Mercy Me
I hear her. Out in the hallway she meows loudly, crowing like a banty rooster. In the middle of the night, she announces she’s caught a mouse and lays it outside the door for me to acknowledge and praise her. She does this often. It doesn’t matter if it’s a fabric catnip mouse or a real one. It doesn’t matter. To her or me. Her actions tell me she loves me just the same.
When I first saw Mercy, she was just about 6 weeks old living in the midst of a feral cat colony where I was live trapping. I’d already taken over 20 cats from that colony, had them neutered and vetted. I then socialized the cats and adopted them out to loving homes.
I saw Mercy from behind and she sat so still I actually thought she was a statue. Most of the cats from the colony, especially the kittens, ran like little banshees at the first sight of me. Mercy just sat as if she didn’t see or hear me.
That’s because she probably didn’t. Her eyes were completely matted shut from a serious upper respiratory infection that had left her not much less than bones and fur. The loud rattle in her throat and congested nose kept her from eating the food I brought because she couldn’t smell it. Many cats die because of this. It was a miracle she had clung to life long enough for me to find her. She became a real-life miracle that changed both of our lives for the better.
For 6 months she, we, struggled to keep her alive. Mercy would crash and burn between 4:00–6:00 a.m. and I’d revive her. Every morning for 6 months. I prayed — worked feverishly. She’d be revived. Again, and again and again.
She became my furry daughter, followed me, talking to me continually. Loved me. I nicknamed her Ninja because she couldn’t even usually climb over a baby gate. Just watching her try made me laugh. What a character. What a determined little soul. What a lovey girl. She mended my broken heart so many times over so many years. She kept my secrets — touching deeply into my soul.
We often nestled close to each other. Our bond unbreakable. Until now. She is no longer sitting at her bowl waiting for her canned food. She is not blocking the refrigerator as I try to get in — in her mind to get a minuscule piece of turkey to give her. She is not incessantly chattering, trying to convince me to give her just 1 more piece of turkey. Just 1 more, please.
Out of the blue she left me, and I can just now write this. I can’t express, not really fully, the depths of sorrow I feel. It’s too hard. Too raw. I close my eyes and see us at the vet — a last minute seemingly benign call that turned into a nightmare. Mercy, my Ninja girl — my furry daughter — went from well to unwell. And then she was gone. Her going was not pretty. And I continually see it. In living color, see it.
I can’t, don’t want to remember her leaving. Not right now. Not in all the horror of technicolor. How she died doesn’t really matter, though. How she lived does. And Ninja did. Most certainly she did. In beautiful technicolor, did.
Some of you may be thinking (or saying), give it a rest. It’s a cat. It’s JUST a cat. It’s not like losing a human loved one. Well folks, I can tell you this, I have lost more than enough human loved ones in my life — including all 3 of my children — 1 to a terminal illness, 2 to miscarriage. Are those deep guttural losses the same for me as losing a cat or dog or another beloved being? In this moment it is the same as those other losses — but not. Not completely. It just hurts. Really hurts. But who can really judge such grief as insignificant or nonexistent or foolish?
I have found that many who bond tightly with animals do so because their human interactions and relationships have been consistently difficult at the very least, devastating at the very most. They look to animals for nonjudgmental unconditional love. There they find the hope and healing and encouragement they do not get from people.
For those who think me foolish to wrap my heart and life around — to give so much of myself to a furry ball of meows and purrs — I say this: I am sorry you have not felt the pure joy or experienced the deep sorrow of a similar love and loss. It expands your heart — changes who you are, for the better. It deepens your compassion. At least it has for me.
Like other losses. I will wonder why it happened or how I could have done things differently or better. I will choke up, push the tears away until I can’t. And I will always remember. Each time I go to the refrigerator or wake to hear her call for me in the still of a long, lonely night to see the prize she’d brought or just to chat and snuggle on the stairs, she will be there.
How many times can a heart be broken before it can no longer be mended? I don’t know. I just don’t. How many times can a soul long for something that is no longer there in physical presence and becomes a longing too deep to ever be satisfied again? I have no answer.
I do know from experience the pain and longing will blessedly lessen, eventually, slowly, leaving a tiny forever scar behind as a testament to a life well lived — a love deeply felt.
And I will become thankful again and again and again, for the miracle of her life. My Mercy. My Ninja. My furry daughter.
copyright jackie deems 2024
