Seasons in the Sun

There is a song that Terry Jacks made popular in 1974 called "Seasons in the Sun". I always loved this song, mostly because of the line, " it is hard to die when all the birds are singing in the sky", referring to how hard it is to give up life. Yesterday, my most favorite cat, who walked in to our garden 13 years ago, died after she suffered a massive stroke. I nicknamed her "Tinker Bell", because of a little bell she wore on her collar, to give the birds fair warning. She was part Siamese, and had the most amazing clear blue eyes, and the softest fur, that reminded me of a chinchilla's fur, so thick and rich and soft. Sneakers had this marvelous ability to enjoy each and every day. She loved being outside, and she loved to snuggle on her soft blankets. I had recently bought her a new one, and she would burrow her face deep into it, and snore contentedly. When she was dying, I realized she wanted to go outside, and it was a gorgeous, sunny day, about 78degrees Fahrenheit, under a bright turquoise sky. I wrapped her up gently and put her down near one of her most favorite summer spots, near the old honey suckle bush, where the shade dappled the bright sun light. She relaxed, and I stayed with her, watching her struggle to hang on to every breath. The birds were singing, the bees were buzzing around her, as there was a bunch of butter cups nearby. It broke my heart to see her die, this great companion of mine for 13 years, who loved life so very much. Yesterday she was still heartily eating tuna, lapping up the fresh water I brought her, purring as I comforted her, and petted her. Then, she fell silent, and hot tears started streaming down my cheeks. There was this silence, this reverence at this sacred event we do not understand anymore, called dying. But, outside, it took on a quality of mystic beauty. I told my husband and my 21 year old son that when my time came, if possible, to take me outside, to my garden, where nature seems to have an intuitive respect and acceptance of death and its mystery. I am always surprised how many people are afraid of death. My husband and son can't even talk about it. I remember when my youngest sister committed suicide 15 years ago, and I went to her funeral in Georgia, how I touched her ice cold hands, and kissed her ice cold forehead goodbye at the wake, and I felt this warm glow of energy from her in return. It was awesome. While my father and my other sister, who died 7 years later, could hardly make themselves look at her, let alone touch her. But if you accept the event, if you can or happen to be there, open yourself to the experience, and you will not only bring great comfort to the dying person, or even loved animal companion, but you will receive something in return. A deep peace, a gentle understanding that life and death are two sides of a much larger mystery that only silence and respect can briefly reveal . Today, the sky is overcast, the air is cooler, but yesterday the day was glorious, celebrating in the small part of my world the passing of a great animal companion, with whom I truly had many a splendid season in the sun. My heart aches for I really loved her, and I will miss her very much, because apart from her warmth and ease, she ties me to a deep love for the peace and joy nature can bring, as she well knew. Sneakers taught me that every day is a gift, to not worry, to just enjoy and be grateful for what you have ,and not worry about what you don't have. I do not know where her spirit is now, but I know the love she gave me and that I have for her will stay in my beating heart for as long as I breathe, until it is my time also to let go, hopefully on a sunny day, outside in my garden, with the presence and comfort of someone who cares about me, loves me and respects and accepts what is happening. Sneakers will be buried tonight in a little wooden coffin my husband made, resting on her sweet blanket, with some buttercup flowers I put on the blanket before we closed the lid. We will bury her near her favorite spot in the garden, where I will visit her often, and talk to her still.