Everything I Learned About Death, I Learned from My Cats

 

I’ve had to say goodbye to four grandparents and four close friends, among others, but it’s the deaths of my cats that have put me closer to the process of dying than anything else, closer than I would have wanted.

I just lost my cat Ajax (right), my constant companion of 18 years. Three years ago, after an operation to remove bladder stones, he nearly died, and so the past three years have been one of nurturing him, constant battles to get him to eat when he often felt too nauseated and to keep some fat on his body when his overactive thyroid turned him into skin and bones.

Because he was constantly hungry, I limited my time at the cabin so I could be at home to feed him as much as he needed it, envisioning the time when I could stay at the cabin as long as I wanted. Vacations for the last three years were also perilous, wondering if we would be called home by our cat sitter when he stopped eating or his situation became grave again.

And yet, I would take back all my grumbling, all my time at the cabin or on vacations to have him back, to have him sitting crying at his food bowl when I got up each morning, to have him lying on the couch, where he had installed himself for the last few years. All my cavalier thoughts about “when he’s gone” didn’t prepare me for the reality of his absence, for what it would feel like to not see him every day.

These animals, almost more than our human friends, insinuate themselves into our lives, become calming presences, the ones who stand by us day in and day out. And then they’re gone, and their absence seems huge.

Watching him die, I learned that any abstract thoughts about death don’t come close to what it feels like when one minute you are with your living, breathing cat, and the next minute there’s only a cold pile of bones and skin. What we learn about death, so close up, is that it breaks our hearts open, leaves us reeling, unable to imagine life without them.

A month or so before Ajax died, I was sitting next to him on the couch, thinking about the Buddhist precept that animals aren’t reincarnated, except, my teacher told me, in rare instances where they learn compassion toward others. If only, I thought, Ajax would show compassion toward the other cat in the household, Chicory, who he had always ignored and pushed away.

The next morning, both cats were in their usual positions stretched out in the warm sunlight by the front door (above), but this time Ajax slowly inched himself toward Chicory (on the left), and, in front of my amazed eyes, stretched out his arms toward her, almost touching her. For his efforts, he was rewarded with a bop on the head from Chicory. And yet I’m hopeful that I may be seeing Ajax again, in whatever form the universe delivers.

Comments

[shoney]

Kathy, what a beautiful piece on love, friendship, death and dying....thank you for this the exquisite photos.

[Erin Block]

Utmost beauty here. And my thoughts are with you during this time of loss...until you see him again. I'm hopeful too.

[Gayle]

I so identified with this, Kathy. It's astonishing how a living thing who has an singular personality with all attendant quirks and mannerisms can be here one minute and so very gone the next. We fret about our "body" so much -- make-up, perfume, grooming -- and in the end it's the soul that leaves and moves on. I say Ajax showed compassion enough in this world that he gets to move forward. I know my pets have been compassionate toward me just by forgiving my frailities and showing me so much love.

Ajax is waiting! (My deep sympathy on the loss of your loved friend.)

[Julene Bair]

Touching, surprising, beautiful essay, Kathy. My heartfelt condolences on your loss. You describe it so precisely and honestly.

[Jennifer]

My heart goes out to you, Kathy. I was particularly taken with your description of the sudden, shocking transformation of a warm, living, breathing being to an armful of cold skin and bones—it took me back to the death of my own beloved pet a dozen years ago. It's been said that our animal companions are here to teach us the truth of impermanence … a suspiciously deterministic theory, I'd say; and yet it's true that we have no choice but to assimilate the painful contrast of the intense attachments we form with them, on the one hand, and their inevitable departure from our lives, on the other. Judging by my own experience, the sorrow never ends, but the rawness of it does fade. May you and Lynn find the sweetness in the bittersweet of this spring.