Max died recently. He was one of our three cats. When we were out of town visiting my brother last week, there was an awful storm here that knocked out the power for 18 hours. We don’t know for sure, but from the report of the cat sitter and the awful images in our imagination, the loud scream of our generator joined with the lightning and thunder to frighten him into hiding, a hiding he never came out of. Or maybe, he just knew it was his time. Cats seem to know such things.
We looked for him for days. We looked and looked and called and called and always expected, or maybe so wanted him, dreamed of him, prayed for him to just emerge from the bushes or from wherever. But he didn’t emerge. I finally found him hidden out of sight in one of his safe places. Until that moment, we could never accept that he was dead.
He was such a good friend. He was originally found on the streets with his sister before being taken to the ASPCA. And he remained a street cat in spirit all his years, loving to be outdoors. He’d come inside at dinner time, ask for food, but not eat it until we put it outside. But when he did come in to see us at night, or to rest or sleep, he was our only cat who cuddled. Who sat in our lap or slept on top of one of us.
He had a heart problem. One night, when he was a few months past his first birthday, we heard a scream outside. We guessed he was in a fight. I ran outside, looked up into the ancient apple tree that sits outside our front door. And Max fell from a high branch into my arms. Literally.
We took him to the best vet we knew. She said Max wouldn’t live for more than a year. His heart was not able to adjust to any deep stress he would face. She prescribed surgery to give him a pacemaker. We then took him to Cornell Veterinary College for a second opinion. They said don’t do the surgery. It probably wouldn’t work, and if it did, he’d never be able to roam outside again. That would have killed him. He clearly didn’t die that year, or for another 12.5.
It hurt so much when I found him. All the worry and wondering where he was and what had kept him away turned to anger, guilt, and pain. When the fearful wall of death meets the universe of love, an intensity of what ifs, of should and could have beens, can arise. The intensity of regret increases with the number of half-lived, half-hidden moments we’ve stored away. And it decreases, hopefully, with the gratitude, amazement, even grace mixed in with the grief. There’s something so naked and mysterious in many relationships between humans and beings of other species.
We had a funeral for him in our yard. As we covered him with soil, we also covered him with memories, with “We love you, Max.” “We’re so sorry.” And then, unplanned, I started chanting “Aum.” My wife joined in. The notes seemed to rise up and quiet the world.
But it wasn’t until the next day that I found any real inner quiet. During my morning meditation, memories of Max and the funeral kept arising. At first, I wanted to treat the memories like ordinary thoughts and let them go. But I decided that this experience was my now, my everything, and I needed to learn what it had to show me.
The images, thoughts, and judgments were so powerfully in the forefront of mind. So, I felt my way into an image or thought, traced it back to what was hidden or latent inside it. Traced it back to its component sensations and feelings. It was difficult, not only because of the pain but because it was difficult to discern what was there, where it hid, what it felt like⎼ what each individual sensation felt like and feel it. Only by feeling it could I learn from it and let it go.
My jaw, my mouth was so tense. The whole left side of my face, and my body, down to my knee, oh, down to my toes. Like a metal shield. And my hand was so stiff. And I realized my eyes wanted to cry, to let loose tears I had never exposed. My mouth wanted to scream, to continue the scream that had begun the moment I had found him. My hand was a shadow of a fist wanting to come into the light and pound the earth.
In the past, whenever I returned home from a trip Max would greet me. He’d look at me, and if I called his name, he’d run to me, rise onto his hind legs, and rub his head against my hand. This was a characteristic of Max, standing up and butting head against hand. When our cats were younger, he and our other male cat would sometimes jump up and their two bodies would meet in the air, like male athletes sometimes do, to celebrate.
And I wish I could do that with him now. But I can’t. I can only do that with his memory.
This is what I’m doing right now, as I speak with you. Max and I, we’re jumping into air to find joy and to celebrate our love. I hope we all, every one of us, do this in spirit. Our being alive, now, and our capacity for love are two things we share. And we all can jump into the air and celebrate this.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Image courtesy of author