It's appropriate, isn't it, that no formality exists around the burying of a pet? Because, frankly, the few times I've heard of someone organizing a pet funeral, I've thought the idea over-the-top. Especially with all the larger griefs that befall us.
Well, that was then. Before I lost my pet, a cat that held the locus of my affection in her paws, and suddenly equating my sadness to a greater sorrow couldn't lessen my own a bit. How unrealistic it is to compare heartbreaks.
The funny thing is, I didn't want a cat. I don't even own a house plant. I'm passionately devoted to my husband, my writing, a few family members I can stand and enough friendships to sustain me. In terms of commitment, this feels ample for me. But the cat arrived at my doorstep impossibly thin, nothing subtle about her despair. So, as most would, I found a saucer and milk to fill it.
From there our love affair grew. I was falling for the cat in a big way. And beginning to wonder if I have any say over my emotions at all.
First, she slept outside. Then, in the laundry room. After that, every nook of our home became home to her soft, warm weight.
Looking back, I see how she was a relief in my life, a calm departure from political chaos, wise in her own unruffled way. In her eyes, a clear message that life goes on no matter what. And at times I'd feel such a sting of affection I would scoop her right out of a curve of sleep just to squeeze her hard.
I also began to talk about her in the way new mothers can't help but turn every conversation back to the baby, which was getting to be a wee bit pathetic. And nights when I couldn't sleep, I'd reach for her warmth. Not the best for my marriage, I admit. But I thought of us as two females in need of a little comfort as we tried to drift off to the roar of snoring made by the only male in the house.
Then the inevitable day when there is no denying that the ultimate responsibility of owning a pet goes beyond helping it thrive (her kitty-gourmet was 15 bucks a bag!) and accelerates into aiding its death. The day when you feel your insides are never going to be big enough to contain such sorrow.
Instinct kicked in. I bought a piece of floral fabric to wrap my cat's body in. I held her while she was anesthetized. I watched my husband dig a hole in the ground and cried a flood tide of tears before placing her in the earth with my own hands.
Putting any body, still warm from living, into the ground immediately puts many things into perspective. In the weeks following, I was amazed to find how easy it was to make a few decisions I'd put on hold for lack of clarity. And I found myself being acutely honest with people about all sorts of things. No holding back. (I'm still paying for that, by the way.)
As the saying goes, "Get over it, and if you can't get over it, get over talking about it."
I remember the very morning I woke and thought, "That's it, not one more word about the cat!" And you know, it worked. My pain dissipated pretty quickly after that.
I don't regret that I allowed myself to love a cat so much. The biggest risk we can take is not to take one, right? Loving is always about opening yourself up to vulnerability, the precise emotion that connects us to the human race.
Oh! This is the very thought I've been trying to express this whole time.
Who knew how much insight a tiny animal could arouse?
Sanelli's two-woman show, "The Immigrant's Table," based on her book of the same name, will be hosted by The C.R. Sandidge Winery on Lake Chelan on Aug. 16. Call 509-741-0670 for dinner/show reservations.
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