Communiqué from an Apparently Deceased Cat

“Let’s just put it this way: energy doesn’t just, poof, disappear. Love doesn’t just, zap, evaporate. Beings as vital and individual and integral and real as I am, as you are, F.T., persevere. (I cannot tell you how clumsy this Elizabeth is with her big, fat, arthritic, clawless fingers, but she’s all we’ve got at the moment, alas.) Now, where was I?”—Elizabeth Boleman-Herring

Ruminant With A View

By Elizabeth Boleman-Herring

Note: This column is by way of being an idiosyncratically transmitted missive to my fellow columnist F.Theresa Gillard from her “late” cat, Xerxes, as channeled by the entirely-inadequate-in-Xerxes’s-eyes human intermediary, Elizabeth Boleman-Herring.)

But I’m “burying the lede,” as EB-H, herself, used to say in Journalism class, back when she was teaching Journalism (“Back when there was any Journalism worth teaching,” adds my typist).

What I’m here to say is, simply, that I love you, that I will always love you and, though I’m no longer “in my fur,” as it were, I’m still very much alive . . . though the adjectives you humans—many of you humans—have coined don’t really hold much water, when it comes right down to it.

Let’s just put it this way: energy doesn’t just, poof, disappear. Love doesn’t just, zap, evaporate. Beings as vital and individual and integral and real as I am, as you are, F.T., persevere. (I cannot tell you how clumsy this Elizabeth is with her big, fat, arthritic, clawless fingers, but she’s all we’ve got at the moment, alas.) Now, where was I? Where am I? I was, and I am, in the same place as you; in the same place I always was, and will be, though I may choose to assume different forms, and, every now and then (for instance: when my kidneys have just given out on me) take a little breather.

But I’m about as “dead” as you are, even though I can no longer look you directly in your human eye, or curl up directly next to you, or express, directly, how much I love you.

But you know me better than anyone, and so I think you know, this shower-of-human-conceived-words notwithstanding, that I would, could, never “leave you.” So, in a way, knowing that about me so
well—that I would never leave you comfortless—you have to know I’m still here, rattling around the old universe, temporarily relieved of a body.

Now, it’s a lucky thing for our typist here, old Elizabeth, that she practices Yoga and Reiki and is something of a spook. She’s well-known to be something of a spook, and she knows what she knows (not a helluva lot, if you ask me, but cats are omniscient: like Cassandra, we know all, but just can’t articulate it in a language any of you speaks fluently). But Elizabeth knows I’m not “recently” deceased, or even “deceased.” I’m just “apparently” deceased and, if you and I are lucky, F.T., we may even cross paths again in this particular lifetime of yours. Or . . . we may give the rest of this century a pass entirely, perhaps even this planet a pass entirely, and come back in a kinder place and time; a time when kidneys don’t fail, and bodies don’t succumb to M.S. and A.I.D.S. and Parkinson’s.

We may come back, together, in a time when bodies are no longer required at all: “skinny-dipping,” centuries from now, aeons from now, with wings but without flesh.

But I digress.

I can only speculate about when we will meet again, because I’m not, and my typist here is not, privy to those sorts of details. On our planet, in this time period, we have to think globally but, mainly, act
locally. We have to get our arms, and paws, around what’s right in front of us—love, work, play—and leave the big, big picture to the big, big artists. Or Artist. All I can say is that there’s creation, creating, going on. Always has been. Always will be. But the Creators’ hands, or paws, are just too monumentally large for any of us incarnated beings to see. Put your nose right up against an elephant’s flank some time, and see if you can guess what an elephant is. Stick with the small stuff, F.T. The small stuff shall suffice.

I know my sudden shape-shifting over the last few days has laid you out flatter than six o’clock. The tears you cry splash all over the universe, and I can feel them even from here, wherever here is. And I know you have to cry, and I know nothing I say, or have Elizabeth type, is going to stop all those tears.

But listen: this is the gig we signed on for. This is the planet we selected. These are the bodies and families and problems and gifts and obligations and joy and misery we chose before we came here. We choose, before birth; we choose to be born. We choose to finish this curriculum, even if it’s not all
catnip and Fancy Feast.

I chose to come live with you, F.T., and I think we’re both the better for it. I know I am, because, for a human being, you are remarkable. You are superb and without peer. And someone had to come live with you and let you know this, every day, for as long as these $#@% kidneys would hold out.

And, though it’s painful, I also need to let you know that we, you and I and Elizabeth here, too, have chosen to be mortal. We signed on for a job, a course of study and, when we finish the work, complete the curriculum, we . . . just . . . move . . . on.

For those still in their bodies, those seemingly left behind, this sucks. But it’s like high school, F.T. You get through those four years, you graduate, and then you hit the road . . . until the first reunion. And, at that reunion, no matter what costume I’m wearing (and I may come back as someone resembling Denzel Washington, but not in his mean roles), you’ll know me. I promise, you’ll know me. And nothing, nothing, nothing will have changed the way I feel about you.

OK. Enough. It’s very tiring trying to squeeze my feline intelligence into the tiny cranium belonging to your friend here, kind as she’s been to lend me her limited consciousness.

Try, try, try to take one thing away from this bucket of words Elizabeth has typed, though: I haven’t gone anywhere. I’m still with you. And I always will be.

Yours Truly,

Xerxes, Formerly & Always, Your Cat

Note: If you missed F. Theresa Gillard’s column concerning Xerxes, it’s running today, as well, right here on Weekly Hubris.

Image of Cat: rendered by Deepland, at http://deepland.deviantart.com/.