I just respond with the truth, however horrible it might be? Or do I sugar coat it, or outright lie, if I think he's too young? I know that ultimately all I can do is my best, but that doesn't stop me from freaking out a little.
The questions started out innocently enough. Zane wanted to know about a particular bug, or a tree, or Bigfoot. I handled those questions, mostly with "I don't know", followed by assurances that we would look up the answer later. I was feeling confident, even. But somewhere before we hit the top of the first big hill, everything went south.
"When something dies, where does it go?"
"It goes to heaven, son." I thought about being all science-y but I didn't think that was what he was looking for, and I did not want to go there.
"If I died, what happens?"
"You would go to heaven." I got a little bit of the heebie-jeebies at the question, but I rallied. I did have to explain what heaven is thought to be, but that wasn't too scary.
"When a tree dies, where does it go?"
"It goes to heaven, Zane." I did not want to be cherry picking who, or what, goes to heaven, mostly because nobody actually knows, and I certainly am not the gatekeeper.
"Is Morris in heaven?"
"Yes, son. Morris is in heaven." Morris, my grouchy companion for sixteen years, is probably up there trying to bite a saint or two. He's just that cantankerous, and he gets away with it because he's adorable.
"Why did my grandpa die? " "Is my grandpa in heaven?"
"Your grandpa died because he was very old, and yes, he is in heaven." Zane just recently started asking about his grandpa, Larry's father. I am glad that he remembers him.
"Where does God live? Where does Jesus live?"
"They live in heaven with everyone else, Zane. Do you see that red-tailed hawk over there?" I was trying to distract him, yes. Things were taking a turn, I just knew it.
"Is God dead? Is Jesus dead?" AAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!
These were logical questions, in Zane's mind. He wasn't being disrespectful. We'd just spent all this time discussing heaven, and how everyone was there because it's such a happy place. If everyone else in heaven is dead, then it followed that God and Jesus must be dead as well. Developmentally appropriate if-then thinking. I knew that, but I still felt the bones of every ancestor rolling over in my DNA. My brain scrambled for some sort of age appropriate response.
"No, Zane. God and Jesus are not dead. Heaven is their house, and they live there." I waited, shoulders hunched, for more questions.
Zane had no more questions, except to ask about a rock he had found. I had made it through the gauntlet safely this time. I sighed with relief, sending up a small prayer of thanks.
I wonder if Zane ever asks his daddy these kinds of questions.
It's great walking with my boy, having our bonding time. I truly appreciate our adventures. Zane has a sharp mind and is interested in just about everything, just like me, and I love that. I hope that he never loses that excitement about the world around him, and I am almost always happy to answer any and all of his questions.
Except that I need some preparation for some of them. Inquisitive minds want to know the answers, and often Zane is not content with a single, monosyllabic response. He seems to instinctively understand that life does not boil down to just black and white answers. And I am afraid to admit that I sometimes cringe at his questions. Some of them are pretty heavy, and I find my own questions rushing through my head. Is he old enough for the answers? Should I just respond with the truth, however horrible it might be? Or do I sugar coat it, or outright lie, if I think he's too young? I know that ultimately all I can do is my best, but that doesn't stop me from freaking out a little.
The questions started out innocently enough. Zane wanted to know about a particular bug, or a tree, or Bigfoot. I handled those questions, mostly with "I don't know", followed by assurances that we would look up the answer later. I was feeling confident, even. But somewhere before we hit the top of the first big hill, everything went south.
"When something dies, where does it go?"
"It goes to heaven, son." I thought about being all science-y but I didn't think that was what he was looking for, and I did not want to go there.
"If I died, what happens?"
"You would go to heaven." I got a little bit of the heebie-jeebies at the question, but I rallied. I did have to explain what heaven is thought to be, but that wasn't too scary.
"When a tree dies, where does it go?"
"It goes to heaven, Zane." I did not want to be cherry picking who, or what, goes to heaven, mostly because nobody actually knows, and I certainly am not the gatekeeper.
"Is Morris in heaven?"
"Yes, son. Morris is in heaven." Morris, my grouchy companion for sixteen years, is probably up there trying to bite a saint or two. He's just that cantankerous, and he gets away with it because he's adorable.
"Why did my grandpa die? " "Is my grandpa in heaven?"
"Your grandpa died because he was very old, and yes, he is in heaven." Zane just recently started asking about his grandpa, Larry's father. I am glad that he remembers him.
"Where does God live? Where does Jesus live?"
"They live in heaven with everyone else, Zane. Do you see that red-tailed hawk over there?" I was trying to distract him, yes. Things were taking a turn, I just knew it.
"Is God dead? Is Jesus dead?" AAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!
These were logical questions, in Zane's mind. He wasn't being disrespectful. We'd just spent all this time discussing heaven, and how everyone was there because it's such a happy place. If everyone else in heaven is dead, then it followed that God and Jesus must be dead as well. Developmentally appropriate if-then thinking. I knew that, but I still felt the bones of every ancestor rolling over in my DNA. My brain scrambled for some sort of age appropriate response.
"No, Zane. God and Jesus are not dead. Heaven is their house, and they live there." I waited, shoulders hunched, for more questions.
Zane had no more questions, except to ask about a rock he had found. I had made it through the gauntlet safely this time. I sighed with relief, sending up a small prayer of thanks.
I wonder if Zane ever asks his daddy these kinds of questions.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
M is for Morris
My oldest cat Morris died on February 20th of this year. We'd been traveling down this path for some time, he and I. There were signs, of course, but I missed them in the busyness of life. I feel a little guilty about that, but I can't rewind. Morris certainly didn't help me figure out what was going on; cats always try to hide their illnesses. Eventually, however, I noticed that my cranky, irascible friend had stopped eating.
I gave him treats. I bought him some soft food; I even tried his favorite, pureed chicken. He turned up his nose at them all; turned his back on the bowl as if he didn't want to see what he was missing. That's when I knew. I contacted the vet, put Morris into his carrier, and we made the trip together, just like we always did.
Morris hated the vet. It was nothing personal; he just did not like going to the vet. Even the most gentle of doctors was treated to hissing and growling. Morris was known to fight any attempts to examine him, and the one time he had to have a catheter several people were bitten. This time the vet delivered the bad news that Morris was too far into kidney failure to save; even a blood transfusion would only buy him a brief respite.
When your friend is dying, you do what you can to ease their passing. I brought a favorite blanket for him to lie on. He was too weak to do much more than lay there. I stroked his head for a long time, and he purred weakly while I cried. I've never been good at goodbyes. My husband arrived, and he said his goodbyes to Morris and held my hand as the vet came back into the room.
It was somehow so Morris that with his last bit of strength he would try to bite the vet. I guess that he knew. I kept my hand on him through everything, my fingers entwined in his fur as the drugs took effect. One, two more shallow breaths...and then he was gone. After that, there was not much more to do or say. I cried for a long time.
We had sixteen years together, and although he was a cranky cat, I loved him very much. I hope that he is in kitty heaven, snacking on cat treats to his heart's desire, the hands of angels brushing his soft fur while he purrs in contentment.
But I miss him.
I gave him treats. I bought him some soft food; I even tried his favorite, pureed chicken. He turned up his nose at them all; turned his back on the bowl as if he didn't want to see what he was missing. That's when I knew. I contacted the vet, put Morris into his carrier, and we made the trip together, just like we always did.
Morris hated the vet. It was nothing personal; he just did not like going to the vet. Even the most gentle of doctors was treated to hissing and growling. Morris was known to fight any attempts to examine him, and the one time he had to have a catheter several people were bitten. This time the vet delivered the bad news that Morris was too far into kidney failure to save; even a blood transfusion would only buy him a brief respite.
When your friend is dying, you do what you can to ease their passing. I brought a favorite blanket for him to lie on. He was too weak to do much more than lay there. I stroked his head for a long time, and he purred weakly while I cried. I've never been good at goodbyes. My husband arrived, and he said his goodbyes to Morris and held my hand as the vet came back into the room.
It was somehow so Morris that with his last bit of strength he would try to bite the vet. I guess that he knew. I kept my hand on him through everything, my fingers entwined in his fur as the drugs took effect. One, two more shallow breaths...and then he was gone. After that, there was not much more to do or say. I cried for a long time.
We had sixteen years together, and although he was a cranky cat, I loved him very much. I hope that he is in kitty heaven, snacking on cat treats to his heart's desire, the hands of angels brushing his soft fur while he purrs in contentment.
But I miss him.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Red Writing Hood: Whatever Comes
Red Writing Hood prompt: You or your character find a forgotten letter or card from someone important in your life--whether good or bad. What does it say? How does it affect you or your character? What is done with it? This is fiction!
She found the note the day she finally found the strength to begin emptying the drawers and closets of her husband’s clothes. Jake had been dead and in the ground for a year. Slowly, oh so slowly, she got used to the horrific idea that she was alone. Her husband would never again step through that door, grab her around the waist and kiss her until she felt dizzy with love. After the funeral, her very bones seemed to be leached of the energy to face anything anymore, and she thought that it would be okay if she simply turned to dust sitting in Jake’s chair by the window.
The idea of alone was relentless, however, and the day came where she finally came to accept where he was, and where she was. Then it was time to move again.
Her children had offered to take care of the clearing, cleaning, and removing of their father’s effects, but Maisy knew that she had to do this job herself. It wouldn’t seem real to her, she thought, if she came home one day and all evidence of the love of her life had been swept away like dust under a rug. And so today, she pulled all of the drawers and closets open, and began going through them one by one.
Old ties. Dress shirts of various professional colors. Dress pants, suit coats. Those were easy to let go of, as Jake wore these rarely, if at all. He was never comfortable wearing them, so she was glad to be rid of them. Same with jeans, socks, underpants, undershirts, and shoes.
The t-shirts and the flannel one were a little more difficult. M. They smelled like Jake; like the very wind itself, blowing through the air after a summer storm. That smell would always bring a feeling that Jake was just behind her, waiting to wrap his arms around her and hold tight.
As she pulled the last t-shirt from the drawer, she saw a small white card in the bottom. Maisy leaned over and picked up the card, turning it over in her hand.. Jake’s handwriting was on the front. Maisy recognized the card immediately. Jake had given her this care the day he asked her to be his wife. She knew exactly what the card was going to say, but she opened it anyway, as tears began to weigh down her eyelashes and slide down her cheeks.
Maisy,
Whatever comes, we share. Before God , man, and beast. When the sun rises and when it sets.No matter our troubles or joys. Whatever comes, we share.
All my love,
Jake
“Oh Jake!” Maisy stopped trying to keep her tears inside and just let them flow. “
I can’t share this with you right now, my love.”she whispered. “
But I will be with you one day. “
She found the note the day she finally found the strength to begin emptying the drawers and closets of her husband’s clothes. Jake had been dead and in the ground for a year. Slowly, oh so slowly, she got used to the horrific idea that she was alone. Her husband would never again step through that door, grab her around the waist and kiss her until she felt dizzy with love. After the funeral, her very bones seemed to be leached of the energy to face anything anymore, and she thought that it would be okay if she simply turned to dust sitting in Jake’s chair by the window.
The idea of alone was relentless, however, and the day came where she finally came to accept where he was, and where she was. Then it was time to move again.
Her children had offered to take care of the clearing, cleaning, and removing of their father’s effects, but Maisy knew that she had to do this job herself. It wouldn’t seem real to her, she thought, if she came home one day and all evidence of the love of her life had been swept away like dust under a rug. And so today, she pulled all of the drawers and closets open, and began going through them one by one.
Old ties. Dress shirts of various professional colors. Dress pants, suit coats. Those were easy to let go of, as Jake wore these rarely, if at all. He was never comfortable wearing them, so she was glad to be rid of them. Same with jeans, socks, underpants, undershirts, and shoes.
The t-shirts and the flannel one were a little more difficult. M. They smelled like Jake; like the very wind itself, blowing through the air after a summer storm. That smell would always bring a feeling that Jake was just behind her, waiting to wrap his arms around her and hold tight.
As she pulled the last t-shirt from the drawer, she saw a small white card in the bottom. Maisy leaned over and picked up the card, turning it over in her hand.. Jake’s handwriting was on the front. Maisy recognized the card immediately. Jake had given her this care the day he asked her to be his wife. She knew exactly what the card was going to say, but she opened it anyway, as tears began to weigh down her eyelashes and slide down her cheeks.
Maisy,
Whatever comes, we share. Before God , man, and beast. When the sun rises and when it sets.No matter our troubles or joys. Whatever comes, we share.
All my love,
Jake
“Oh Jake!” Maisy stopped trying to keep her tears inside and just let them flow. “
I can’t share this with you right now, my love.”she whispered. “
But I will be with you one day. “
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Changes
The one thing that everyone on the planet should know about cats is that they hate change. HATE it. In fact, most cats would rather chew up change, swallow it, hack it up as a hairball, then bury it in the back yard. Most days, I would have to say that I agree with their perspective, except for the hairball part. Ick.
But change does come to all, even cats.
On the day that our cat Tiger died, which was three weeks ago, the only cat in the house who seemed to notice was Pounce. She paced, she called, and she remained agitated for most of the day. I understood her angst; Tiger raised her from a kitten. Since then, she's been acting a bit schizo. Well, more schizo than the average calico.
Morris, being a boy cat, immediately moved downstairs and started rubbing his face on everything to mark it. He wanted to go outside and mark everything out there as well, including the neighbor's Pomeranian. The little dog did not appreciate being stamped with the Morris Seal of Approval, and that ended Morris' adventures outside. But he's become much more bossy since Tiger has gone.
And about a week after he passed, we found the kitten Zena wedged under the bed in the exact spot that we found Tiger. Pounce was stalking her. It took us a bit to get her to come out, but we did, and she's seemed okay since. I guess that she had to say goodbye in her own way.
Even Lalo, the feral cat who lives in the backyard, began pressing his face against the glass of our back door every chance he gets. He has been spending the night on our back step instead of his perch in a patio chair. He seems to be looking for something, and we think he's looking for Tiger.
Or food. You never can tell with cats.
But change does come to all, even cats.
On the day that our cat Tiger died, which was three weeks ago, the only cat in the house who seemed to notice was Pounce. She paced, she called, and she remained agitated for most of the day. I understood her angst; Tiger raised her from a kitten. Since then, she's been acting a bit schizo. Well, more schizo than the average calico.
Morris, being a boy cat, immediately moved downstairs and started rubbing his face on everything to mark it. He wanted to go outside and mark everything out there as well, including the neighbor's Pomeranian. The little dog did not appreciate being stamped with the Morris Seal of Approval, and that ended Morris' adventures outside. But he's become much more bossy since Tiger has gone.
And about a week after he passed, we found the kitten Zena wedged under the bed in the exact spot that we found Tiger. Pounce was stalking her. It took us a bit to get her to come out, but we did, and she's seemed okay since. I guess that she had to say goodbye in her own way.
Even Lalo, the feral cat who lives in the backyard, began pressing his face against the glass of our back door every chance he gets. He has been spending the night on our back step instead of his perch in a patio chair. He seems to be looking for something, and we think he's looking for Tiger.
Or food. You never can tell with cats.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
A Tiger Has Passed
My beautiful cat Tiger passed away peacefully this weekend. It was extremely sudden. On Thursday he was fine, by Sunday he was gone. Which wasn't nearly enough time to say goodbye, but I didn't get a say in that.
Tiger was a great cat. He was gentle, and loved to be petted. In fact, whenever someone would pet him, Tiger would purr like crazy. Tiger had the softest fur and loved to be brushed. He never bit or scratched anyone, and was always willing to play. He was chatty, and liked to hang out next to the fridge in hopes of getting a snack. When he wanted attention, he would sometimes swat me with his paw if I tried to ignore him.
Tiger liked to go outside in the backyard and hide in the bushes for a shot at the birds. He wasn't really interested in catching the birds; the one time he actually DID get a bird, he was so shocked that he dropped it.
This is my favorite Tiger picture, and how I will try to remember him: surveying his kingdom. I wish that I could look out at my world with the same assurance.
RIP, my old friend.
Tiger was a great cat. He was gentle, and loved to be petted. In fact, whenever someone would pet him, Tiger would purr like crazy. Tiger had the softest fur and loved to be brushed. He never bit or scratched anyone, and was always willing to play. He was chatty, and liked to hang out next to the fridge in hopes of getting a snack. When he wanted attention, he would sometimes swat me with his paw if I tried to ignore him.
Tiger liked to go outside in the backyard and hide in the bushes for a shot at the birds. He wasn't really interested in catching the birds; the one time he actually DID get a bird, he was so shocked that he dropped it.
This is my favorite Tiger picture, and how I will try to remember him: surveying his kingdom. I wish that I could look out at my world with the same assurance.
RIP, my old friend.
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