A few words of explanation:  After his wife, Joy Davidman, died, C.S. Lewis wrote a sort of journal of grief that was eventually published as A Grief Observed under his own name after his death in 1963.  It is fairly obvious that it was written more for his own benefit than with the intention of publishing.  In a similar vein, I wrote the following largely for myself.  But then the deadline for Roqueta loomed and I had nothing else to offer.  So here it is. 

. . . . . 

I had forgotten how exhausting grieving can be.  In the past couple of months I have conducted funerals for several people, and I try to be sensitive; after all, I have accompanied two wives through terminal cancer, and I don’t believe that anyone forgets that experience easily, even if life carries on.  Being sensitive to those who are bereaved, reminding myself that no one experiences loss and grief in exactly the same way, remembering that no one can truly say, ‘I know how you feel,’ because they don’t - all these are important things to draw upon when trying to be compassionate.  Yet even so, it is quite possible to forget just how tiring grieving can be.  

Meanwhile, I’m wondering where the cat’s feeding dishes have gone - not because there is a cat to feed any more, but because I just notice the absence of a familiar landmark in the kitchen.  Twenty minutes later I realise that they are piled on the dining table, waiting for a place to go, rendered redundant by mortality.  Later, I come into our apartment from outside, and it’s a reflex action to look over to the sofa, only then remembering that there’s no longer a grey feline to occupy that space.  The empty space.  For the first time in nearly fifty years there is no cat nor dog to wander around our home and focus our attention and affection.  

She came with us from Canada, thirteen years ago, when she was five and a half.  She was always an indoor cat, because outdoor cats have a rather limited life expectancy in British Columbia.  And so she has always just been there, a presence - even if gradually less playful over the past year than she used to be.  The wicker chair that is bereft of wicker on one side probably could go away and be replaced.  All in good time.  What will we do with the little basket of cat’s toys?  She used to go and fish one out to play with it from time to time.  It’s not in the way.  It can stay there for a while. 

I used to call her a little grey person.  Kate would sometimes chide me gently for going a little far with the anthropomorphism, but she definitely had a personality.  And empty space is not just about the sofa, or the bed, but the absence of that personality, the loss of the presence.  I know all this, of course, in my head and in my heart.  I have walked down this road before.  Even so, I feel guilty about the sadness - I minister to people who have lost husbands, wives, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, spouses - all dealing with the empty spaces in their lives that seem larger and more important than our cat.  But indulging in comparative suffering is a waste of time and energy.  

I remember that after the previous wife died, my son and I managed to carry on - not as if nothing had happened, but adjusting to a new and different sort of ‘normal.’  Then, four months later, the guinea pig, who used to be allowed to graze on the lawn occasionally, was attacked by a raccoon while our attention was distracted - and only for a moment.  We rescued him and took him to the vet, but after a couple of days he succumbed to his injuries.  We fell apart.  It was as if the loss of that small, innocent life released emotion that had been - well, not exactly suppressed, or even pent up, but contained.  The pets who are closest to us can do that.  They teach us about mortality, and they do so without words, so perhaps the intellectual part of us that thinks we can reason is disarmed, and our hearts are touched while our defences are down.  

Also, there is a sort of innocence at the heart of our relationships with our pets and their vulnerability, springing from their dependence upon us which reflects something far deeper.  Despite all our bravado and the hubris that has evolved to be part of the human personality, and our pride in our own achievements - collectively  as well as individually -  at the very heart of our being is the truth that we are as vulnerable and dependent as the small creatures who depend upon us.  It’s just that the vulnerability is buried under layers of presumed self-sufficiency.  Perhaps when our pets suffer or die they touch a place within us that reminds us of our own relationship with something greater than ourselves.  

To be honest, even as an ordained minister, I have to admit that there is a lot of this meaning-of-life-and-death that I don’t understand.  But understanding is a considerable stretch for most of us, if not completely out of reach.  I believe that we are invited to immerse ourselves in the wonderful mystery of life, and let go of the frustrating, fruitless search for absolute answers.  And even if we catch a glimmer of understanding, it’s rather less helpful than compassion, caring and simply sharing the path of vulnerability and mortality as companions - fellow pilgrims along life’s complex journey.  Building and sharing relationships that are in essence opportunities to be channels of the divine love invested in us. 

We don’t have to understand it all to accept the invitation to be in relationship with the perpetual dynamic of this divine presence, and all of the subordinate relationships with persons within God’s creation - even with a little cat who could be a channel of grace and love.