(This is Part 1 of a series.)
My cat Nicky is dying. My little guy is at the door of death. Well, not so little. In his prime he was a tough hombre, always ready for a good cat fight. But he also became quite the loverboy too, and wasn't at all ashamed to show how much he loved his dad.
But now he's wasting away, his brain mostly gone. And yet he still loves to snuggle, what's left of this mortal coil.
One of his favorite tricks was to climb on my chest when I was lying in bed. He'd climb on, walk forward, and then settle down about two inches from my face, look me in the eye for awhile, sometimes nuzzle my cheek, sometimes look up to listen to a bird or two for a few moments, and then put his head down and fall asleep.
We did the same thing today, only he didn't have the mental or physical strength to approach me anymore. So he depended on his dad to put him on the 'ol chest, where he could rest in some peace.
He used to purr like a bat out of hell, really loud, but he can't purr anymore. So today he just nuzzled his head into my neck and breathed more vocally. It was more than enough. I knew what he meant to tell me. And of course he knew what I meant to tell him. It was definitely a two-way conversation.
He was and is such a beautiful animal. My little compadre for 12 years.
It's a fact that he showed up on Christmas Eve. It was Christmas Eve 12 years ago when I heard this meow at the door. This went on for quite awhile until I finally opened the door to see what was going on. He just walked right in—he knew he was home right away.
And of course that's where he got his name from: St. Nicholas. That, we could say, was his formal name, though he went by Nicky. And his dad, who always did have a problem with names, called him "kid-dy." That was okay with him.
He didn't trust humans much in those days. In fact, if you got within 4 or 5 feet of him he'd turn around and face you, put up his claws and spit. The message was clear: Humans, stay away! Evidently, he had had some bad experiences with them.
So I would just feed him and leave him alone for the most part. Though when he was eating I could sometimes stroke his back a little bit—but that's another story.
Anyway, my compadre is leaving. And yet it's right too that he's going now. How do I know? Well, by the simple fact that it's happening.
I used to have all kinds of ideas about how reality could or should be better. No more. I realize now I'm not smart enough to know how reality should be. But I sense that "it" knows, far better than I could ever know.
The way I express it these days goes like this: Reality is always right. By that, I mean that the ultimate arbiter of what is "right" in this universe is not the human mind, but rather, reality itself. It—exactly as it is—is its own justification. Or more accurately, it needs none.
Everything about reality is the way it is because it is that way, and can be no other way until it is. It's perfect now and it will be perfect then. It's simply molting, moment-by-moment, from one perfection to another.
There's a saying in markets about "cutting your losses." It's about getting in tune, in flow, with where the market is actually going, as opposed to where someone thinks it should be going or has to go. No, it's simply going to go wherever it needs to go, and the same is true, on a vastly more infinite scale of course, for reality itself.
Using our metaphor, we could say that the market is always right. It knows where it's supposed to go. And, a funny thing, reality always knows where it's supposed to go too. I can always tell where it's supposed to go because it goes there. It's quite uncanny, and very reliable.
So goodbye, Mr. Nicky, and farewell. "May angels sing thee to thy rest," as good Horatio said to Hamlet. You lived your life perfectly, Nicky, and now it's time to go. But the ungraspable reality which you lived and expressed so well—well, it remains. It's here and will always be here, like the faithful lover that it so truly is.
(This is the end of Part 1. Go to Part 2.)
—jim sloman, 11/21/02 for 1/2/03
|
