To know someone for so little time, but to be with them at the end stretches the knowing out into some universal infinity. We first saw these kittens on Monday, so it’s only been a week, but loss hits solidly whenever it comes.
This little calico, which we’ve been calling Pumpkin Pirates (Pirates is her mother), died this afternoon. When I came out this morning, she was completely limp and barely breathing with eyes open. I tried to get her warmed up. Paul offered to rush her to the animal hospital. But I knew it was already too late. She took her last breaths wrapped in a blanket on the grass in the sunshine, near her family. I watched over the entire time, my heart breaking over and over again. When she was still, I buried her under our Magnolia tree.
Normally when I come upon a dead animal, I take a photo so I can memorialize them in a future sculpture. Giving some sort of future to the nameless that have passsed I suppose. But I couldn’t bear to do it this time. I can still picture her too clearly and maybe I didn’t want a reminder of how awful nature can sometimes be.
