In Memory of Hiziki ... and Carlos

Last Thursday was the one-year anniversary of my cat Hiziki’s death. My memories of him still comfort and, sometimes, sadden me. I walk by his grave each morning to hang two bird feeders. When I pass the dangling lavender wreath that marks his burial spot, I offer a greeting: “Good morning, Zeker the Sneaker.”

Early morning on September 10, 2008 after a pain-filled, agonizing night, Zeke weaved off the deck on unsteady feet and stumbled through a web of wild grasses, weeds, and flowers to lie beneath the bird feeder. Shortly after, Frances and I drove him to a vet in Ashland for one final injection.

This summer the ravine metamorphosed into a small vegetable garden of zucchini, sugar peas, and green beans. The ferns, sunflowers, thimbleberries, and black-eyed Susans still insinuated themselves into any unclaimed earth. And a hummingbird favorite—jewel weed—grew directly on top of Zeke’s grave, spitting its seeds at all passersby.

Today, during my t’ai chi chih practice on the deck I noted the design printed on one of our ash cans. It pictures a cow lying in a pasture with a cat sitting close, its cheek pressed against the cow’s nose. I doubt Zeke held much affection for a mere cow. But he was incredibly loving, patient, and kind to me, Frances, and our dog, Namasté.

Sometimes ... when I watch Namasté stalking wild creatures (i.e., squirrels and/or chipmunks) I glimpse body postures that resemble Zeke en hunt. When we first moved to the forest, Namasté shadowed Zeke on his stealthy pursuits through lavish underbrush. Often Zeke seemed disgusted by his canine cohort who—in his eagerness to impress or his unwillingness to wait patiently—raced past the cat and ruined the hunt.

The mouse population multiplied in our house after the departure of our notorious great grey hunter. And, although Namasté is cuddly, he doesn’t lie on my chest in the middle of the night massaging me with his claws nor does he purr loudly as he snuggles close beside me in bed.

Several weeks ago brother, Brett, lost his cat, Carlos. Carlos was a big-boned, long-haired black feline, a survivor himself, who comforted Brett through the death of both of our parents, and more. When Carlos didn’t return from an evening outing, Brett stepped outside to call him home. He listened to Carlos fighting with another cat some distance away. Obviously Carlos couldn’t interrupt his fight to heed Brett’s call.

Before Brett returned to the house, though, he heard a car rapidly approaching, then a loud crack—a shotgun firing?—and he idly wondered if he should pursue the car. Did the driver really fire a gun?

The next morning Brett found Carlos dead on the highway. His final cat fight overwhelmed the need for safety. Carlos died the way he lived, clawing and fighting for his life until a speeding car ran him down.

Though we relish the time they are with us, the total acceptance and unwavering devotion we receive from our companion animals goes missing when they leave us. It cannot be replaced by family and friends. When Zeke died, I realized how much he inhabited my life ... and how gently and unexpectedly he tenderized my heart with his gently grasping claws and his pure, complete love.

What wild, verdant undergrowth do you glide through now, Zeke? What prey do you stalk? Carlos, are you still waging battles? What path do you travel as you venture into the Oneness that eludes those of us who remain here on Earth?