The World Is Turning

I captured these two pictures of my tuxedo kitty, Willa, rather by chance. 

She is something of a wild critter, my Willa (she even disappeared once for over two months, returning ragged and with a broken tail that had to be amputated). Willa's favorite perches are those that allow her a view of the world -- a place where she can watch with diligence the turning of the earth, leaf by leaf. 

I have another critter, too. His name is Ernie, and he's a 15 pound, orange colored mutt. These days, in his twilight years, he's both deaf and blind and is suffering from advancing neurological decay -- a strange plight to watch in a dog, since his telltale signs have nothing to do with poor memory or verbal function. 

You can tell that Ernie's mind is going by watching his body: His hind legs veer right while his front legs try to go left; he spins lazy circle in the yard and when inside, seeks the familiar frames of furniture to help him navigate his course. 

In his most loving moments -- those that still manage to peek through senility -- he prefers to lean against my legs or my husband's; that's it. Just lean. Lean, and breath. 

I have been thinking a lot lately about these two critters of mine; they are, at this time in my life, something like children to me. I need to worry about mealtime and bathroom needs and where they are once bedtime falls.

With Ernie, my husband and I are getting an early glimpse of parenthood -- waking several times a night to help the dog change positions on his bed so that he can fall back asleep. I gripe about the lack of sleep, but the truth is, it's nearly impossible for me to imagine a time without this small dog to nurture; my heart is hardened against his impending death, but it is also made softer each time I have to help him shift his tired body into greater comfort. 

My Willa, my Ernie -- what they know, each and every day, is the single moment at hand. 

I snapped Willa's picture in the depths of winter, wondering when it would ever pass. Willa posed for me not thinking about the cold (if cats do indeed think); all she knew was her perch, the tree outside, the squirrels dashing along those dark, wet branches. 

When I caught her looking at the blooming tree this weekend, and called for my husband to bring me my camera, Willa wasn't thinking about how she owed me this portrait; she was knowing the quick jive of birds in the smoke tree, just beginning to turn pink. She was watching that same fat squirrel, now swinging from branches thick with downy green. 

Dear Ernie? Ernie is less known to me these days. I feel him moving out of his life. As my husband says, he is an old dog, and he knows it. Still, I don't believe he is contemplating what time he has left, as I do during those midnight hours when he wakes me. He cannot see or hear; he has little sense left of where his body is taking him, but his best dog sense is with him still. 

Ernie is smelling his way through the final days of his life. The fresh water in his bowl. The sweet apple blossoms from the neighbor's yard. Willa's dusty body when she wanders close to him.

A breeze blows and Ernie lifts his head. He knows. 

A familiar leg stops his path and Ernie leans on in. He knows. 

I'm starting to know some things, too. Some things my creatures teach me. 

Don't wish away a season; pay attention to what is there, when it is there. 

The darkest times of life deserve just as much observance as the brightest; look out the window at them. 

You will get lost. Find your way home again. Use the landscape to guide you. 

Lift your head to the wind. 

Lean into that which you know by heart. 

The world is turning, but we are here now. 

Thanks for reading. 

-Beth

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