Parting Words
We buried the kitten. Actually, my son buried her. He found her in the grass beneath the small cluster of oaks. There was no sign of a struggle or any damage. He dug her a grave beneath the trees and covered it with limestone rocks to keep the digging scavengers away. All around are turks caps, rock roses, and spiderworts. A nice resting place.
I’m not one to get all anthropomorphic but the other cats seem a little disconsolate, wandering about as though something is not quite right. I’m sure they know what happened, and even saw the body, and gave it a sniff. And they’ve killed to eat. So, they know the scent of death. But it has to be strange when it’s one of your own, although it’s hard to know just how unsettling it might be.
And maybe they’ve learned something from the loss. Something about the road, or outsiders, or snakes, or owls. Maybe they’ve learned another thing about the dangers of the night. How to tread more softly, how to watch more quietly. It’s hard to tell. I just know we’re down one cat, and eventually life will once again approach something we call normal, and the grave will disappear beneath the trees, and we’ll forget, until such time as we need to do it all over again.