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22 July, 1998 A Small Passing
Sister Moon will be my guide
He was small. So very small. I could tell right away, that he was weaker than the others. He didn't fight as strongly for a place at the teat. Even when you put him right on top of one, he'd have trouble finding it and then if one of his sibs disturbed him while he was eating, he would just give up and curl up in a defensive sleepy ball. I'd decided that he probably needed to be hand-fed and tried to start using milk diluted in warm water. He didn't like it, refused to eat and wailed piteously for his mother. I set him back in between her forepaws and she licked him energetically. When she did, he would wake up more and be stronger about insisting on food for a while. Yesterday evening, we went out to eat with Sabs' friend Sean who has been here for 2 weeks and is flying back to San Francisco in a few hours. Sabs wanted to say good-bye and all that fun stuff, so we didn't get home until just before midnight. I dropped everything I was carrying to go check on them all, but particularly him, my little one. They were all curled up next to mama. Except him. My heart fell into the ground. He wasn't moving, he was stretched out too much, his mouth was wide open. I reached a trembling finger into the box to stroke his soft fur. He was cold and stiff already. Rigor mortis had set in so he had been dead for several hours. I sat down on the floor and picked him up, cupped his tiny little body in my hands and burst into tears. I was too late. He was only 48 hours old. A tiny fluff of furry kitten amidst eight others. But he was so sweet already, curling into the palm of my hand and sucking on my fingers. He would sleep there for a few seconds until I put him back with the others. He was a little tuxedo cat: black with faint tabby markings and white paws and chest. His eyes hadn't even opened yet. He was the one we were going to keep after giving all the others away to friends and acquaintances. But he's gone. I know he was just a little cat. I know that he was the runt of the litter and was probably too weak to survive. But somehow I can't help thinking that it was my fault. Maybe I picked him up too much. Maybe I should have gone out to get the evaporated milk and a feeding bottle and started hand-feeding him sooner. But as Sabs pointed out, some things are inevitable. In cat litters, things like this are common and often, inevitable. We wrapped him carefully in soft tissues and a piece of black scrap fabric and drove out to a clearing in the woods. It was dark and quiet, except for the crickets and the chirping of night-birds. I cradled him to my cheek one last time, within his bundle and then laid him in the hole which Sabs had dug with a soup spoon. We covered him over carefully and laid leaves and branches over it to dicourage scavengers or dogs being walked. So we returned him to Nature, a peaceful resting place beneath a spreading tree. We sat there for a while contemplating life and death and how it all fits together. At least I did, but by the look on his face, I believe that Sabs' thoughts were in a similar vein. I miss him, this charming little life, which was only close to mine for such a short time. It may seem silly, maybe even pathetic, but I think that anything which brought a person that much joy, is worth an equal share of mourning. |
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