Our nineteen year-old cat, Mr. Blackie, died last week.
He showed up on our porch one winter morning, and he’d clearly been living on the road for a while, He’d been in fights, he was skinny, and his coat was dull. Immediately apparent was his sweetness of spirit, which shone through all of that.
The plan was to get him back in shape, then find him a good home with one of our friends. At the time, it seemed like we had too many cats (most of them “show-ups”) to take on another. A day or two later, I said to my wife something that was already obvious to both of us; “We’re not giving this one up.” She agreed.
He was named Mr. Blackie because we had so many cats in those days (we live in the country) we’d run out of names. One of our cats, Grey Man (also known as Earl Grey) decided it would be a good idea to get the pecking order, as he saw it, straightened out right away, so he started the, “I’m the Man” act with Blackie. Blackie’s response let me know that I’d better pay attention; he clearly had a lot to teach me.
Blackie was completely relaxed, didn’t move a muscle, and just looked unblinkingly at Grey Man. It wasn’t a stare exactly, because a stare implies a reaction of some sort. Blackie was the definition of non-reactivity. Mr. Grey backed down instantly, and there was never again a hint of trouble between them.
I’d never lived with a cat like Blackie. He was incredibly good company and was the only cat I’ve ever seen who liked to be held on his back in my arms. He was happy to be held like that until my arms went to sleep. When his eyes would lock with mine, and we’d stay that way for who knows how long, I always felt like I could see eternity. In those moments especially, it was obvious Blackie and I shared our being with one another.
He liked to be carried around the back field, and would bat my legs if I didn’t pick him up. If I’d called to him from a hundred yards away, he’d come running to me at full speed. Non-reactive, yes. Non-responsive? Never.
Blackie started to have the dwindles a few years ago, and in a short time, became completely deaf. (I think I talked to him even more after he lost his hearing.) Deafness didn’t hamper his good spirits, but it did turn up the volume of his purr, and his meow, which was all right with me.
It was around that time I started to think about what life would be like without Blackie. I understood that there was nothing to be learned or gained from dwelling on that thought while he was still alive and right in front of me, but I knew his death would be an enormous adjustment for the rest of us.
It has been, but it’s also become clear to me how much I’m still learning from Blackie, even though he’s gone. In his last few days, I remember thinking that his death would be a test of what I thought I knew about love, death, and grief. It’s been just that. I’m sorry I can’t tell him what I’ve learned, but the important thing is that what I’ve seen in the last week confirms and deepens what I thought I knew.
Though I miss him terribly, occasionally mistake a dark object on the floor for him, and still find myself wondering when he’s going to appear for a snack, I see on a fundamental level that what I’m really missing is his physical presence. I don’t miss the love between us, because I feel the presence of that love as strongly as I ever did. It’s still here because there’s no place for it to go.
Death doesn’t have the power to remove love, but grief veils love in a way that makes it feel absent.
The feeling of grief arises partly from the discontinuity between the situation I’d like (Blackie still alive) and the reality I’m confronted with (Blackie not alive.) I understand that my resistance to letting Blackie go actually feeds the grief. When I’ve surrendered that resistance, the grief will fade on its own.
I’m so grateful to see all this, I can’t begin to describe it. The thing that was most real about our friendship is as available to me as it was when we were looking into each other’s eyes. That may have been Blackie’s last lesson to me (though knowing Blackie, it may not be). I don’t think I’ve ever learned a more valuable lesson in my entire life.
I can’t carry Blackie in my arms anymore, but I’ll carry him, and the lessons he taught me, in my heart forever.
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