The weather here has been fricking brilliant! I have all these things I am supposed to be doing on the computer but I keep going back outside to bask in the sun along with the never say die marigolds and the constantly reappearing monarchs (besides, it’s my birthday). The cats and cat/dog Little B lay slammed up next to the sliding glass doors, soaking up the heat with pretense of maybe just maybe, someday, they will be able to go outside and in Little B’s case that would be without a leash.
With our new found lounge mode and just having more time to pay attention to the goings on of our animals, Joe and I have been reflecting back to the beginning of the year when naming the garden. We had many names we thought we would go with but after our first garden cat, Cricket died, it was clear that we name the garden after her. Our affection for our animals borders on the silly but to those who think of their furry children as family members, I’m sure you get how we feel.
From the time I got out of high school, I knew that I didn’t want kids, wanted to live on a farm and have animals. There were other dreams tangled up with those but that is for another newsletter someday. I don’t know where the love for animals came from, but from the time I was a child, I was a little gaga over them. Being that my mother was allergic to all critters it took my love for critters into a semi-fanatical longing. So everytime I would see someone with their pet on the street or in their home, all humans became blurred as the animals took center stage. There was no bigger compliment than some pet owner saying, “My cat doesn’t like anyone but she sure loves you”. Or “My dog really trusts you. He can’t wait until you come over.”
I would go to the library and look at pictures of animals and study how they should be held, then instructing all who would listen on properly holding their kitten or puppy. One day when I was about 8 years old, I caught a neighbor boy, about 13 years old, swinging my cat by the tail (this is when my mother tried to let me have a pet), I attacked him like a crazy banshee, sending him home crying. I don’t remember much except that afterwards I was holding my then cat named “Kitty”, sobbing as I ran home to tell my mother. From that moment on when that kid saw me, he would cross the street. It was there and then, I became the protector of critters – from everything to reprimanding people leaving their pets in hot cars to reporting abuse to the Humane Society.
So I guess it shouldn’t surprise anyone that knows me well, that I, or rather we (Joe is just as protective about animals as I am) would name our garden after a cat.
Cricket was our beautiful 10-year old calico. Crick demanded almost immediately that she was our garden cat and that she would protect the vegetables from the mice. Every time we would find a dead one (and there were plenty), we knew it was Cricket - the great hunter.
About a week before her death it seemed like she wasn't feeling well - or just seemed a little lackluster, sleeping alot, but then all cats do. By Saturday we knew that Cricket was really sick but by then it was too late. Joe and I knew she was dying so the only thing we could do was make her comfortable. We made a box for her, with our best towels so that she would have a nice cushy place to lie in. I put her in my walk-in closet along with her water and food. She never ate again and through Joe's persistence, drank small amounts of water.
The last night she was alive, we brought her out into the living room to have some family time while we watched T.V. She seemed uncomfortable due to the other cats who were hissing knowing there was something wrong - they could sense her death. And being the opportunistic creatures they are - gave her a hard time - we moved her back into the closet.
Joe checked in on her the next morning before leaving for work, about 5 a.m. Cricket was resting comfortably. I looked in on her that morning, finding that she had passed. Cricket was stretched out with her head bent, paws turned under as if she was in a private kitty prayer. Our precious cat, Cricket had died passing on to the special place where cats run free and big boxes of catnip are on every corner with mice standing on top singing songs only cats can hear. She was missed by so many since Cricket's thing was to adopt company as if they would take her home - she loved to be the center of attention - especially with strangers. We were optional - she never did forgive us for not being an only cat.
The year before, when we had moved into the cottage, Joe and I debated on whether or not we should let the cats out. For the last seven years they were house cats (in Seattle they were outdoor cats)....we decided outdoors was okay because honestly, those cats are so darn happy. Every time we think of Cricket we think of how thrilled she was to be in the garden - Joe called her his special garden cat. He would work in the garden, while Crick would find the shadiest place, close by and lie on her side, sprawled out as if lounging in the south of France.
The garden, our pets, the beautiful flowers, the air we breathe, the river that flows in front of our cottage, the wind through the trees – all of it is teaching us to love and pay attention to all living things. When I begin to forget that life is incredibly precious, no matter what form it is in, I have these beautiful animals and nature to remind me to be grateful.
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