Post by Rhonda on Jun 11, 2009 3:40:11 GMT -5
Cat's Gift of Faith
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Loving Our Cats
By Claudia Newcorn
When you're used to hearing purring and suddenly it's gone, it's hard to silence the blaring sound of sadness.
~Missy Altijd
He was a marmalade tabby kitten with sapphire eyes that I adopted from the Massachusetts SPCA. Fitting perfectly in my palm, he promptly chewed his way into my thumb¯- and my heart. "You're a feisty little peppercorn, aren't you?" I yelped, and so he got his name.
Described by many as "an extraordinary cat," Peppercorn grew from diminutive to nearly three feet long¯- measured from orange-whiskered nose to pumpkin-tipped tail¯- punctuated by burnt-orange eyes that could stare you down. I learned that he was an excellent judge of character. A quick once-over, and he would sum you up with a flick of his tail, then either deign to advance for a pat or glower at you from the sofa armrest.
My apartment was his oyster¯- as was the warm spot on my neck or next to my tummy at night. He had an uncanny ability to sense my moods: He lashed his tail when I was angry and cuddled up to me when I was down. When he wanted to know what I was thinking, he meowed and gave my hand a gentle paw pat. We would mutter at each other throughout the day, often to the profound consternation of my non-cat friends.
To me, Pep was a four-footed person. I loved him as a furry son and believed he loved me with the same fierce loyalty.
And so, at age twelve, when he began to pass blood in his urine, and the doctor diagnosed bladder cancer, I was confronted with the unbearable possibility that my "little love" of a cat was not going to live forever¯- or even the seventeen-plus years for which I had hoped. And I found myself praying for his life, even though my belief in God could be best described as "casual"¯- as in, he might exist, he might not, but why take a chance?
A week after his surgery, Peppercorn seemed to be gradually recovering. As I bustled around getting ready for work, it was the first day in weeks I had felt positive about his future. I knelt down to give him a head scratch as he slowly followed me around. He pushed his head hard against my hand, rumbling away with his unique triple-noted purr, which I have never heard any other cat make, before or since. "I love you, my little love," I said with a final stroke. "I'll see you tonight." As I walked out the door, I glanced back and saw him silhouetted against the sunlight, aglow in orange and gold.
He lay stretched on the floor when I got home. The vet surmised that a blood clot had broken loose, and that Pep had died instantly. My heart died with him, and no amount of crying would help. I railed against everything for taking away my beloved cat. As I placed flowers on his headstone, inscribed with his nickname "my little love," I asked why this had been done to me. I believed it showed that there was no God and challenged anyone to prove me wrong.
The weeks oozed by as I came back to the empty hollow of my home, staring at the litter tray, food bowls and scratching post that I could not bring myself to put away.
One night, after I had sobbed so long that my eyes were dry, I dreamed of Peppercorn¯- if it was a dream. It was not like any other dream I had ever had; they are always fragmented snippets of images, with no rhyme or reason, and no continuity.
In my dream I stood in my living room, and Pep marched up to me, the picture of feline health, eyes alight with happiness. I scooped him up, felt his weight in my arms that had so longed to hold him again, stroked his soft fur and felt the three-noted purr rumbling against my chest. "Pep, oh Pep! I dreamed you were dead," I told him as I wept and laughed into his neck. His purr deepened, and he patted my cheek with his paw, as he always had.
After a bit, he wriggled, asking to be put down. Reluctantly, I did so, and he turned and strode to the front door, glancing over his shoulder for me to follow. At the door, he asked to be let out. "You're not allowed outside," I reminded him, puzzled and afraid. He gazed at me, and I knew I had to open the door, as much as I did not want to.
Outside, a beautiful summer's day garlanded everything with sunlight, overarched by a brilliant blue sky. Peppercorn gazed up at me for a long moment, curling himself about my legs one more time. Then he walked away over the grass. I began to sob, reaching for him, begging him to come back.
He paused, turning to look back at me once more. Then, before my eyes, he gently changed from his familiar shape to a glowing ball of golden light. I stared as he rose from the grass and up into the heavens, then disappeared into the sunlight.
I jerked upright in bed in the early morning light, struggling to hold on to the dream, resisting chill reality. I still could feel the sensation of him in my arms, hear his beloved purr. And slowly, as I sat there, I realized that the raw wound that was my heart didn't hurt the same way it had for months, soothed by Peppercorn's final visit to me.
He had been permitted to return and tell me he was okay, allowed to let me glimpse what he had become. We had been granted the final goodbye that had been denied before.
And, in that gesture of compassionate love, I felt the hand and the grace of God¯- Pep's final and greatest gift to me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Loving Our Cats
By Claudia Newcorn
When you're used to hearing purring and suddenly it's gone, it's hard to silence the blaring sound of sadness.
~Missy Altijd
He was a marmalade tabby kitten with sapphire eyes that I adopted from the Massachusetts SPCA. Fitting perfectly in my palm, he promptly chewed his way into my thumb¯- and my heart. "You're a feisty little peppercorn, aren't you?" I yelped, and so he got his name.
Described by many as "an extraordinary cat," Peppercorn grew from diminutive to nearly three feet long¯- measured from orange-whiskered nose to pumpkin-tipped tail¯- punctuated by burnt-orange eyes that could stare you down. I learned that he was an excellent judge of character. A quick once-over, and he would sum you up with a flick of his tail, then either deign to advance for a pat or glower at you from the sofa armrest.
My apartment was his oyster¯- as was the warm spot on my neck or next to my tummy at night. He had an uncanny ability to sense my moods: He lashed his tail when I was angry and cuddled up to me when I was down. When he wanted to know what I was thinking, he meowed and gave my hand a gentle paw pat. We would mutter at each other throughout the day, often to the profound consternation of my non-cat friends.
To me, Pep was a four-footed person. I loved him as a furry son and believed he loved me with the same fierce loyalty.
And so, at age twelve, when he began to pass blood in his urine, and the doctor diagnosed bladder cancer, I was confronted with the unbearable possibility that my "little love" of a cat was not going to live forever¯- or even the seventeen-plus years for which I had hoped. And I found myself praying for his life, even though my belief in God could be best described as "casual"¯- as in, he might exist, he might not, but why take a chance?
A week after his surgery, Peppercorn seemed to be gradually recovering. As I bustled around getting ready for work, it was the first day in weeks I had felt positive about his future. I knelt down to give him a head scratch as he slowly followed me around. He pushed his head hard against my hand, rumbling away with his unique triple-noted purr, which I have never heard any other cat make, before or since. "I love you, my little love," I said with a final stroke. "I'll see you tonight." As I walked out the door, I glanced back and saw him silhouetted against the sunlight, aglow in orange and gold.
He lay stretched on the floor when I got home. The vet surmised that a blood clot had broken loose, and that Pep had died instantly. My heart died with him, and no amount of crying would help. I railed against everything for taking away my beloved cat. As I placed flowers on his headstone, inscribed with his nickname "my little love," I asked why this had been done to me. I believed it showed that there was no God and challenged anyone to prove me wrong.
The weeks oozed by as I came back to the empty hollow of my home, staring at the litter tray, food bowls and scratching post that I could not bring myself to put away.
One night, after I had sobbed so long that my eyes were dry, I dreamed of Peppercorn¯- if it was a dream. It was not like any other dream I had ever had; they are always fragmented snippets of images, with no rhyme or reason, and no continuity.
In my dream I stood in my living room, and Pep marched up to me, the picture of feline health, eyes alight with happiness. I scooped him up, felt his weight in my arms that had so longed to hold him again, stroked his soft fur and felt the three-noted purr rumbling against my chest. "Pep, oh Pep! I dreamed you were dead," I told him as I wept and laughed into his neck. His purr deepened, and he patted my cheek with his paw, as he always had.
After a bit, he wriggled, asking to be put down. Reluctantly, I did so, and he turned and strode to the front door, glancing over his shoulder for me to follow. At the door, he asked to be let out. "You're not allowed outside," I reminded him, puzzled and afraid. He gazed at me, and I knew I had to open the door, as much as I did not want to.
Outside, a beautiful summer's day garlanded everything with sunlight, overarched by a brilliant blue sky. Peppercorn gazed up at me for a long moment, curling himself about my legs one more time. Then he walked away over the grass. I began to sob, reaching for him, begging him to come back.
He paused, turning to look back at me once more. Then, before my eyes, he gently changed from his familiar shape to a glowing ball of golden light. I stared as he rose from the grass and up into the heavens, then disappeared into the sunlight.
I jerked upright in bed in the early morning light, struggling to hold on to the dream, resisting chill reality. I still could feel the sensation of him in my arms, hear his beloved purr. And slowly, as I sat there, I realized that the raw wound that was my heart didn't hurt the same way it had for months, soothed by Peppercorn's final visit to me.
He had been permitted to return and tell me he was okay, allowed to let me glimpse what he had become. We had been granted the final goodbye that had been denied before.
And, in that gesture of compassionate love, I felt the hand and the grace of God¯- Pep's final and greatest gift to me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~