As I continue to come out from under the dark clouds of my father’s death, I am reminded of the huge range of feelings that come from doing this rescue work. Nothing I’ve done in my life so far has subjected me to such lows, nor treated me to such highs.
Maybe I do it because as a child I eschewed the merry-go-round at amusement parks and instead rode the roller coasters as much as possible? I must enjoy it. But rarely have I experienced two such highs and lows in such rapid succession as in recent weeks.
I had seen only two quick glimpses of a stray black kitty with a messed-up tail behind the post office before I learned it had been killed by rogue raccoons. (Yes, I maintain that most coons are not killers. But just as there are aggressive and dangerous dogs, the same goes for our nocturnal friends.) This alone would have made me sad, but when I learned that this kitty was cornered in a shelter I made, I was sickened.
I know the drill. You have to create shelters with an entry AND an exit, for easy escape. But someone had given me a small dog house, and it’s been raining so incessantly that I put it out in the meadow hoping it would help. It was shallow enough (and the door wide enough) that I thought any cat seeking shelter could escape. To my horror, it was not so.
I’ve always been the kind who will gloss over her successes and dwell on her failures, so I let this spectacular failure puncture my already fragile mood for days on end. I kept repeating to the spirit of the little black cat that I was sorry – I was only trying to help, not create harm.
And then, the miracle. A sweet and very docile male kitty had taken up residence behind a restaurant on Main Street, and the owner asked us to help find his owner. Maggie created this flyer, which she put up all over town. A month went by with no response. And the day my father died, Maggie got an excited call.
A man had seen the flyer, and recognized the kitty as the one he’d been looking for. It was the treasured pet of his daughter, who lived with him and had recently died of cancer. When hospice had been at the house, the kitty had gotten out. He was sick with sadness about the loss of something that reminded him of her, and when he saw the flyer, his heart leapt up. Soon they were joyfully reunited.
I don’t know for sure, but I sense that my dad, who finally in recent years started asking “how’s the rescue work going?” was making connections for me from the rivers of light where he currently resides. Thanks for the boost, Pop.
And thanks for the reminder that despite my failings, the successes come close to achieving a balance.