Kitty’s Requiem
It’s
crazy to think that over the past three years I’ve spent over a year of my life
in the wilderness. Most of that alone. Surrounded by mountains, pressed in by
snow, touched by wind and sun. With untamed creatures leaving tracks behind as
evidence of their existence and sometimes letting me see them as they go about
their business. And here I am again to add more months to that time.
This
winter I return with a mixed bag of emotion.
I
found out in the fall that my good buddy, my friend the cat had died during the
summer. The preferred theory is that the cat was ready to go the way of all
things and found a place, comfortable and enclosed (something to do with
irrigation), to die. She could have gotten out, I was told, but chose not to. Someone,
who didn’t know she had taken residence in that spot, flooded the line with
water and that was the end. Goodbye, Kitty. Maybe she chose her own time. Maybe
she’d used up all nine of her lives. Maybe she knew this winter would bring
long strings of negative weather and she decided she’d had enough of that and said
peace out. Who can speak for a cat? Whatever it was that happened the end
result was the cat was dead.
My
grief surprised me. And the anticipation I’d felt in returning was greatly
diminished. As silly as it was, I’d told myself throughout the summer, “Only
six more months till you see the cat, only five more months till you see the
cat.” And that thought had given me great joy. In my life where I work hard to
not become attached, I had become attached. I had been quite fond of my cat friend
and I think she of me as well.
Though
already months in the past when I heard about it, her death for me was sudden,
unexpected, and sad. I knew the lodge would feel empty without her around.
As
the days went by, as the holidays passed, I didn’t want to go back, but I also
didn’t know where I would rather be.
I
reminded myself, time and again, how lucky I am to have this opportunity.
Because I really am. What better place to hunker in and write than a snowed in lodge
practically in the middle of nowhere? It’s ideal. The past years, I’ve managed
to churn out a good amount of work. Edit a ton of previous work and then refine
and reedit and revise.
I
also love the mountains, high altitude, and winter weather when I don’t have to
drive in it.
I
remind myself of all of this, often, with varying degrees of success in
adjusting my attitude.
Then
the time comes to return. So I do. With my grief packed in tight with my other
things, I throw my bags onto a sled and climb onto the back of a snowmobile. As
I cling to the backpack of the guy who is sledding me in, with the wind slipping
coldly in under the scarf wrapped around my face, I practice gratitude. Who
gets a chance like this? Who has a life like this? Don’t forget it’s amazing, I
tell myself. And don’t fall off the snowmobile.
There
is satisfaction in recognizing the landmarks as we get closer. I could ski in
from here, I think,
I’ve done it before. Around this next corner is the giant
rock. Around the next one, is the fence.
And
then there are the buildings, there’s the lodge.
A
lot of work has been done since I left last spring, and a lot of changes have
been made. The caretakers I’m replacing give me a quick whirlwind tour of the new
systems and set ups. If there’s one constant it’s change and that’s certainly
true here. When the tour is done, everyone climbs back onto their snowmobiles
and with the whirring of the engines they head back up the hill, out of sight
and then out of sound.
Now
I am alone. Again. This time really alone.
Ah,
Cat, I do miss you.
There’s
a lot to be done and it takes me days to get settled in, organized, to bring
food in from the root cellar, to become accustomed to the new systems, to remember
that I enjoy being in this place. I know that once I start my writing project,
once I get past the hardest part of starting, I’ll feel better, happier.
On
New Year’s Eve and then on New Year’s Day I’m still sad so I scan through
pictures and look back over my calendar of the past year to see the highlights
and the joys, the low points, the things I’m glad I never have to do again, and
the things I’m glad I got to do. I realize from the outside how cool my life
must look. Seeing the pictures I’ve taken, even I’m impressed. And that’s part
of the story. That’s a lot of the story. I live a good life. But, every once in
a while, there’s sadness too. There’s grief. And that’s okay, for if I didn’t
grieve that would mean I didn’t love. And if I didn’t love how much I would
miss out in life. If I missed out in life, if I missed on life, that would be the saddest thing that could happen.
Instead
of saying I will never become attached again, although that’s easier on my
feelings, I recognize the power of connection between one creature to another.
So to
you, Cat, I raise a glass. May your rest be sweet. For your life was grand. And
I was glad to know you.
