welcome to the end of the world cosmo!

Meet Cosmo. He's arrived home with us, just in time to greet the end of the world, in a couple of hours. When an "...earthquake so powerful all graves will be opened..." announces The Rapture. I am guessing Cosmo will play happily with the exposed corpses. He as spent hours rolling and tumbling, chasing and bobbing and leaping...

It's a lovely moment in time, and strange in some ways. There was a tender moment, earlier in the afternoon, when Cosmo lay on Lynda's chest and Lynda cried for Oswald. There is no way around the remembering as we welcome a new companion into our lives. I asked her what was happening, as she wiped tears from her eyes. We were so lucky to have him, she told me, talking about Oswald.

We were.

Poor old Oswald, who struggled those last weeks, age and disease demanding payment in full. This little bugger, Cosmo, has no idea about that stuff. He is too busy flipping about, doing triple gainers on the bedspread, attacking the invisible mouse our hands puppet under the sheets.

gone to oswaldland: the oswald series (last piece)

"Sitting on his pink pillow, like an exhausted Buddha, the candle of his living force almost burned away..."

A brilliant little bit of writing I started and will now finish

For some days now, even weeks, I have wanted to write a last piece for Oswald. Not Oswald the cat even. Oswald was a cat. But he was also our friend. Friend first, cat second. And I want to write something that somehow ties a few things together so that I can let go a little more.

His ghost?

Well, his ghost is around I guess. The other night I felt him jump up onto the bed. I did not tell Lynda, because it might have brought her to tears and she has those anyhow. I catch Oswald out of the corner of my eye, here and there and now and then. Nothing too unusual.

In order to write about Oswald I must write about death. I want to write about death. Not many folks seem to be interested in reading about death. Not in blog form, or tweet form. Maybe I'm wrong about that. Maybe folks would love to read about death in blog form. I'm not talking about the death of this blog though. Don't misunderstand...

I am lonely for conversation partners who would welcome a death chat. Lynda will discuss these things with me, and well. Our Oswald discussions have dropped off. That's natural. That's the way it tends to go. That little guy lives in memory but the mind has only so much time for memory. There are many other things to be thought about and time makes demands.

So....

Death. I have had quite a few folks die on me. It wasn't personal. They were, mostly, quite old. Some were younger and died before "...their time..." Although it's fair to say if they are dead then it must have been their time. In any case, they are dead. When people I feel attachment for and that thing called "love" for, I have cried. I've cried hard and my eyes swelled up and my throat and my chest was full. I have felt great longing and sadness and I've been lonely for the dead and gone person.

For a period of time.

And then something happens. Then it's as if the dead person has moved to Baltimore. They are a long way off, we don't speak on the phone, or share a meal of Chinese food. We don't exchange gifts or even gossip about one another. They are gone. Gone to Baltimore. And what I feel, then, is closer to...nothing.

I don't know whether I should be ashamed or concerned about that. But I cannot describe it differently. If a friend were out of reach in Baltimore what is the purpose of feeling unending longing? I could discuss this with a doctor or therapist. There is no point in my taking a pill about it. I have used up my allotment of pills. The feeling of nothing may be normal, and if it's not, well...

______________________________________

I look at pictures of Oswald. They are flat. In some pictures he looks well, considering the fact that he is dead. His fur is shining and his eyes sparkle with life force. But the pictures are flat. To watch his breathing is what I miss. When he became ill with cancer, I became his chief nurse, I watched his breathing for hours and hours. Was it too rapid and shallow? Was it alright? The air went in, because he was drawing breath. Because he was alive. And then the air left his furry body, because he was exhaling, again because he was alive.

I was holding him when he drew his last breath. I loved him so much in that moment. I felt a stronger feeling of love than I thought I was capable of. Such a strong feeling of love, and while we were fighting to maintain his health and delay his death (before that last day) there were moments when I truly wondered if love could, in fact, somehow and at some level, defeat cancer. Even as I wondered that I knew it was childish and irrational. But I wondered and I loved the wondering.

Years and years ago Lynda and I had a particularly tough patch and thought we might have to live separately from one another. I guess Lynda must have lost her mind temporarily to have even entertained such an idea, but entertain it she did. So we thought it might be a death of sorts. I remember at night as she lay sleeping I watched her breathe. I was like Steve Martin in The Jerk, watching Bernadette Peters sleeping. Only it wasn't funny.

I watched her breathing and I lay there beside her knowing what I was about to lose. This was an invaluable living being, this was a person that mattered and this was a loss that would be immeasurable. And she slept. She's good at that. It's not that she didn't love me, and it's not that she wasn't upset. She did and she was. But she needed to sleep. Women are practical in this and other ways. They have to survive...

In that moment I understood something, is what I am trying to communicate here. And I have not forgotten.

_________________________________

I miss Oswald. He lives in Baltimore now, with my mother and father, and Joanne and John and George and many many others. As much as I miss him and as much as the pain of missing him does, in fact, leave a scar, I am content to bear that scar, to add that scar to my scar collection because I understand there is a price for loving. It's amazing, actually, that the source of that love for which we must eventually pay seems bottomless. That's a good thing.

He lay on his pink pillow, his very own pink pillow, and Lynda and I spoke to him, and our voices were thick with grief and our faces were swollen with sorrow. His head was tiny and his fur was discolored and his eyes were cloudy and it was as if the candle burning inside of him was almost gone out. His feet were pulled under his body in an effort to maintain warmth. That was a lifetime ago and today this is for you Oswald, and you Lynda, and you Johnny, so that you will know it all matters.

i can hear the sounds (of you not here)-the oswald series

"Listen the music of your memories, this is the place you remain with me..."

I Can Hear The Sounds (Of You Not Here)

Lynda has made the arrangements. There have been tears and quiet talking. Oswald the cat is sleeping on his pink pillow. Sitting on the couch, Lynda said to me, her voice hoarse, "This time tomorrow..." She trailed off...

Jesus! Death row. I wonder if I should install a telephone beside the bed, with a direct line to the Kitty Governor's Mansion, in the faint hope a call will come with news that there is a stay of the proceedings.

____________________________________________________

We sit, side by side, and try to remember what month Oswald came into our lives. The spring of 1994, sometime. We sit, side by side, closely, and turn things over and over. What if this, what if that. This is how we struggle with what is. And the time has come to stop struggling. I don't know that I'll write more after today. Probably not. Words fall uselessly when they are meant to fall uselessly.

Oswald the cat is asleep on his pink pillow, and Lynda is lying beside him. One of the great great joys of this long time has been watching Lynda as mother. She's been so tender. So full of love. And love is the whole ball of wool, for kittens and for people too. I thank the few readers who have shared this with us....

just up and around the next bend now (the oswald series)eries)

Lynda has gone to Vernon now, so Oswald and I are hanging out together. Outside it's trying hard to snow. Oswald just ate and I was right there, helping. The lessons of this experience continue to present themselves...

While he was eating, struggling with his altered oral mechanics, I knew and know that we might have been mistaken, wrong somehow, to bring him home from the vets this last time. But it's an impossible thing. We could talk about it forever and there would still be no way to know exactly when the right moment is. We've come to really value Doctor Watt, and he's human, unable to decide for us, and of course we should never burden someone else with that kind of decision.

I've spent moments with the cat and I could swear there is some kind of exchange of thought. I don't know how to explain it, other than to say that when we tune in and remain tuned in we connect with other living things.

____________________________________________________

What have I learned here?

That I'm responsible for how I feel and what I think in this world. My grief becomes misshapen and suddenly I am enraged and wanting to do damage; to hurt someone like I haven't wanted to hurt others in my memory. It's a white hot anger, and of course it must be just sadness that for some strange reasons shames me.

But I am responsible.

I told a friend that I was drawing the bridge up now, and would remain behind these walls for the duration. That will be days, not weeks. We do not have a culture that is organized around these passages. We are organized around working and consuming and I'm afraid most of our connections are superficial, so when we are wounded I think we feel more soreness coming in contact with the hardness of an unfortunately empty community.

This is not a thing to make blame around.

And there are amazing, wonderful nurturing exceptions to the rule. I can think of a couple of folks I work with-Patrick and Dawn, Chris and Mojo-folks who love animals very much, and these folks have been so supportive. There are others...Frankie and Katrina and Sean and my best friend Russ. This is more of the learning.

I am responsible for all of my relationships. I am the one who decides who I will allow to touch me. This is not the responsibility of others.

And to think I have come to a deeper understanding of these things because the process of losing a pet companion is the teacher. For most of his life Oswald was just a passing concern to me. He was my gift to Lynda. Now I've had nearly seventeen years of watching Lynda love this small and gentle creature, and she taught me, dragged me to it. Pay attention, she would say, he's come out to see you.

It's an odd thing, a perversion, that in seeking to protect my own tenderness I may have become hardened in this world. But there it is. Oswald is sleeping on his pink pillow, in darkened bedroom, and the afternoon is passing.

the oswald series: time's implacable face

I've made a small promise to myself (and shared it here) that I would not be complaining as Oswald's process continues to a destination. And I won't. Every second has been such a blessing, such happiness, actually...

As an intellectual concept, I resist the idea of approaching a disease like cancer as a "battle". That's because, at least in part, I'm a pessimist/realist. My limited personal knowledge of cancer is that it has a mind of it's own. It goes where it's decided to go, and the damage is just what cancer calls life.

Oswald's vet visits have trended toward good news for weeks. So when he suddenly changed, over the last couple of days, and stopped eating this morning, there was and remains a sense of dread. And defeat. As in a feeling of losing the battle.

We tried to crack his mouth for a look. This animal lived with us for eighteen years and he's shared a remarkable docile nature. He would not bite or scratch under any circumstances. And when we gave him his medicine he did not like it, but he accepted it. This morning he fought our attentions, and when his muzzle opened I saw a horrible purple-blackness at the front of his already-altered tongue...

Lynda is Vernon-bound tomorrow. We talked. The pain is as real as these sub-zero temperatures. The grief too. She will take him to the vet this morning before she goes to work. And we will wait for the vet's news. I understand better now the notion of fighting back against time and illness, because I've fought on a few fronts this last week. We've done everything we can, exhausted every effort, and all the while kept our eyes fixed closely on this beloved companion, straining to know what is right for him. It's draining and somehow satisfying and like everything else in life, reduced to this moment. And then this one. And this one...

in the morning oswald says "moi"!

I crack my eyes open and he's standing there, tail up, in silhouette and morning shadow. "Moi!", he says. And again. Then again. His surgically altered maw doesn't meow anymore. He is a uni-lingual French kitty...

"Moi!" Translation: feed me, mofo. Or good morning, feed me.

Oswald is approaching three months post cancer diagnosis. We have shared some great great moments with him and we've made the mistake, because it's impossible not to, of thinking these times will last forever. Irrational. Human. Human and furry companion dynamics.

Lynda reported blood coming from his mouth last night. She thinks he bit his lop-sided tongue. I hope she's right. He's going to the vet on Monday for his regular examination. In the meantime a co-worker has lost a beloved pet and now this means something to me. So, I won't be complaining when I write about this experience with Oswald. It's been a blessing and that's the way it's going to continue...

not dark yet (but it's getting there)

Not dark yet; but it's getting there. A hard line drawn by Bob Dylan. Right now, this morning, I am thinking about hope. Not feeling it. Thinking about it. Hope is wonderful. Imagining springtimes just the way we would like them. Enjoying that imagination...

We've talked about having our companion being with us here, still, in the springtime. This is what we've hoped for. But Oswald can no longer feed himself. Just a little over a month and the bastard cancer appears to be doing it's work. Strangling this innocent creature, this good old guy.

So Lynda and I sit on the couch and discuss the decision. Her face is wet with tears. My eyes are dry, now, but my heart is suspended somewhere between heavy and empty. I have a hollow sense in the pit of my gut. Ironically (and I've admitted this before) I was never as close to Oswald as I've been in this last six weeks. So I have to thank Oswald for that.

We put little portions of food, all his favourite things, on a plate and like children hoping for Santa Claus we hope for that food to disappear. But it doesn't. There is, instead, just a mess. A pool of drool; on the floor by the plate, droplets leading away and some hanging off of his sad and frustrated face. Watching this feels like love. Getting down on the floor beside him to chop the bits into smaller bits so that he can swallow feels like love. It's love.

Love and loss. Inseparable. Buddha warned against attachment. But I have not spent my life under a Banyan tree. I'll take the sorrow, because these moments have been precious. It's not dark yet, but the springtime is suddenly a long long way away...