My family had two cats.
The first one, Stella, is the softest kitty you ever saw, with the sweetest, tiniest meow you ever heard -- but her personality is anything but soft and sweet. She's cranky and standoffish, and if you're lucky you can pet her once before she strikes with claws and teeth. She became part of the family the day after my first "date" with J; when asked about the beginning of our relationship, he always brings up the photo I sent him when I came home from work to find her there after picking her out at the shelter. She was about 6 months old, one of the youngest (and most vocal) cats in the social cat cage.
The second one, Furrgus, came to us as a tiny black ball of fur, his eyes barely open. He was found in a gutter and lived in our guest bedroom for 6 weeks in quarantine until he could safely come out and meet Stella. He was goofy and rambunctious from Day One, always sneaking out between our feet, climbing our pant legs, and tripping over himself. He's also fearless; while Stella would shoot off at the slightest noise or disturbance, Furrg chased the vacuum cleaner, the ceiling fan and the buzz saw.
Later we came to the conclusion that he was also deaf, because have you ever met a cat you could sneak up on?! We kept him inside for a long time, knowing that he wouldn't blink at a passing car or the other gigantic cats on the block (with whom Stella gets into regular altercations) or the neighborhood's crew of bored teenagers. But eventually his cabin fever was getting everyone down, so we let him out.
And he was so happy! He and Stella started getting along better; he cuddled more, slept more, cried less. He would just sit, for hours, watching us work outside, or having staring contests with Stella's arch-enemy cat from next door. His reflexes got sharper, and he mellowed out, became more affectionate.
And then on Saturday, my dad called to tell me he'd been hit by a car and died.
***
I can't say we didn't all see it coming. We knew he was too full of life to be the kind of cat who lived to a ripe old age of 20, when he would quietly fade away with 8 lives still intact. At two, he'd already burned through his backup lives, and it wasn't slowing him down a bit!
But I didn't see it coming this particular Saturday; I hadn't planned for it. And I didn't expect to mourn so deeply and immediately. My hurt usually soaks in slowly, over time, so I can deal with it when the time of action is over. Besides that, I'm used to being the Leaver, not the Left-Behind. We've had pets before, but we always moved (to a different country) before we had to make any tough decisions -- and have been miraculously spared a sad event like this one 'til now.
Furrgus was the kind of pet that teaches you how to be comfortable in your own skin, reminds you not to take yourself too seriously, encourages you to stay curious. He schooled us in living on the regular.
And, in a sense, he schooled us in death too. He went quickly, sleeping. And then he gathered us together -- even Stella.
Sharing grief is a powerful thing. It's critical: the element of touch; the way different people in the group trade off the caretaker role; the sharing of stories, that laughing-with-tears-streaming-down-your-face -- you can't do that by yourself so well. And two cups of tea, shared, taste so much better than one.
***
What I am left with is this: We Need Each Other.
We all need a Furrgus... or a few Furrguses. (My other "Furrguses" include my friend Chris Lund, my Grammi, Morrie Schwartz...) And we all need people to be around when tough times strike.
There is a lot to cry about in our world: layoffs and breakups and failed tests and pitch after pitch that falls flat.
Delaware (and the rest of the nation) is mourning our well-loved former AG, Beau Biden. The collective pain is palpable here in Wilmington.
People in cities across the country mourn the violence that named Wilmington Murder Capital of the USA last year, and has recently brought Baltimore to a 40-year high in shooting deaths, and strikes almost every city and town in its own way.
There are sunken boats and plane crashes and bombings and wars and extreme weather events.
And although the hype has subsided, the world has been mourning the 9,000+ dead in Nepal's series of earthquakes last month, and the many others affected still by the stricken infrastructure and loss of family, community, and home.
We have our personal tragedies, and our shared tragedies. Our mourning filters through every aspect of our lives, and adds a gritty complexity and weight to our days. And it intensifies our humanity, which seeks company and community. We teach each other and catch each other and do our best to salve the pain of others and to keep on. It's why we Walk for the Cure and donate or volunteer for relief efforts and community services and clean-up crews. It's why we go to wakes and hold each other while we cry and inevitably stumble over words that we know can never really take the pain away -- because we are human and that's beautiful and we need each other to remind us of what's important and why we even bother slogging through the shit at all. And to remind us to make the most of it, and to do what we can to make the world better, even in very small ways.
The first one, Stella, is the softest kitty you ever saw, with the sweetest, tiniest meow you ever heard -- but her personality is anything but soft and sweet. She's cranky and standoffish, and if you're lucky you can pet her once before she strikes with claws and teeth. She became part of the family the day after my first "date" with J; when asked about the beginning of our relationship, he always brings up the photo I sent him when I came home from work to find her there after picking her out at the shelter. She was about 6 months old, one of the youngest (and most vocal) cats in the social cat cage.
The second one, Furrgus, came to us as a tiny black ball of fur, his eyes barely open. He was found in a gutter and lived in our guest bedroom for 6 weeks in quarantine until he could safely come out and meet Stella. He was goofy and rambunctious from Day One, always sneaking out between our feet, climbing our pant legs, and tripping over himself. He's also fearless; while Stella would shoot off at the slightest noise or disturbance, Furrg chased the vacuum cleaner, the ceiling fan and the buzz saw.Later we came to the conclusion that he was also deaf, because have you ever met a cat you could sneak up on?! We kept him inside for a long time, knowing that he wouldn't blink at a passing car or the other gigantic cats on the block (with whom Stella gets into regular altercations) or the neighborhood's crew of bored teenagers. But eventually his cabin fever was getting everyone down, so we let him out.
And he was so happy! He and Stella started getting along better; he cuddled more, slept more, cried less. He would just sit, for hours, watching us work outside, or having staring contests with Stella's arch-enemy cat from next door. His reflexes got sharper, and he mellowed out, became more affectionate.
And then on Saturday, my dad called to tell me he'd been hit by a car and died.
***
I can't say we didn't all see it coming. We knew he was too full of life to be the kind of cat who lived to a ripe old age of 20, when he would quietly fade away with 8 lives still intact. At two, he'd already burned through his backup lives, and it wasn't slowing him down a bit!
But I didn't see it coming this particular Saturday; I hadn't planned for it. And I didn't expect to mourn so deeply and immediately. My hurt usually soaks in slowly, over time, so I can deal with it when the time of action is over. Besides that, I'm used to being the Leaver, not the Left-Behind. We've had pets before, but we always moved (to a different country) before we had to make any tough decisions -- and have been miraculously spared a sad event like this one 'til now.
Furrgus was the kind of pet that teaches you how to be comfortable in your own skin, reminds you not to take yourself too seriously, encourages you to stay curious. He schooled us in living on the regular.
And, in a sense, he schooled us in death too. He went quickly, sleeping. And then he gathered us together -- even Stella.
Sharing grief is a powerful thing. It's critical: the element of touch; the way different people in the group trade off the caretaker role; the sharing of stories, that laughing-with-tears-streaming-down-your-face -- you can't do that by yourself so well. And two cups of tea, shared, taste so much better than one.
***
What I am left with is this: We Need Each Other.
We all need a Furrgus... or a few Furrguses. (My other "Furrguses" include my friend Chris Lund, my Grammi, Morrie Schwartz...) And we all need people to be around when tough times strike.
There is a lot to cry about in our world: layoffs and breakups and failed tests and pitch after pitch that falls flat.
Delaware (and the rest of the nation) is mourning our well-loved former AG, Beau Biden. The collective pain is palpable here in Wilmington.
People in cities across the country mourn the violence that named Wilmington Murder Capital of the USA last year, and has recently brought Baltimore to a 40-year high in shooting deaths, and strikes almost every city and town in its own way.
There are sunken boats and plane crashes and bombings and wars and extreme weather events.
And although the hype has subsided, the world has been mourning the 9,000+ dead in Nepal's series of earthquakes last month, and the many others affected still by the stricken infrastructure and loss of family, community, and home.
We have our personal tragedies, and our shared tragedies. Our mourning filters through every aspect of our lives, and adds a gritty complexity and weight to our days. And it intensifies our humanity, which seeks company and community. We teach each other and catch each other and do our best to salve the pain of others and to keep on. It's why we Walk for the Cure and donate or volunteer for relief efforts and community services and clean-up crews. It's why we go to wakes and hold each other while we cry and inevitably stumble over words that we know can never really take the pain away -- because we are human and that's beautiful and we need each other to remind us of what's important and why we even bother slogging through the shit at all. And to remind us to make the most of it, and to do what we can to make the world better, even in very small ways.
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