I will get back to blogging about walking and the body after new years and I am not exactly sure why I feel compelled to write about my animals but here is one more.
At the time I met my wife I told her that weird things happened to me and she should be prepared. At the time we started going out my friend Mark was living on the first floor. Our backyard had recently been reconfigured and we lost one of our cats, Mu, who went missing. With the new backyard the cats were able to come and go as they pleased much to my displeasure. But I felt that to take cats that had been hanging out outside inside, and not let them out again seemed too cruel.
After Mu left we had two cats, crazy Fifi who lived in the basement and Dave a maine coon—not the biggest but not the smallest either. Still enveloped in the sadness of losing we were awoken one morning by an incredibly stoic Mark came into my apartment and halfway up the stair case to announce that Dave was dead out on 9th St, he was in a hurry, gotta go bye.
Caitlin and I grabbed a towel and took the funeral march down 9th Street to find Dave, a large grey mass with entrails loose, lying in the middle of the street. I placed him gingerly into the towel and we solemnly made our way back home with Dave wrapped and nestled in my arms.
A hole was dug in the backyard and Dave was buried with due respect andgravity. Caitlin can’t remember but she believes I said a few words before we sat down on the bench to stare at the freshly sown grave.
And then… Dave hopped his new low fence, came ambling into the yard and sat down at our feet looking up at us. I turned to Caitlin and said, “Welcome to my life.”
We buried the wrong cat. On one level it was a deed well done as the poor cat got buried. But another way of looking at it is someone lost their cat and never found out what happened to him. As then, as I mentioned in the last post, Dave moved out not long after this incident.
Life is short and a life well lived is one that is full of stories. I hope you enjoyed this one.