He was smart, for a cat – something people tirelessly admire in their pets. And in terms of being a cat, there was little his eyes didn’t see. But then he became a crippled old animal, no longer a threat to mice, chipmunks or birds. It was then when he himself became the hunted, by the relentless pursuers of age and gravity.
He did not last the winter, sitting to watch out the window only a few more times. But mostly resting in a warm dark nook with his nose buried in his tail. The world was here and he came into it and was part of it. The world was here for him to look at through the windows in his head – passing scenery of all that is earthbound. Same as you and me.
Nocturnal traveler, celebrator of the sun, worshipper of sleep and feasting.
Like the ancient Egyptians, I seem to be obsessed with death and cats. I suppose, had I lived back then, I would have had him mummified.
But in the present, winter has come empty-handed and the cat is one of many who it will take. Little heart-motors all slow to stillness after so many miles. Death is the loudest silence you’ll ever hear, ringing in your ears for so, so long after it has come.
C.M. Rivers 