Three Pages from the Book of Lost Things

It was a day that contained much more sadness than I ever anticipated. I don't usually use this space to document those kinds of stories, but I have decided it is a tale that must be told. And so I will tell you about this day's three pages from the Book of Lost Things.

First, I witnessed tree carnage in the apple orchards not far from our home. Second, I documented the beauty of a fallen house finch that I found by the roadside. And third, I briefly held and loved a black cat, who died in my arms.

Warning: This posting contains details about pet loss that may be upsetting to some. If you are not up for that today, please click away to a prettier tale. I'm sure I'll be back in force with happier news on the morrow.

My husband and I live not far from Way Fruit Farm, a local orchard that sells all kinds of fruits, but mostly apples. In January, I strolled through the orchard and took pictures, and admired the long, neat rows of craggy trees.

A few weeks ago, I noticed that a large number of the trees had been cut down. I remembered an article in the local paper back in December that said the fruit farm would be moving away from some of the older apple varieties, such as delicious, that just aren't as popular anymore. I hadn't put two and two together to understand that meant killing TREES.

And so I vowed, in the way that I do, to go and see, and document the event. I wanted to walk the tree row once again, with camera, to bear witness to the changes happening there. And so, on this day, I did.

Around lunchtime, my husband took my car to a mechanic appointment, via the Bookmobile that stops at Way Fruit Farm. He dropped me off at the edge of the orchard, and I walked back to our house along the tree line, and then along the road itself.

I may have mentioned that earlier this month, the weather was May-like. Well, now we're back to February weather. It was surprisingly chilly out, with a biting wind that made me wish I had more clothes on than I did. And gloves.

I walked along the tree row, bearing witness, taking pictures, thinking about what it all meant. I am a tree lover, and I was surprised at how disturbing it felt to walk through row after row of dead trees, upended against the cloudy sky. How strange to be delicious, but apparently not quite delicious enough. (See photo of fallen trees in the extras.)

On my walk back along the road, I encountered a deceased house finch. It was in perfect shape, except that it was dead. I have never seen one up close, so I slid a piece of tree bark beneath it, carried it back home, photographed its feathers in the sun (see main photo), and then interred it, with appropriate solemn remarks, in Gremlin's Meadow. Those who are interested may learn more about the house finch here.

But the day had one more whammy left, and I wasn't ready for this one, so hold onto your hats. My husband arrived home around 4:30, after I had finished working, and I saw him standing on the front porch pounding on the door. When I let him in, he was very upset. He thought he had seen a cat that had just gotten hit by a car. He said it limped off the road across from a barn about a half-mile up the road.

The glimpse he'd gotten was black fur; he was worried that it might have been his little friend the neighbor's tuxie cat, who occasionally comes to visit our yard. Would I come with him to check on it and see what was going on? So he called the lady who owns the tuxie cat and left a message, asking if her cat was at home. And then we hopped in the car and took off.

And right where he said, I spotted a black cat crouched in the golden weeds by the road. I couldn't see much detail, though. My husband pulled the car over and I leaped out. The only thing I'd thought to bring with me was a canvas tote bag. I approached the cat and spoke softly to it, and was rewarded with a quiet, questioning: "Meow?" Was I here to help? Yes, I was, I replied.

I could immediately tell it wasn't a tuxie. The cat was jet black, and it was hobbled, bent over, clearly injured in some way. I didn't see any blood, though. My husband got out of the car and approached us. Was it the tuxie? No, it wasn't. AND NOW WHAT???? There is a vet's office about a half-mile up the road from that spot, Halfmoon Valley Animal Hospital. They were still open, I said; let's take the cat there.

And so I wrapped the tote bag around the black cat and picked it up. And I could immediately tell two things: the cat had some kind of major injury or deformity to its front right shoulder/leg/foot; and it was very, very thin.

As I got into the front seat of the car with it, the kitty settled in and began to purr. Of course, I began to cry. And I cried pretty much through the whole rest of what happened next.

We got to the vet's and told them the story. No, it wasn't our cat; my husband had just thought he'd seen it hit on the road, and it limped away. We were afraid it was very hurt. What could be done in cases like this?

They got us in with all due haste and the vet tech came in, took one look, and said the cat had a very big tumor on its front right shoulder/leg/foot. The tumor was so huge that it had practically immobilized that entire part of the cat. How it was even able to walk at ALL in that condition, I'll never understand.

The vet came in and saw my tears and knew immediately how serious it was. He pulled the cat from me (for by now, I was attached to the cat like glue, or it to me; I was bawling but it was purring), lifted it into his arms, and met its gaze straight on.

He talked to the cat gently in a friendly tone, examined the mass; told us it may have been the biggest tumor he's ever seen on a cat. No, it could not be drained or operated on. It was probably malignant. He had no idea how long the kitty had had the tumor. No, nothing could be done. What did we want to do next?

He recommended euthanasia based on the cat's condition. Clearly, in this state, it could not fend for itself. It could not catch its own food. It would be easy prey for any other creature that happened by. Its quality of life . . . well, it was living a life full of suffering. Poor baby, it purred while I cried some more. No, I couldn't bear to let the suffering go on. Yes, we would stay for the procedure.

So the vet took the black cat (which they determined to be a girl, maybe 9 or 10 years old) into the back and they put a little tube in her leg so medicine could easily be injected there. And then he brought me back my cat and put her back into my arms.

And he said something about did the cat have a name, what was its name. And my husband and I spoke, both at once: "Blackie!" he said. "Midnight!" I said, over him, all the while stroking the cat's silky black fur.

And then we all told the black cat how sorry we were that things had gone so poorly of late, and we apologized for what we were about to do. And I held my little black kitty and I told her I wished it had all been different for her.

And I cried some more, and I told her I loved her and held her to my heart (i carry your heart with me/i carry it in my heart). The last thing I said was, "I'll see you at the Bridge." And then there was an injection. And the purring stopped. And the suffering stopped. And everything stopped, except for my tears.

We thanked the vet, and shook his hand, and he said he would take care of everything from there. The kitty's remains would be cremated. And now she was finally healed again, and out chasing squirrels in the meadow! He told us we must be building up "good karma" for doing such a good deed. But it didn't feel like one. It felt miserable. I walked away with empty arms.

And then we went home, and my husband said, "Yeah, I am the one who said I wouldn't cry over a cat we don't even know." And then he burst into tears. And we took turns through the evening, crying and telling the story to each other.

We tried to be happy in the thought that the cat wasn't suffering any longer, but it was hard to do. We will carry her memory with us forever, but I don't have a single picture of her: our little black cat, black as midnight, with fur as soft as silk.

And then as evening fell, the almost-full moon rose, and I allowed myself this one little dream. The soul of the little black cat was hovering near the earth, light as sunshine, light as the sky, perfectly restored to health, able to leap and run again at last!

And the Man in the Moon came down and gently scooped up the little cat and spoke to her softly, and he lifted her into his arms and took her with him into the skies. And the little black cat purred. She purred so loudly that the windows of heaven rattled at the sound.

The song to accompany this very sad tale is a favorite of my husband's and mine. When I asked him this morning for a song for the story about our little black kitty, this is the one he picked. And I concur. The soundtrack is Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven. There are several versions I love, and I'll include just a few: Led Zeppelin, Dolly Parton, Heart, and Lou Gramm.