A Place to Rest

I buried Mopsy under an old spruce tree. The depth of my grief caught me by surprise (but I’ll leave the reasons why for a later entry).

We spent our last day together sitting outside in the sunshine…a skeletal cat and a graying man, sharing a sunbeam or two. Mopsy always wanted to be outside. Although she spent her adult years as an indoor housecat (i.e., pampered prisoner), indulged and loved, the call of the wild filled her ears incessantly. To her, Nature was Heaven (as long as she could have her favorite meals and a warm bed to snuggle into as well). She became most adept at streaking through a partially open door, hell bent on burying her face in the grass, sniffing the aromatic breezes, and chasing after any moving thing. Oh, how she loved being outside on sunny days, curled against my feet, basking in sunshine and friendly zephyrs!

I had to carry her outside this last afternoon. She was too weak to struggle past the threshold and outside steps on her own. She collapsed across the cool concrete and drew comfort from that. We both knew that our life together was palpably slipping away. She struggled to reach me. I picked her up and held her in my lap. I was too grief struck to speak. She was too weak to raise her head.

A few hours later, she was gone…taking with her one of the few unsullied pieces of my heart still left.

* * *

Every home I’ve ever inhabited (that came with a plot of land, that is) has a pet (or two…or three) buried there. I’ve dug more than a few graves in my time.

This dolorous gravedigger went about his business on a hot, sunny Tuesday. It’s true you know…that phrase: “heavy heart.” My heart, so burdened with tears and grief, grew ponderous and burdensome within my chest, pressed heavily against my diaphragm, strangled each breath.

I began to dig.

I didn’t want Mopsy to have a shallow grave. No, I wanted her to have a peaceful resting place. I wanted her to rest deep within the rich earth, sheltered from the snow and rain.

I dug deeper. And deeper still.

I dearly loved all the animal souls that brightened my life. I truly did. Even so, I think I loved Mopsy the most. I know it’s not fair to compare one soul to another but, still, I can’t deny it…Mopsy’s soul was special. And so it felt natural…proper…essential…to prepare
her place of rest with the utmost care.

I always knew where I would bury her, whenever that day would come. I dug her grave beneath the canopy of the old Blue Spruce that grew majestically towards the sky. The Spruce extends her reach at least thirty feet across. Mopsy would rest beneath the protective limbs of this wise old tree, home to birds and squirrels galore, and now the sentinel and stalwart protector of the star-bright soul resting at her feet.

I dug a roomy grave about three feet deep into the thick, black soil.
I carved away the clayey dirt to form a perfect grave, straight-sided, deep and lovingly carved.

I collected fresh-cut grass clippings to line her grave. I wanted her to have a soft bed of the sweet grass she loved so much…devoured with such relish. Yes. Mopsy would sleep on the softest and sweetest of beds.

I lowered her body onto the bed, her place of rest. I gave her a blanket of grass to comfort her, then scattered a bouquet of fresh daisies over all (for you see, Mopsy had a thing for flowers).

Earth was returned to earth, and this most endearing of souls disappeared within.

* * *

As I said, Mopsy had a thing for flowers. I mean…she REALLY loved flowers.

One discovers certain verities when entwined with another soul.
It was a verity that, whenever flowers were brought into the home (a frequent practice), Mopsy HAD to thrust her face into each blossom. She would inhale deeply, probing each bloom with the tenacity of a bumblebee.

She would proceed to devour her favorite.

Another verity: Within one hour, I would hear a crash and splash. Although the details varied (toppled vase on dining room table…coffee table…end table…kitchen counter…bathroom counter…window sill...), Mopsy was always there, a mere foot or two away, calmly licking a fluffy paw. She would stop, mid-lick, to gaze into my eyes quizzically: “Did something happen? Did I miss anything?”
She personified innocence…innocence belied by a golden-yellow, pollinated muzzle. Never failed.

Mopsy really had a thing for flowers.

* * *

And to you, Dear Reader, I wish to express my heartfelt thanks.
I sought repose in silence these past two weeks, but your kind thoughts and warm support meant a great deal to me…more than
I can express.

Thank you.

* * *