Forward, Beneath the Sun of Another Sky

Notes on a particularly pivotal week.

It was a genuine miracle and the biggest blessing, that as my wife and I cried uglier for the death of Otis T. Cat than any human we ever knew, that as our grief turned our home into a strange, empty place we could barely stand for the first couple of days, that as the world outside, even the very air seemed alien to us...no one came at us with, “Durr, I don’t get it. He was just a cat. You had him for a long time, sure, but, like, come on, you know?” That Cynthia and I have enjoyed nothing but compassion and empathy online and in meatspace during these darkest of hours proves unequivocally and most unironically what an awesome God I serve. We all know how the world is. If it isn’t the ubiquitous clueless fools and would-be comedians, it’s the predators.

I’m aware of how the above paragraph might serve as a can’t-resist invitation to trolls whose self-esteem depends upon the complaints elicited from the strangers they go out of their way to outrage or hurt. I still beheld the miracle. Throughout the time of our greatest vulnerability, we were shielded. Although this loss will always be with us, we’ve were led quickly out of the worst of our grief, enabling us to adjust to this new chapter under a sky that looks changed with the absence of a lovely creature who was with us for almost one-third of our lives (much more for our grown children, of course).

That is the most powerful thing about grief to me, incidentally. It changes your very perception of the universe. The sky is still blue, but it doesn’t look the same. The last time this happened for me was in 1986, when my mother took ill and died. I’ve lost many people since then—and, frankly, I grieved harder for that big, ornery cat than I did my mother, and why not? For all his cussed cattitude, Otis was certainly more empathetic and loving when the situation called for it.

The new thing I picked up about grief on this go-round was how physically and psychically exhausting the extreme forms are. Naturally, in keeping with the accompanying depression, sleep was hard to maintain. 

We’re adjusting though, and with surprising swiftness, given that I write this on Saturday, and the veterinarian and her assistant made their visit on Tuesday afternoon. Tuesday afternoon already feels like a month ago. This is a very, very good thing. Let’s make it a year.

This bald-head/Van Dyke beard period lasted only so long in 2008. Otis was with us for nearly 18 years, and was there for everything I had to do as a writer in the 21st century.