The Bustle in a House the Morning After Death

"The bustle in a house the morning after deathis solemnest of industries enacted upon earth.The sweeping up the heart, and putting love awaywe shall not want to use again Until eternity."That's Emily Dickinson. It describes just how it feels for us today. Sick as he was, our nice old Abraham died quietly at the veterinarian's last night. First he and I sat for a long time in my car before the appointment, just looking out at the house and yard he knew so well, then we drove over and he waited so patiently for the shot that would end his pain.They don’t ever know, do they, how much delight they bring us?  Here are the neighbor's tulips, lashing the April breeze. We looked at these a long time too.

For Charlotte

It’s all I can think of today: that time I came upon the black cat dead in the road who I just knew was my own cat Charlotte, black like her and wearing the same collar, her small spine facing outward toward the cars speeding past; toward the speeding cars like the car that had struck her and kept on going.I tore home and blurted the awful news to David, who folded his newspaper and stood slowly and walked me to the window. “T, no,” he said putting his arm around me. “Charlotte is right here napping on the patio, see?”Last night I dreamed we had this same kind of happy ending but I wake today and it isn’t so. Our poor old Charlotte with her bad hip has been missing since last Monday and she never wanders off this way. At age 14 she knows all too will what she can and cannot do. If she were a person she’d be hitting the Early Bird Special and going right home to get in her PJs.I’ve been telling funny stories all week but maybe I can give in to my real feelings now. Maybe telling the rest of the story about that other poor cat here will help me find the release I need. Anyway, what follows is the rest of what I wrote in the summer of '03 when I came upon that other poor creature:+    +    +    +    +   +    +    +    +    +    +    +    +    +   +  +    +    +    +    +   +    +    +    +All I could think was "I’ll go to Mary’s! She's an RN. She'll know what to do about this poor abandoned creature!’Mary answered the door with her two kids besise her and though quick tears sprang to her eyes too, she was calm.‘I’ll get something we can put it in,’  she said and went to do that, while her boy Ben, eleven, and her girl Rachel, nine, followed me to where the animal lay.First, Ben turned the collar of the little thing in a vain search for identification. Then Rachel crouched and stroked the fur. Then we all three crouched, a mournful silent trio.On seeing us from across this busy street, a woman walking her dog called over.‘Was it yours?’When we said no, she told us that she had recently moved to this neighborhood but she thought it might be her neighbor’s cat and why didn’t she just go see. Then Mary came with a big blue towel. She spread it out and gently lifted the motionless creature, perfect but for a spot of blood at the mouth.And then we were four, keeping silent vigil.And when, from the dog walker’s side of the street, came two young women striding purposefully with an empty carton, I felt more tears rise.‘Are you the family?’ I asked in a barely-controlled voice, dreading the witness of a sharper woe.I can’t describe to you the voice of the one who answered. The kindness that was in it. The comfort.‘No,’ she said gently, ‘But I am a veterinarian.’ And straightaway she knelt by the little cat and placed her fingers soft upon its breast.‘Is it dead?!’ the children blurted.  ‘Mmmm,’ she murmured. But it was not us that she spoke.'What are you then?’ she whispered to the animal, gently lifting the legs. ‘Ah you’re a little girl!’ she crooned. Then, with both hands, raised the delicate head in a gesture like a caress.“She’s gone,’ she told us, and in one easy motion lifted the cat in her blue shroud of towel, settled her in the box, and closed the lid.‘What will you DO with her?’ the children cried.'I’ll bring her to where I work and keep her for a while, and then... we will cremate her,’ she said gently.And so it happened.nd in a day or two a sign went up about a lost black cat and we had the privilege of meeting the family whose pet this was, and of telling them things which to me stand as proof of all that lives and does not die. Because to them we were able to say, Not the shovel and the city truck, not the passing hours and the coating dust, but instead quick witness, and an honor guard, and escort, in the form of a young veterinarian. Escort, like an angel’s escort, out of this place, bright as it is, and lovely, and dangerous.