Your enjoyment is never right, till you esteem every Soul. Our cat begs, though he cannot eat. He walks on rubbery legs to his litter box, then misses it. Tiles grow slick with his urine. The carpet hides his spots, the blanket stinks with food Bryant squirted in his mouth. He sits at the kitchen entrance and meows softly; I hear his breath across the room. I think of Saijo's bush bunny, the perfection of his body in death. And of his cat who left, then returned to die at home. This is the year of letting go, my friend suggests. Not renunciation, but something quieter. To give is to be generous; to give in is to enter without sound. My cat hears none of our cluckings. He wobbles onto the lanai, seeking his sun spot, or a taste of rain. He exits my sight, stage left. He hasn't given up yet, Bryant says. To give up is to go away.
18 February 2015