bruorton

Because my kidneys were failing
and I didn’t have a donor yet I had
surgery on my left arm to prepare it for
dialysis. Because now the circulation
in that arm doesn’t work so well
I carry a little stress ball to squeeze
to try to keep it from retaining fluid.

Because all last week I kept forgetting
to carry it with me I made sure to
put it in my jacket pocket this
morning. Because I still had to brush
my teeth I laid my jacket down on
the table and went into the bathroom.

Because I left the door open and
because the table is visible in the
mirror at that angle and because
my cat loves investigating anything
left on the table I got to witness
him pawing at the soft ball he

discovered, a hidden toy just
for him, prancing in his delight.
Sometimes I lie awake hours feeling
that my life is an immovable weight
I must somehow endure another day
when, from out of nowhere, joy
overtakes me like a flood.

We buried him in the high meadow

where he always loved to race ahead

and hide in the tall grass, then pretend

to ambush us when we came along.

We left no marker, with only the edges

of displaced sod to show the grave

which will disappear by next spring—

so that, not knowing where precisely,

this whole field will be his resting place.

Or, at a greater remove, this whole mountain

where once he ranged up and down

with us in all seasons, whether in the dark

and moody hemlock woods, by the stream

as we foraged in autumn for chanterelles,

or up the steep eroded slope, to the hidden

orchard at the top, planted generations ago,

giving still an ambrosia perfume every spring.

But this seems the right place for him

to rest; nothing more is needed.

For a gravestone, simply the sun slanting

on the distant pines. For an epitaph,

the thrush and chickadee calling

from the great and spreading ash.

         The fluffy black cat sat in the clearing at the top of the hill, and looked up at the stars. The night sky was clear, and brilliant. The cat himself was invisible in the dark grass, except for a glimmer of light reflecting from his eyes.
          His people had stopped calling by now, and tapping dishes, and whatever else they could think of to entice him back. He’d watched them for a time, safely hidden in the bushes, as they searched and called. But he’d already had dinner; what he hadn’t ever had was a chance to spend a night outside. He’d resisted the pull of his stomach and turned away, crossing the road and going up the hill into the woods.
          One of the stars was getting larger. He watched it intently, wondering if it would turn out to be a bug. He quite liked bugs.

( Read more... )

"Grief is love's souvenir.
It is our proof that we once loved."
--Glennon Doyle Melton

You remember that time she got out?
she asks. Of course I do. Years ago,
early January, my brother was taking
care of our cats while we were away
for a few days, and we came home
well after dark to learn that somehow

the younger one had gotten out.

The ground was already covered
in a hard crust of snow and we were

instantly petrified. She never went

outside. She wouldn't know how to
survive, she might get confused and

not know where to come to be saved.

We rushed out into the darkness,

calling, hoping, desperate. We
could not bear the thought of
losing this sweet, affectionate
kitten who had found her way into
our hearts and never grew up.

We could not bear to think of her

afraid, or in pain.

But then, there came an answer.
An anxious mewing, up the hill.
And off my wife charged, straight
through the raspberry thicket to

where the frightened little cat

crouched, shivering, crying out

for rescue.

Tonight it is we who shudder; we

who wonder where home is now.

I would run through any amount
of brambles to have her back,
she says, remembering.
I didn't even feel them.

But we were always running

through the brambles.
We just never felt them

until now. The love we

gave and got has left us

scarred, a crosshatching
on our lives, every laceration
a treasure.

We were having tea when something I mistook for a grayish-green pit bull blundered into the kitchen. Then I nearly overturned the cream in my double-take.

"Goodness, Gwennie, when on earth did you get a pet with two heads?"

She chuckled and broke off a bit of her pecan scone, holding it permissively below the level of her rocker's seat. The heads extended suddenly, and now I could see the necks were long, like a turtle's when stretching fully out of its shell.

"It's a baby hydra, dear," my aunt explained.

Both heads sensed the proffered treat, and it trundled over like a small bear. But one head was quicker, obliging Gwen to to break off a second bit of scone for the other. She stroked it as both heads explored the floor for crumbs.

"It often seems a little confused," she admitted, "but it's actually still relatively focused, and the training's been going just fine. It's important to do a good job of that early, you know, before it grows more heads -- you can see a third budding already, between the first two. Just there... see?"

I have not slept well. Awake at 4,
I’m too cold to go back to sleep,
and too easily wakened completely
to get up and find my flannel pajamas
and then go back to sleep. Catch-22.

I finally give in at 5 and get up, begrudging everything:
cold, the coming day, wakefulness, the world.
In the stove I lay logs on last night’s coals,
not bothering with tinder; a trickle of smoke
and I desert it to catch flame on its own.

I grumpily measure out water for the morning’s porridge,
two cups, and turn on the electric range, a practice
so rote I could do it in my sleep. Then,
switching off the kitchen lights, I reward myself
by lying on the couch until the water boils.

It’s a sort of lie, of course, a momentary
make-believe that I could go back to sleep.
But the couch is soft, and so is the dark,
and I listen as over in the kitchen the range
ticks into a dully glowing heat

while on my other side the fire comes alive,
a cracking, flickering orange creeping through
the stove door I left ajar to give it air.
And then, from nowhere in the dark room
my little cat appears upon my chest

and begins purring at once, her delicate paws
kneading and unclenching on the fabric
of my robe, her head pushed into the hand
that gropes blindly toward her, her little fire
delighting in all that is right in the world.

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Entries tagged with pets

Causation

For Corva, the Hiking Cat

Cor-bah

The Brambles

Visiting Aunt Gwen

Little Fires

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