Letting Go and Living On

The most recent cat in my life was Amy Rose, a petite feline with a gorgeous tortoise shell coat who lived in the Mount Art Haven (a former boiler house). She was decidedly prickly but eventually concluded that I had sufficient ear and chin rubbing skills to merit seeking me out when I was in the garden. Like many cats, she was highly attuned to the natural world and had a remarkable degree of self-possession.

Two days ago Amy Rose had what appeared to be a stroke—with one eye fixed, she trembled, paced, stumbled, and hung her head. It seemed clear we were going to have to send her to her eternal home. When I picked her up and took her outside to wait for Sr. Rosann to take us to the vet, I thought she would want to feel the grass under her feet one last time, but she was content to enjoy the view and sniff the breeze as she settled into my arms. For a precious few minutes, as often happens when we are aware of the nearness of death, we had the holy experience of being fully present to each other and the world around us.

Her final gift to me was her peacefulness in the face of death. I could still sense her engagement with life, but at one point as I held her in the examination room, she looked up into my eyes and I saw sadness and a bit of fear, but mainly resignation and understanding. I thought of a poem that Daniel Ladinsky wrote in the voice of St. Francis of Assisi:

A tool

in your hand I am, dear God,

the sweetest instrument you have shaped my being into.

What makes me now complete—

feeling the soul of every creature against

my heart.

Does every creature have a

soul?

Surely they do; for anything God has touched

will have life

forever,

and all creatures He

has held.

Sr. Elaine Fischer dug a grave in a beautiful spot near the cemetery, under a tree next to some tiger lilies, and there Amy Rose’s monastic friends laid her to rest. Although her body is stilled, her spirit remains free to roam the land and nestle in the heart of God and all those who love her.