Rough Drafts
A Series of Pieces Written in The Wild
#13
My first teacher in grief was my childhood cat Sammy. When our other cat Tinkerbell ran away, Sammy stood at the window in one of the bedrooms and called and called and cried. He knew she was out there, but he didn’t know where. I learned about longing and that ache had a sound. I’d felt it in my own body many times before but hadn’t heard it until then. I internalized his call. Wished I could take his pain away. I could deal with sadness but I didn’t want that for him. I don’t remember how long it was before he stopped sitting by the window and calling out for her.
I couldn’t understand why she would want to leave. She had food, a house, Sammy, and a human family. But this is life. And I, of course, understand a little bit now in ways I couldn’t or didn’t want to admit when I was five years old. I look back at all the fantasies I had about running away from home but never having the courage or the support or any idea what came after. I wonder if Tinkerbell was afraid or if she was just so ready to live that she accepted the coyote’s jaws as a consequence. Better to be consumed with the life she chose than wither away inside. Even when those you love remain indoors.
Some of us are not meant to be house cats. Homebodies, sure. I’ll always love a patch of sun or a cool corner in a closet. But I won’t pretend that staying in is always safe and that the risks of going out in the world: integrity, grit, humility aren’t worth it. They are. Regardless of how things turn out. Now, at 35, I think about Tinkerbell and feel less confused. I think about Sammy, how much I loved him and how our similar heartbreaks recognized each other. They’ve both been gone a long time now. I like to think they found their way back to one another, Sammy seeing her through the window and running out to front yard to greet her.
