Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

When I heard my brothers' voice, I immediately knew he had bad news.

"Alyce," he said, his voice breaking, "our cat was killed by a car."

"I'm so sorry," I said. It was all I could think to say, so I said it again. "I'm so sorry. So sorry..."

I'd met Zamuna only once: when my dad, sister and I visited my brother and his wife in Vermont last summer. She was a gray tabby with an unstoppable spirit.

Even amidst three dogs — her own and two visitors — Zamuna ventured out to play. Anything with feathers, those were her favorite toys. She'd bat and dance and nibble on a feathered cat toy as one of us tantalized her.

My brother knew I'd understand his tragedy. I lost my cat, Squeaky, to a car several years ago. Like Zamuna, she was a charcoal tabby, but quirkier and without the flecks of orange that danced like late afternoon sun in Zamuna's fur.

Perhaps I talked too much last night about Squeaky, but after he'd told me the details — a country road, a driver who didn't see her, Zamuna hit and crawling into the nearby woods, where she clung to breath for a few minutes until my brother joined her and she gave up that indefatigable spirit — I thought it might help to share how I'd dealt with Squeaky's death.

"It gets better over time," I told him, uselessly. It was the sort of thing people always say to the grieving, and which never seems to help.

My brother told me about Zamuna's burial. They'd placed her in a decorated shoebox, once used to storing photos. To cover her, a swatch of soft purple cloth, a bouquet of flowers. He and his wife said some words over her in remembrance.

My brother had been through this before. He reminded me of a cat he once had, Death, named by a punk friend after a character in a comic book. Death was a delicate beauty and wore an ankh necklace around her neck.

An indoor kitty, one day she escaped and got pregnant. My brother wasn't happy about the new responsibility but glad that pregnancy was her only consequence for sneaking out.

But then, while he was vacationing, she slipped away from her caretaker and met her fate in the road. The caretaker, who didn't believe in burial, took her remains into deep forest and cast her into a deep ravine, saying a prayer as he did.

We swapped stories about our sweet kitties, passed into the beyond. My brother told me how he used to have arguments with Zamuna. There was a door in his apartment he wanted closed and which she insisted should be open. He would close it and she would paw it open immediately. She didn't have to pay the heating bills.

I remembered, too, things he'd told me about her, about how it didn't take her long to decide she should reign supreme. My brother's dog, Pulsar, is at least five times her size. Within a short while, though, Pulsar knew who ruled: swift and sharp Zamuna.

After sharing these stories for awhile, my brother heaved a sigh and said he ought to be going. I reminded him that he can call me anytime, if he needs to talk more about it.

"It was clear you loved her," I told him. "And she loved you, too." More things everyone says to the grieving, but I couldn't come up with truer words.

I'm not certain, but I believe that last night Zamuna frolicked through my dreams, playing in the grass, chasing feathered toys to a far horizon.

Copyright 2003 by Alyce Wilson

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