sweet sorrow
The vet brought Brandy home today. Or what was left of her, a little box of ashes. We were both running around and managed to organize our schedules enough that I drove into my driveway just as she pulled up. I took the plastic bag from her and dropped it on the floor just inside the house, being occupied with unloading Samuel and the half-million bits and pieces that accompany us wherever we go. One thing led to another (sleepy baby who didn't want to sleep, helping him toddle around the house, finding entertainment while I did laundry, phone calls, supper, then another round of play, bath, bed). In between all that I took her box out of the bag and set it on the dining table, along with a couple of envelopes. It wasn't til Sam was asleep that I had a chance to look at it all - a thoughtful card from the cremation place and a very sweet letter from my vet that talks of how she (Brandy, not the vet)will be waiting for me when I cross over and we will be together again.
It is so sad to think of Brandy as that little box of ashes. In fact, I can't do it. I don't want to open the box and see the sad gray remains of my beloved. It's irrational. I know it's not really her except in the grossest physical sense, and she is long gone to the warm loving lap of the Great Mother. But somehow that box still calls me.
The last time I had a cat die, the box sat around my house for several years, and moved with me to new houses three times along with all the other household detritus. I don't even know what I did with it, in the end. I don't want that to happen again but I can't settle on what to do with her. Perhaps I'll find some long grass to scatter her in so her last energetic imprint can play jungle cat and stalk field mice. For now, I'm going to move it to the window sill so she can look outside. I think I'm getting morbid.
It is so sad to think of Brandy as that little box of ashes. In fact, I can't do it. I don't want to open the box and see the sad gray remains of my beloved. It's irrational. I know it's not really her except in the grossest physical sense, and she is long gone to the warm loving lap of the Great Mother. But somehow that box still calls me.
The last time I had a cat die, the box sat around my house for several years, and moved with me to new houses three times along with all the other household detritus. I don't even know what I did with it, in the end. I don't want that to happen again but I can't settle on what to do with her. Perhaps I'll find some long grass to scatter her in so her last energetic imprint can play jungle cat and stalk field mice. For now, I'm going to move it to the window sill so she can look outside. I think I'm getting morbid.
posted by zouzou at 8:44 p.m.
2 Comments:
I came to your blog looking for the latest on the baby and I got caught up in the cat story (I read the two posts in the opposite order from which they were written) and found myself completely choked up, for you, for your cat, and for my cat, who's become increasingly and justifiably desperate for attention since the buka came into the picture, none of which he understands or even seems willing to admit.
I just wanted you to know how touched I was, and how well you did with these posts, when it might have been easier not to say a word.
I guess everyone is different. I talked to the box with Mum's ashes. Then, we took her to England, as per her wishes and scattered her in the garden where she wanted to be.
There's a funny story, but it really is morbid, so I'll save it and tell you in person.
Now that I think about it... 7 years today since she crossed over.
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