Saying Yes to All this Energy

Many know that we took our kitty to the vet yesterday afternoon and let her body sleep. The rest of her rose gently, tentative, but not afraid.

You can argue it all you want, but energy survives death and lingers long enough to trace just the beginning of a trail away - and a trail back.

And so I did.

Anyone who's loved a pet knows what this feels like. Our grief's no greater than any one else's, our sadness no deeper.

It's the beautiful thing about animals, though, isn't it - their unique personalities mean that when their lives become entwined with ours, each is entwined in a different way. (Okay, you can't really count fish, can you?)

Because Luna was the single bossiest, demanding cat I've ever known, I was quickly assigned the role of hand maiden. No meant nothing to her and really, why would it have, since my no invariably turned to yes.

She loved having me take her for a let's-eat-some-grass walk. Frankly, this was annoying since the walks often were no longer than 20 feet but she still wanted a companion. She wanted one whenever I was on the back porch working. Up the stairs she came, down the stairs she went and when she saw I hadn't joined her, back up the stairs she came. She could do this ten times. Easily. And ten times, I'd say 'no, little one. I'm working.'

The eleventh time, though (just picking a number here), I'd give in, get up and go down. And we'd have just a few minutes of simple joy. Tell me what's sweeter than knowing your kitty's super happy she can have a little grass now (a little grass to be puked up a little later).

Often, I wondered what I said No for. Boundaries are important. But 'no, I can't' isn't always a boundary. It's a thing we say. A thing we make real by saying it.

I wish I hadn't. I wish I'd said yes, eagerly, to Luna every time. My dear friend C (who Luna owned before she came to stay with us) wrote this picture-perfect description of the little one on her very new blog 'What Luck':

She was a creature with an uncanny strength of will and determination. She was a delicate, porcelain beauty, so lightly tethered to the world that her feet hardly touched the ground, it seemed. She was shadow and smoke. She was perceptive and sly. She was shyly sweet.

So. We have grief. We have pain. Of course. We have it while all over the world - oh hell, all over the neighborhood - other people are living and being happy and talking about whatever interesting people talk about it. I am so grateful for this, not just now, but any time I'm in the middle of a painful episode.

It's all part of a big carnival of chances and possibilities, of comings and goings, of getting and losing. What could be less lonely than to be all this energy together? Hm.

Good bye, little one.



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