I had written her
obituary over and over in my head all morning. I wanted a fitting tribute to the dignity of her life and to
the delight she had brought me. I wanted to heal by means of sharing my grief
in words.
Cliché’s came to
mind; “curiosity killed the cat,” in particular. Then guilt arose in me like
heartburn from yesterday’s spicy guacamole and salsa. I acknowledged to myself it
was not mere curiosity that had caused Drama Queen, my sweet, gentle, one-eyed,
sable Burmese beauty, to dart outside without my notice. My preoccupation with
photographing my backyard birds, a newfound passion in recent months, was also
a contributing factor. In a rush to capture just the right shot, I had left the French door opening out to the deck ajar. Although she never before had shown particular interest
in leaving the comfort of our recliner or the cushion of our occasional chair,
a basic instinct inside her apparently had unleashed. It came suddenly and
deliberately, like tide unfurling on the sand.
One day not so
long ago, a juvenile house finch lost its way and began pecking at a side
window in my meditation room. Drama, as is her custom, basked on the
windowsill, soaking up the warmth of late afternoon sun. As the baby bird
scampered about, Drama’s ears began to perk. She lifted her body into an alert
position. In short, she acted like a cat. I paid little attention, thinking it all
rather cute, and went on about my business. Her instinct percolated, however,
and it came to a boil yesterday.
I noticed, as I kicked
my feet up in the recliner and relaxed to watch some television last evening, my
empty lap. The familiar warm body and intense purring was missing. Engrossed in
some mindless story, I gave a cursory look about the room and figured she had
curled up somewhere else for awhile. She does, after all, have her own bed,
pink and soft and fluffy. By the time I realized I had missed most of a program
because of drifting in and out of sleep, I looked for her in earnest. The room
is not large. She had few places to hide. I had to concede to my innermost self
that Drama Queen had left the building.
Drama is a small
cat, weighing around eight pounds, if that. She came to me declawed. She has
one remaining eye because something filmy and nasty exploded inside her other eye, causing
the need for surgical removal. These conditions, and her naiveté with outdoor survival
skills, did not bode well. Nor did the fact that a lean, scrappy,
hungry-looking coyote has pranced up and down the street in front of my house
on several recent days. When I heard frantic screaming signaling a victory kill
about an hour later, my stomach turned at the possibilities.
This morning, I
sent a note to my friend who had brought Drama Queen to me several years ago,
asking for her forgiveness of my neglect. I kept my morning appointments in a
daze. One of the appointments involved taking an animal to my veterinarian, who
I know all too well because of my menagerie. With dismay, I told the office
staff and the doctor that Drama probably would not be coming in again.
Now the story
becomes mysterious and miraculous and coincidental and divine.
Half-way through
my appointment, John, a staff receptionist, burst into the examination room
unannounced. No knock. No, “Excuse me, but . . .” He entered with pure, raw urgency.
“Someone found
Drama Queen!” he said. “One of our regular clients called and said, ‘You’re
going to think I’m crazy, but I found a one-eyed, declawed, miniature-looking
cat at my fence last night. She is sweet and tame and well cared for. She has
to have a home somewhere. What should I do?’”
“You’re going to
think I’m crazy,” he responded, “but the owner of that cat is right in the
other room.” He knew immediately. He had no doubt. Let’s face it; there just is
not an abundance of one-eyed, declawed, miniature-looking cats in the
neighborhood.
As it happened,
Drama had explored her way across the street – the very street that Cassius (Julius Caesar, Act I, Scene 2 “Yond
Cassius has a lean and hungry look.”) has claimed as his territory – and made
her way to the neighbor catty-corner – yup, catty-corner -- from my house. My
neighbor took her in, fed her, enjoyed her sweetness, and, in the morning,
began making phone calls.
This evening,
Drama Queen is stretched out in our recliner. We are listening to dusk’s
birdsong. She is purring with an earnestness that makes a sound like chirping. And
I? I am grateful.
Call it
coincidence, if you will. Call it a series of fortunate events. Or call it
sacred.
