It’s been a while since I blogged – partly because my re-entry to home life was rough (two cats very ill; one requiring hospitalization) and partly because I worried that if I spoke my mind I would hurt some feelings. What I didn’t write in my last post is that in addition to losing Claude, days later I learned that Scout, the kitten I’d rescued at 4 weeks, nursed to health and adopted to a loving home, had gotten out and was lost.
Two of the three weeks I was away were consumed by daily anxiety, nonstop communication with his anguished mom, and eventual acceptance that Scout had almost certainly perished in the rough canyon where my friend lived.
One ought not expect vacations to be ideal, but one would certainly prefer not to cry every goddamn day.
I was furious with my friend’s family for being so lackadaisical about Scout’s welfare; I was also furious with myself for agreeing to an adoption when my gut told me he might not be 100% safe there. If losing Claude had caused me grief, losing Scout was an intolerable double whammy. I struggled for weeks with trying to forgive everyone involved – myself included – but my best, most compassionate self seems to be hiding in a closet.
And I kept telling myself that I really, really needed to get off it – to let it go. Animal rescue is among the world’s least perfect art forms. You have wonderful, brilliant days, and you have days so dark you wonder if you can continue. And you lose your faith in your species – especially when things like this happen.
And then… something happens like it did a couple of days ago. When I arrived at the Stone Pine parking lot, I was alarmed to see that the landscaping team that trims trees and bushes there periodically was just finishing a major makeover of the hugely tall hedge in which Margaret Keane, Dorian Gray and Frida Kahlo hide. Big chunks of hedge lay on the ground in the area where I normally feed. I stopped in my tracks, and caught the eye of two of the work men who were up on tall ladders. They gestured to me to come forward, and quickly descended. Here was our conversation, in broken Spanglish.
Them: come, come! The cats are just over here in the bushes.
Me: It’s okay, I can come back later!
Them (quietly taking the branches away): No no – come feed them! We can take a break.
Me: Are you sure?
Them (smiling): Yes! They are hungry!
The three cats came skittishly out of the bushes and had their breakfast, while the workmen watched, smiling. When they scampered away, the men went back to work.
I can’t explain why I felt so humbled and moved by that short episode. My anger at my own species dissolved in a gesture of kindness to the other species I love so well. And that species needs me. I’ve got a couple of sick ones to take care of, a sweet Maine coon awaiting trapping, and a spanking new nonprofit to raise money for.
Sweet Scout, perhaps your path was not to have a long life. Can I accept your death? I’ll keep trying, and in so doing will keep seeking my best self. And St. Francis, thanks for your comforting words:
Grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console, to be understood as to understand, and to be loved, as to love. For it is in giving that we receive, in pardoning that we are pardoned.