Yesterday, as we were on our way to Church, I spotted a familiar black and white form in the ditch along side the our street. It was Old Man Sylvester and he had been hit and killed. My husband gently picked him up and put him on the roof of his truck which was still in the driveway. he told me that Old Man was still warm, but his eyes were already white and glassy. There was little blood, but he was most likely killed instantly with a blow to the head.
Waiting to come home from Church to bury him was difficult. I could not stay in Adult Education class and could not go into the sanctuary where that day's talk was on love. I stayed in the car and bawled. We left Church early and did not stay for Harry Sparks' 90th birthday celebration, though that would have been normally and a given activity. I just could not stay and celebrate while my cat was needing attention.
Just the night before, he had laid on my lap as we spent the evening out on the porch. On Friday night, he had laid his head on my legs as I drank Mojitos and knitted. He was only 5 years old and had survived being poisoned by someone and being abandoned by the family of the woman who had owned him after she suddenly died. He was the father of Spot, my only other "boy outside," and Athena, my avatar's photo. He was stubborn and refused to be inside with the other cats except when it was storming or excessively cold. He was gentle, serene, calm, and definitely the alpha male outside despite being fixed. He was an excellent companion and I miss him greatly.
I am so glad that we had him. I know that he is glad that someone took the time to pet him, feed him, worry about him, and now mourn over him. If we had not had taken him, then he would have died anonymously, some dirty spot on the road, unwanted and unloved. We were so blessed to have loved him. He will be greatly missed.
Last night, Spot waited as was usual for him before he ate dinner. Old Man always ate first and then let his son, Spot, have whatever was leftover. This morning, Spot was late for breakfast, but once he arrived, he did not wait to eat. When my most beloved cat, Hasha, died two years ago, Topper was brave enough to become the king of the bed and rules it with force. He would never have been able to get on the bed unless Hasha was already asleep or absent. He quickly moved up the totem pole and took his place with grace. Will Spot be able to do the same? There were 4-5 baby skunks on the porch last night. Old Man would not have let them on the porch. Will Spot allow them up there?
I like using the word, companion, to describe my cats. They are not pets, but companions. They chose me as much as I chose them and together we create a life filled with love, joy, frustration, and eventually heartache. Why does it always have to end with heartache? I read a passage in from Abraham-Hicks last night that might be able to answer that question? These companion animals remind of pure, source energy which is unconditional love. We recognize this sort of love and when they go, we miss the connection we had with source love which was through them. We could try to remember that source love every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, but sometimes we are unable to do that. So, these pure love energy source reminders, aka our companion animals, are here to remind us of who we are and where we came from. Thank you, Old Man Sylvester.
Find a feeling that is a little better than the level or degree of grief that I have now and move my way back to love and joy.
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