ode to a cat named Sunday
Sunday died on Wednesday. He gave us nothing but love. And fleas. Sunday is dead. Long Live Sunday.
Sunday was born on my birthday. Sunday and his litter-mate Bubbles were six weeks old, I was six months clean, and those kitties taught me the nature of unconditional love. They were pure love. We lost Bubbles years ago to a car, and I mourned her with a sadness I did not expect. Sunday, however, has been my constant companion for 12 1/2 years, and his passing, I knew, would be tragic. (As I write this, blubbering at my computer, Magdalena asks me why my eyes are like that, then pets me and says, you'll be ok, the cookies will help you feel better, and Augustus in his little, halting voice says it o-k mama)
Sunday was the best kitty on the planet with my babies. All the tail pulling, the rolling over, the dressing up, the putting in bags and boxes, the covering with blankets, was taken with aplomb, and he always returned to the babies with purrs and affection. So as you see, he was still teaching me about unconditional love. He loved the babies best. Even my friends who are allergic to him couldn't resist him. When Kamy was here, he found a kindred spirit and climbed up on her and would not move unless moved upon.
Yesterday we came upon him, still, on the porch, matted hair, damaged body. Ethan dug the grave, Magdalena said immediately, "don't worry mama! We're all going to die and we'll see him in Heaven!" Magdalena wrote a goodbye, then wanted to draw cat skeletons, I wrote the ode to a cat named Sunday, Augustus was naked, we processed through the backyard to the grave site with 7-day Mary candles, incense, cat nip, string and a dried rose from my Valentine roses from Ethan and said goodbye.
I cried and cried and cried and am still crying. In bed, as we were going to sleep, Magdalena said, I'm sorry that old cat died mama, but the dogs just knew it was his time, that's why they killed him. She has some kind of wisdom, that Magdalena, I could learn a thing or two from her.