Daddy called this morning and G-Pa, Aunt Faerie, and I were sitting down to the ritual Saturday Morning 10 o’clock Tea.
“We’ve had a bad day,” he said. “Problems.” He sounded beaten.
My world tunneled into my mother and her pacemaker, Percy. We don’t exist without mom.
Mom is fine.
Norma, their cat, had to be euthanized.
I told Daddy in no uncertain terms and with a real edge to my voice that he has lost the ability to call and say “things are bad” without first prefacing that he, Mom, and G. are okay.
Norma was in and around 15 years old—give or take. We got her a goodly while ago and she was diagnosed with Feline Leukemia or AIDS. I forget where she came from. But, she lived in the sunroom, because we had to keep her from the other cats. An inadvertent scratch or bite from her could pass on the AIDS.
Growing up my parents had anywhere from two to 17 cats, up to five dogs, a horse, a donkey, rabbits, guinea pigs, hermit crabs, chickens, an iguana (who is now stuffed), a blind pheasant and any other wayward animal that needed help.
Spare no expense or time. Every animal’s death my dad takes on as a personal failure. If he had done this or not done that then…he has stopped on a median in an ice storm to give mouth-to-mouth to his hunting dog. Years ago, I watched put “put to sleep” an ornery hunting dog he inherited from his brother because his sister-in-law said no way. Smokey was old and he had lived a hard life before he came to my dad. When it was time, the vet gave Smokey the cocktail. My dad held Smokey in his arms and told him it was okay to let go; Smokey was raging against the dying of the light. He told Smokey that he loved him and he’d been a good dog.
I grew up with a certain understanding of death because of all the animals that had come into and gone out of my world. But daddy always told me that it was okay to cry—to let it out.
“She’s at peace now,” my dad said about Norma.
I am going to Mass today and according to the Catholic Catechism, animals do not have immortal souls. They have souls, but their souls just disappear after death, because they do not have the reasoning to choose whether or not to be God’s law. So there are no pets in Catholic Heaven. As I’ve read, once we are dead and with God we won’t care about our pets anyway. Really. We’ll be with God and our loved ones, but we won’t care about pets?
That is the biggest bunch of moose-cock that I have ever heard.
My baby girl—my kitty—has been with me through it all: the abusive marriage, the traumatic divorce, the nervous breakdown, the drunk, and moving to the mid-west. She sleeps by my head at night and sometimes lays her head in my palm. She knows when I hurt. She is bonded to me. In all my life, I have never had such a close relationship with an animal as I have with Angel. I cannot imagine her not in my life. When I look into her eyes or feel her weight on my body after a hard day: I know she has a soul. Anyone who has ever truly loved an animal and looked into its eyes, knows that there is a soul present.
No Angel does not choose to follow God’s will. But, she never sinned. She never ate from the Tree of Knowledge. She does not have to capacity to act evil—to choose not to follow God’s will. Her very existence, instinctual, is following God’s will. I would say that some animals are better than a lot of humans.
(I am not even getting into the does an earthworm, llama, cow, or pigeon have a soul. That is whole other theological discussion.)
If my childhood pets are not in Heaven, then fuck it. We are all creatures of God. Who the hell is the Church to judge that animals don’t have souls? Tell that to Saint Francis.
Look into a dog’s eyes when he is in pain; watch a dog sit in the window waiting for her “Daddy” to get home; feel a dog literally cling to you to avoid your leaving her at the vet for medical care; know the total joy a cat has playing with you. Animals act on the pure instinct that is God-Given Natural Law. They follow God’s Will perfectly—we can’t follow his Will so perfectly.
Ask a veteran or law enforcement who has worked with dogs in war, on the streets, or at Ground Zero—they will swear by those animals souls.
Norma is in heaven on the dining room table eating all the human food she wants.
There was an older man, Simpson, who took his dog, Rip, on a ‘coon hunt in the woods. They both died and ended up walking on a country road. When they came to a gate, a man who claimed to be Saint Peter told Simpson that he could go in to Heaven, but not his dog. Rip was none too fond of this place anyway. Simpson was emphatic that without dogs and ‘coon hunting, Heaven wouldn’t be Heaven. “A dog has a right to have a man around, just like a man has the right to have a dog around, least-ways he wants to be happy.” (Or a cat.) Simpson told the Gatekeeper to go scratch. Soon he came along to another man who was not Saint Peter, but an angel. He welcomed Simpson and Rip into Heaven and all the ‘coon hunting they could want. “A man will walk into Hell with both eyes open, but not even the Devil can fool a dog.”
“The Hunt” Twilight Zone. Rod Serling.
I’ll take my bet on Angel, Norma, Smokey, and all the others I’ve loved and lost.
Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless
In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel.
PS: Fatty will miss Norma; he enjoyed grooming her.
PPS: Dog = God.
PPS: Dog = God.
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