Joy

I find myself reluctant to put into words the experience I've had with Louie's passage. At the same time, it is a celebration I want to express in language.

When Louie's body ceased breathing, the other cats who were in for the night continued their sleeping. When I began to lay his body out on a red quilt and place objects to help with the crossing, they suddenly got active. In fact, they went into party mode. Felicity found a ball and brought it to Lou; TangaRoo batted another ball about the studio; Monkey Gurl and Oh-Oh went outside and tore up and down the large elm next to the studio door.

As it happened, when Louie's breath stopped, I was on the phone with a friend who has been an intimate part of this process. "This is different," I said. We were wondering if morphine was now what was wanted. His body had gone into contortions, his breath ragged, and there were some long cries.

On reflection, it was clearly a birthing out of form.

After death, the body continued its movements for a minute or so. We are so conditioned to see breathing that I kept waiting for the side of his body to rise again. I remember this with Bonsai and Little Little Spot. Is he gone? Something is. But the joy that had accompanied his leaving was even more apparent, more expanded, more palpable. I suspect it is this the others set out to celebrate with such exuberance.

In a short while, I will wrap his body for the next part of its journey--to take it to the vets' office for its waiting to be taken for cremation.

When I return, I predict the studio will feel like my heart does, both full and empty. Someone once said, "The absence of the dead is their way of appearing," but Louie has taught me something else--The presence of the departed is their way of appearing.

If I could purr for joy, I would.