Monday, June 11, 2012

In His Own Time

We nicknamed him Fricken Cat. From day one he knew what he wanted, how he wanted it and I was his bitch. Once every other being in the household figured that out, things were just dandy for FC.

He was the only surviving member of the original pack when Gene and I first got together. The other pooches have long since become WindWalkers.

I won’t forget that day; I heard Gene’s old truck pull up, then the knock at the door. There he was with cat in hand. A grey and black kitty that turned a lovely white and black once all the soot from the truck yard was cleaned off.

Kinney my Collie Shepherd mix and Poorbear the Dauschund, could have cared less. But Scottie the Yorkie would not stop the curious inquisition until Puddy (his official name) slapped him one across the face. Scottie ran away yelping and Puddy established his place in the pack – as boss.

Scottie was the butt of Puddy jokes after that. Puddy lived to walk on his hind legs and slap Scottie on the rump as Scottie scampered across the living room floor to the kitchen for a drink of water.

Always the curious one, Puddy would avert the dogs to any and all intruders to the neighborhood. After waking them from their slumber, he would trot off and let the dogs do their barking to safe guard the castle. When in the yard, he defended his territory with great ferocity. I still have a fang of his that got knocked out when a rival entered the Puddies Domain. Don’t mess with FC!

An avid hunter, he would foil many a prey from the canopy of his favorite Gardenia bush, the very spot he chose to close this chapter of his life; his favorite place, in full bloom, bidding his transition with the fragrant scent of sweet surrender.

True to his constitution, he would call to have his comrades in close proximity. But he did not want drama, tears, or even to be held. Just be with him, watch the clouds the roll by, see the shapes they make, smell the delightful Jasmine, Buddleia, Roses and his beloved Gardenia. Feel and be in the moment, nothing more, nothing less.

Somehow it seemed wrong to interfere with the cats’ wishes, yet again. There will be no needle to quicken the process. He will shapeshift in his own time.

Each must find their own dance steps in this most sacred dance of all; when the soul is birthed back to Spirit. We humans have interfered so much, we scarcely know how to live well, let alone die well. We color the process with our own mortality.

Death is not a disease, it just is. The delusion planted in our souls of our superiority shatters like the smoked mirror it is. The God-like self we fancy our self to be is confronted by the humbling reality that no matter the mastery of the healing arts, all life ends.

Emancipation of judging self and the judgments of others at this sacred dance allows access to the still point; the place of everything and nothing. The place one can clear ones own hurt in such a time of sorrow, where the song the other being sings, comes through with the clarity of a church bell and all those privy to that moment will know what it means and even the universe will provide repose to allow the sacred dance to unfold without the rushed, colored process that humans evoke.

The transit of Spirit is not one to cater to our clock, yet the judgment of many a pre-programming will make it so and thus many choose euthanasia as an option to ease the confrontation of their own mortality in the face of such gut-wrenching life lessons.

There is no right or wrong answer here, only what each soul knows and has the strength to endure. The best one should do is refrain from harsh words spoken from the point of view of the pinhole humanity sees existence through. Life will do what it needs to do anyway, and that is how it should be. We have contrived enough, the universe often needs to intervene to broaden our perception.

The new pack of hounds files by and gives Puddy kisses, Puddy weakly kisses back. The old pack and those creatures of days long gone by, gather in the spirit realm. The delirium noted by many in hospice work may very well be a necessary part of birthing the Soul back to Spirit. The state between the worlds, where spirits of loved ones long past come to usher a new angel home. The limiting bonds of the meat suit slowly undone and in his own time another WindWalker is born…

I will need your wisdom Puddy, sing to me so my feet remember how to dance. Join the chorus before you and sing us home in our own time.