Full Circle

It is coming near the first anniversary of Fig's death, and it seems an appropriate time to reflect on the passing year. Shortly after we buried Fig, my friend and I fled to Death Valley, to find some sunshine, quiet, and desert spaces vast enough to engulf our grief. It was a strange trip, but the patience and self-sufficiency of the desert was what I needed to recover from some of the emotional rawness I was feeling in the days following his passing. When we returned home, the house roared with the emptiness he left behind, and I found myself looking for his familiar form in the sunlit corners, and listening for his faint "hah" and gentle scratching on the bedroom door in the morning, but there was nothing there save our grief.

For my friend, it was his first experience with loss, and although I was wracked with grief, my experience was tempered with the perspective gained from the losses of many pets through the years, and the knowledge that in time, the pain would ease. My heart ached even harder as I watched my friend wrestle with the loss of his first animal-human bond, and nothing I said could ease his anguish. I considered the pros and cons of getting another pet. Practicality told me I should wait - my friend is allergic to cat dander, one or both of us might be moving in the near future, I was looking for work, it was too soon - there were many reasons to remain petless. But when the heart hungers to love again, reason sometimes takes a backseat, and I found myself searching pet adoption clinics and animal shelters for a kitten or young cat to love.

After a week, I found him. A local cat rescue organization was holding an adoption fair at a pet store, and as I walked by cages of cats curled into depressed balls, I spotted a 3-month old kitten, a fuzzy bundle of curiosity and playfulness, and I was hooked. I held him for a long time, and his loud purr warmed me. I read his history, and learned that he had been found near the dumpsters behind a shopping center, half starved, filthy, riddled with parasites and various infections. The rescue organization gave him a foster home, food, and medical care, and now they had succeeded in their last task - finding him a permanent home. Yes, he had a weepy eye as a result of a herpes infection, but I could live with that. He was full of love; intelligence shined in his eyes, and he seemed emotionally stable. I filled out the paperwork, paid the adoption fee, and took home my first kitten in over 25 years. His rabbit hop gait, rounded hindquarters, and social nature pointed to some Manx blood, so I named him Finn MacCool - a name befitting one of Celtic descent. Where Fig spoke with unvoiced "hahs" and eloquent body language, Finn expresses himself with a variety of trills, cries, and questioning meows. He is amazingly playful, inventive, and attached to us, as we are to him.

While Finn can never replace Fig, he has helped us heal, and he has established his own place in our household. Perhaps the love we had for Fig in our hearts was trying to break free, to find expression just as a new mother feels pain if she cannot express breast milk, and by adopting Finn, that love flowed freely again, and the pain eased.

At nearly the same time I adopted Finn, Mango, the neighborhood red tabby that had known Fig in his last months, seemed to be suffering from hunger and persistently tried to convince us to care for him. Feeding him on our back porch seemed an appropriate way to thank Mango for being part of Fig's life as well as use up the remainder of Fig's food, so I now look after this friendly outdoor feline who plays with Finn through the glass and jumps on the hood of my car with loud greetings when I come home. His habit of indiscriminate spraying forces him to remain an outdoor cat, and I know he is just a visitor in my life, but we all enjoy his visits just the same, and Finn is convinced he is part of the family.

And so, as many have said before, life does go on. My years with Fig are a cherished memory, and there are still times when I feel the sadness that he is no longer with me. But I know I did well by him, right up to the end, and that knowledge gives me comfort. In the meantime, Finn pleads to be played with, and the animals I've come to know and love at the wildlife rehabilitation center where I have volunteered for the past year have also added richness and joy to my life. But then, that's a topic for another blog.

Fare thee well, Fig - you were a prince among cats, and will always hold a place of honor in my heart.