Monday, January 19, 2009
Our dear old cat Amos died on Sunday, some time between 4 a.m., when Peter checked him, and 7 a.m., when I found him on the kitchen floor. We buried him in a sunny spot in our yard, and overnight, snow fell and covered his grave.
This morning, our oldest dog, Kaja, broke from the pack and trudged through the new snow to Amos's grave. She sniffed around, and wagged her tail and then looked at me and made her way back to my side.
I don't know what they know. I do know that they all understood that Peter and I were very, very upset yesterday. Every time I broke down crying, they all came to me, and pushed against me or tried to lick my face. Woodreau, the always-frightened little bichon, did what, for him, amounted to tricks all day. It certainly seemed that he was trying to amuse us.
Amos is at peace now. And I believe, I fully believe, that he is with all the pets we have loved and wept over as they died. They're at their best, all of them, playing and romping and waiting for Peter and me.
I made this painting on Saturday. Peter and I had to leave the house, the grief, the painful act of watching Amos die. Peter walked down to the beach and took photographs; I made this painting. A photographer from The Day came along, and took pictures, and I was in the paper on Sunday. I was wearing a giant fake-fur hat with earflaps, and I look dopey but OK. My painting looks wonderful, and that's what matters.
Sadly, in the paper, they spelled my name wrong. But they got it right on the website.
Thanks for reading.