He was buried on a Friday.
I remember that day well. The heat proved unbearable at daylight and then during my wee waking hours, the heavens cried in torrents.
I wore my mask (oh, don’t we all?) and faked a smile and laughed the loudest at the “little” mishap, but inside I bled and wept with the heavens too, for I loved and lost.
This was what I remembered of him: He was furry and soft, tenacious to his habits, graceful and cautious in his steps, at one time self-reliant, at other times affectionate and subservient.
He had a tiny pink nose and even pinker, well-groomed paws, one yellow eye and one green one, and, splattered on his fleecy-white back, one “Dalmatian dot.”
He had always been Special Cat. He knew his place in the family and played his part well: at one time the de-stress kit, at another time the clown, and still at other times the conversation piece each of us took pleasure in talking about.
He knew when to keep silent – and he did this quite often – and knew when to entertain us with his meows. He was our constant traveling companion. He made every home “home” for us. We looked forward to his warm welcomes after a long day at school or at work.
He had no hang-ups, no pretensions, no expectations… only unquestioning loyalty and unwavering faith and unconditional love.
He perpetrated no “crime” for which he was reprimanded and unforgiven: not the broken printer… not tattered books… not even shattered equipment our technocrat of a dad valued so much.
Indeed, how can one be angry at a creature that has exuded so much gentility and refinement? How can one stay angry at a creature that has brought out nothing but the best of our humaneness?
There was no rift he could not bridge, no laughter he could not evoke after an intense bout of depression, no tears he could not dry.
The five years he was with us were perhaps one of our happiest, simply because he was with us… because he was Special.
It’s been five years.
Still, I feel profound sorrow, which feeling one artist has described quite poignantly, and I quote her, “Seasons change. Life goes on. But without him, I’m done. Without him, I’m gone.”
It’s been five years.
Still, I hear no meows, no music, no sound, just something inside of me that cracked.
Baby Bunge, you are dearly missed.
