After

I was surprised by how quickly he went from being alive to being dead. The vet, a very nice young guy who loves all my animals, asked me if I was ready. I said yes, but I wasn't...not really. I'd spent the entire afternoon holding him. I knew it was his time to go when I'd gone outside and found him in the furthest corner of the yard alone. He was so small and frail when I picked him up, like he was already beginning to disappear. He purred the whole afternoon. I brushed him and wiped his fur with a warm rag. He was still purring on the table when the vet came in. They let me keep him in his blanket. I don't want him to be afraid, I said, bawling like a baby. I could bear almost everything else but the thought of his being frightened. But he wasn't. He was calm and purring, like he knew exactly where he was going and he was already at peace with it. So when he asked if I was ready, I had to nod yes...even though I wasn't. And in the matter of a couple of seconds, he wasn't there anymore. I felt sad, but much more peaceful as I held him and then put him back in the carrier to take home. S. drove me home and we buried him under the crepe myrtle tree, not too far from the apricot tree where Beatrice is. I opened the blanket while S. dug the hole and let the other animals see him so they would know he was dead, that he hadn't simply disappeared. I picked him up and put him in the ground. I went inside while S. put the dirt over him. I couldn't watch that. I was never so glad to have someone else there with me. I could have done it all myself, but I was grateful not to have had to go through it alone. So we buried him and life moved on around him. I made soap, hung out with my kids, went to an art opening (don't ask...it was horrible), had dinner with wonderful friends, made love, had coffee, dreamed of Buddhist non-profits and peeping toms. Life moves on, and I see that my moon cat is a lesson for the next death, and that every death is a lesson for my own. The slightest whisper of understanding comes and then goes, something I can't quite catch, but I'm getting an impression of it--that secret that makes death such an important part of everything, that sense that really understanding death is so inexorably linked to living as fully as possible.