the dew of little things

For in the dew of little things,
the heart finds its morning and is refreshed."
-- Kahlil Gibran, "The Prophet" --

One of my cats, Pan, is dead.

He was struck by a car this evening and killed. Someone who passed by later came to our door about two hours ago to tell us there was a cat lying in the road that might be ours. As I write this, his body rests in a cardboard box, covered in one of the new towels Jenna bought at the mall today, out on our back deck. "Somewhere cool", as the vet advised me, until morning, when I can bring it to them to have it cremated. To have him cremated. He died from a head injury, and I'd guess quite swiftly.

Just this evening, in a conversation with Jenna, I characterized my cats as among my best friends. Just today a few of us marvelled over how amazing it was that he was such a good hunter for such a dumb cat. I'd taken to calling him Nimrod the past couple of days. You'd figured the brighter brother Jethro would make a better hunter, but he's not.

I've been walking around this evening in the cool night air. It's a beautiful night. Interesting that. The world moves in mysterious ways sometimes. Jenna's been with me. I worry a little for her. I don't know how she's coping with my silence in all this.

I tried to find a picture of him to post with this entry, but I couldn't seem to locate one and I'm not in the mood to keep searching.

Pan was a happy cat. I think he led a marvellously happy life as cat live's go. And while I knew a few months ago that letting them start going outside was a risk, especially to Pan, being as dumb as he was, they've never seemed happier as when they've been able to come and go and play outside in the yards.

Pan's life brought me great happiness. There's something very special about the love a pet can show you. Something very simple. Something very wonderful. And not always even by the times they come around looking to be cuddled and such. I loved how he would often come into my room at night to sleep next to my dresser just a few feet from my bed. And I loved how when I got out of bed in the morning he'd hop in just a little bit later to curl up in the sheets still warm from my body. I loved the way he'd make that funny noise when he was hunting flies or watching birds. I loved the way he'd lie on his back in his "love me" pose when he wanted some attention, or forgiveness when he'd done something wrong.

It all still seems very surreal. I can't believe I'm sitting here typing this. My head aches. My throat aches. I want to throw up, and still feel like I might.

I should perhaps, amend my Torn Curtains project: it seems I am still capable of feeling wrath. I realize he might have been dead on impact. I realize that it was likely his own dumb fault because the little fucker couldn't figure out to stay out of the road. But I'd also bet that whoever struck him either didn't bother to stop, or fled after they did. And if only they'd taken the time to share in our grief by coming to us when it happened. Or if, on the off-chance, it meant we might have discovered him still alive and had a chance to save him, the world would seem a little less cold and pointless right now. And for denying me that, if they have, I curse them. May they live as many sleepless nights over this as Pan lived fun-filled days.

I always say that every moment of joy is purchased with a moment of sorrow. Yin and Yang. This is the way of the world. And for all the frustrating moments that Pan's stupidity brought me, the joy his presence in my life brought me seems measureless, and the sorrow I feel now at his loss just as, and only the beginning of my "evening up". I guess I have many sorrow-filled days ahead of me to even the score.

If you are inclined to call, don't. I don't feel like talking to anyone about this. I'm not feeling very talkative. If you are inclined to write, go ahead, but I may not be inclined to respond.

To Bernice, who shared the cats with me for most of their lives, my heart goes out to you too. I'm sure this will strike home with you as well. When Bernice and I split, we decided to never separate the cats, on the basis that they'd lived together all their lives and loved each other so much that we figured either would go out of its mind without the other. Jethro has not started crying yet, but it's only a matter of time. How do you explain to a cat that his brother is dead and won't be coming home again?

I found myself sitting on my deck a while ago, talking to a dead cat. I imagine I'm about to head back out there again after I post this. I told him:

"I can only hope that I've managed to show you in your life even a fraction of the happiness you brought to mine."

I'm sorry, Pan.

I love you.