Lucy's at rest in the Garden

My former husband sent me a New Year's wish that I have a year without losing anyone dear to me. I appreciated that. Last year was unusually full of losses, chief among them my mother. And on December 16th. the final sadness of 2009 came in Lucy's death.(Photo above is about a month before she died.)

Lucy was such an intimate part of my life. From the moment she came to me, in my son Ian's hands, to the last few moments of her life, she brought me a genuine appreciation for the fact that life is tender and sweet as well as something to engage in with deliberate enthusiasm.

The five other cats in our home all cuffed her, hissed at her and ignored her until Lisa Miranda walked away from the unwelcoming party and Lucy followed her closely, shadowing the grown Lisa - and Lisa allowed it. They have been together ever since until Lisa died last July. I believed I'd have Lucy for 4-6 more years as she still seemed kittenish at 16. She was strong, agile and gentle - as healthy as ever. Her breath was the freshest aroma to ever leave animal mouth until her final week.

She liked knocking the small cotton handmade dolls I had on a shelf onto the floor. It was a daily exercise and she delighted in doing it when I could witness the mischief. Once she took down the antique hatpin holder, leaving me to fish hat pins out of the laundry basket. These were never accidents, but deliberate acts, taught her, I believe, by Lisa, who also used to jump onto high places, thread herself among delicate things and never accidentally knock over any of them. But she couldn't resist rolling a pen or pencil onto the floor. Lucy's twist on the game was to go for the human's toys.

She also slept with me virtually every night for sixteen years. I didn't vacation much. Unlike Lisa, who perched on my hip or shoulder as I lay on my side at night, Lucy curled herself discretely into the curve by my side. If I moved, she moved, just enough. She didn't jump and flee. But when I lay down initially she liked to circle me, over my head with each turn she made at the head of the bed. It was cute as heck. As was she. Damn cancer. Until it had her nearly at the end she was still jumping on the bed, still pacing to her food dish and the litter pan, still trying to get on the windowsill. She stopped doing one thing at a time. When she could no longer jump to the bed, she climbed the stairs I made out of wooden boxes for her. When I saw her struggling and slipping at that I made sure I lifted her up and put her on the bed, then on the floor when I left the room. We spent a lot of time together. I got plenty of reading done. And her passing was very peaceful, with me curled around her and telling her what a wonderful cat she was and how much I loved her and that it was okay for her to rest now. I miss her tremendously. I had to get all of her stuff out of the room quickly. I couldn't bear it there without her. And I cannot let the other cats in because it was Lucy's territory. Also, it's probably time I see what it's like to sleep without fur and without having to launder my comforter cover every week.

I have waited until now to write this because I wrote about her before she died and there's not a lot left that I want to say right now. It all seems to be on the feeling level. My friend Diane helped me collect rosemary and bury Lucy in the flower bed under the lilacs, next to Lisa. (I'd thought of the rosemary when Lisa died: "And here's rosemary. That's for remembrance." I believe that's a quote from Shakespeare.) The next day I planted about 90 Angelique tulips in front of the two graves. I'm going to leave two poems here in her memory. I wrote them a couple of years ago, inspired by her singular presence.

Very Special Cloth Dolls from McKinnon Texas

Tumbled from the shelf
onto the floor, again,
Their blank faces stare up at me.
As the detective would say,

“It happened like this:”
“Hello,” said Lucy the cat, “take that. And that. And that.”
And sometimes she hides the baby doll, or the little cloth lamb.
Or a tiny chewed dolly shoe is carried away.

I gather up what I can find, place them back
on the narrow white shelf and not even waiting
for me to turn my back she springs to the window,
steps carefully into the crime-scene and shows me how it’s done.

A kitten flashes from within
her ten-year-old cat body.
And what, I wonder,
will I do with my day?

For Lucy

Starting the day with Billy, again -
deliberate, never-miss-a-thing-Collins
and "The Apple That Astonished Paris" -
I read about wildlife along the road,
how he’s watching in front of his headlights,
straining sight, to avoid careening
into who-knows-what liveliness waits in the dark.

Relentless Lucy circles over the mountain of pillows,
traverses my head, so I’ll pet her as I read.
And some of her is in there now, clinging to his car,
the road, the shadows in the dark. I move to brush
away the threads of gray before I close the book
but stop my hand in time,
so evidence of Lucy is safe among the pages.

Some day when I am not missing her black nose,
when I am not thinking of the soft deep plush, or her tiptoe step,
the thrumming purr, the blocky little body and puggy face;
when I have given up wishing for the touch of her again -
alone in my bed I will be reading Billy and it will be
Lucy I find on the dark and lonely road,
and I’ll wet the pavement with my tears.