At the approach of every new year I tend to think in terms of cycles, of good years and bad years, of transition years that led to great years, and naturally perhaps, of really bad years, mostly those characterized by death. And so it is this year, as I look back at the year about to end. It comes to me as neutral: long-nurtured dreams and hopes remained largely unrealized despite initial hopes that maybe, just maybe, this would be the year for me, but then again (thus far anyway), no major deaths occurred.
It is perhaps quite morbid to dwell on death on what ought to be a season of joy and rebirth, of hope in a new year, but having gone through what has seemed like a long season of death, I can perhaps be forgiven, if a little. Some deaths leave you very much diminished, and irreversibly changed.
And so as it had been in New Years’ past, my thoughts turn to life and death amid the smoke, the fireworks, and the noise. Amid expressions of hope, I think of cycles and seasons, as if anything would really change because a political or scientific institution says we have entered into a new cycle, a change in the year, a new revolution around the sun. But when exactly does the cycle start? Where exactly does an ellipse begin? Are we actually in a new cycle or somewhere in between? Amid all the hype, all the greetings, all the hopes, when the old year ends and the new one begins, the night that sees both will in fact be the same, the years separated by a second but sharing very much the same night, and with it my same self, diminished by the lives I have lost, in the new year as in the old.
And my thoughts, I expect, will turn to cycles.
I find myself hoping that at the end of what has been a rather neutral year, having brought no great success but then no great disappointments, neither some delirious ecstasy nor some debilitating sorrow, that in the law of cycles, if such even exists, this neutral year about to end will lead to a great one, however “great” may be defined. Maybe just a good one will do. Or maybe something neutral.
Life teaches us somehow to look at cycles, from good to bad and vice-versa. Or perhaps at seasons, one season leading to the next. How else should we hope, if we should hope at all, if not to hope that the good will come again? Somehow. Even in a long season of death, that there will be life again. Somehow. And amid the tears, there will be some joy, even if some space is reserved always for tears, for losses that never can be replaced, days and lives and warmth and smiles that can never be regained.
And so I expect to find myself this New Year’s Eve standing outside my home, as I had in years past, in good years and in bad; I expect to find myself watching the fireworks and taking in the noise and the strangely wonderful smell of fireworks, looking up at the sky perhaps like some romantic fool, and, like always, dwelling on cycles, remembering the lives that are no longer with me, whose absence has diminished me, and yet smiling somehow, somehow, for the lives that remain with me, making life bearable, at times even wonderful.
All in cycles, if we believe in such things. But really, what choice do we have but to believe, even if we don’t?
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Sunday, August 10, 2008
In memoriam, Garpy, December 29, 1982-August 10, 1991, Lovingly remembered on the anniversary of his death
After all these years,I still remember.
That last day, that last time.
You waited for me,
one last time.
Then you left.
You saw me through the dark times,
then said goodbye.
After all these years,
you remain in my heart.
Monday, July 21, 2008
In memoriam, Boobie, June 18, 1991-July 21, 2005, lovingly remembered and terribly missed on the anniversary of his death
It was hard to believe:holding you that last day,
the breath gone from you,
everything about you still.
I knew it was coming;
the decision was mine to make.
By my nod, you went quietly, painlessly finally.
After fourteen years, you were no longer of this world.
I held you for the last time, and wept the loss...
as I do still,
as I stop to remember,
always to remember,
the good years, the wonderful years when I had you,
consigned to memory now,
in a world so suddenly different,
so suddenly changed,
so suddenly cold.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
Are we just cockroaches, Part 2
Every once in a while, when I feel overwhelmed by everything, thinking of lives that I have lost and dreams that have died and things that will never be, I come to realize just how insignificant I actually am, how little and meaningless and insignificant my grief, my concerns, and my aspirations are in a world which has seen countless lives lost over billions of years.
From the thousands of deaths in the recent China earthquake to the hundreds who met their watery deaths at sea with the ill-fated Princess of the Stars, lives have come and gone with barely a whisper in the immeasurable expanse of time. Why should we then think of ourselves as so important, so special just because we can think and create and remember?
This sense of self-importance, a major feature of the Christian religion that proclaims man to have been made in the image of God, should bring honest men and women to ask: What, if anything at all, makes us so important?
Honest people, looking into themselves, at the history of the planet, and at the whole range of possibilities in the universe, should come to the same painful conclusion: NOTHING, NOTHING AT ALL. Nothing differentiates us from the pigs that become our (your) meat or the dead cockroach that we throw unceremoniously into the wastebasket. In the end, it seems, we are here simply to live out our days and die, just like every kind of life that we know of.
From the thousands of deaths in the recent China earthquake to the hundreds who met their watery deaths at sea with the ill-fated Princess of the Stars, lives have come and gone with barely a whisper in the immeasurable expanse of time. Why should we then think of ourselves as so important, so special just because we can think and create and remember?
This sense of self-importance, a major feature of the Christian religion that proclaims man to have been made in the image of God, should bring honest men and women to ask: What, if anything at all, makes us so important?
Honest people, looking into themselves, at the history of the planet, and at the whole range of possibilities in the universe, should come to the same painful conclusion: NOTHING, NOTHING AT ALL. Nothing differentiates us from the pigs that become our (your) meat or the dead cockroach that we throw unceremoniously into the wastebasket. In the end, it seems, we are here simply to live out our days and die, just like every kind of life that we know of.
Which makes the the promise of an afterlife more appealling, perhaps even necessary if we are indeed to lead good lives.
But what if there is no afterlife? As asked before, why should we be entitled to an afterlife when we refuse to accord such a possibility to creatures that are more beautiful and innocent and kind than we are or could ever be?
Perhaps we deserve no afterlife.
But if there is no afterlife, what consolation is there? Are we just cockroaches that crawl, are stepped on, then die?
Think about it this way: either way, afterlife or not, death should be a boon. If, after this existence, we do meet the loved ones who had gone before us, then well and good. If, however, all is nothingness come death, maybe just as well. If we are indeed just cockroaches, then death should be a blessing. The very thought that it would all be over should be consolation enough. After all, with the peace of nothingness, who needs the burden of consciousness?
###
Sunday, June 29, 2008
When life was complete
This beautiful card was made by my daughter Cristine and was given to me on Father's Day, June 15, 2003.More than just a Father's Day card, it is a picture of a life that was once complete: a family surrounded by cats and three wonderful dogs.
Life was good then.
Before my father-in-law died in July 2003.
Before my father died in 2004.
Before Boobie died in 2005.
Before the last of my cats died in 2005
Before Prudence died in 2006.
Before Almond died in 2007.
My daughter didn't know it then, and neither did I, but with her card she made the last depiction of my life when it was complete.
This card, old and and worn as it is, is precious.
Friday, June 27, 2008
They who love little
An employee in the company I work for was buried today. I never knew her. She was on a mountain in Zambales province with her mountaineering friends, crossing a creek, when she was swept away by the rampaging waters brought about by typhoon Fensheng. That was Sunday, June 22. Her body was found some time Monday morning. Jhoanna, as her name was, was an only child. She was also single.
How bleak the world must be today for her parents. When you lose your only child, what have you left? Where lies your consolation in a world gone mad, a life suddenly turned upside down? Darkness comes more grimly somehow, the silence more oppressively. In times of grief, you survive by holding on to what you have left. But when it is an only child that you lose, finding that "something left" must be next to impossible.
I know the pain of loss. Even with the passage of time, it creeps up on you every now and again, making you pause to reflect on life as it has been ever since such loss--and wonder what is left. As you remember the good days, the days ahead seem even more daunting.
How we who grieve envy those who love little. They never will know the pain, the loss, the utter helplessness and hopelessness that we feel upon a loss. They may lose their loved ones, but they get by well. Their lives, after all, are focused on other things.
And they who love little are not as uncommon as it may seem. Rather, they are everywhere, focused on their careers, on accumulating wealth, on reaping honors, on making discoveries.
In a season of loss, such as I have known, it is easy to envy them--those people whose lives center on their careers, their work, their art, their science. For them, after all, what is there to lose that they cannot have again? Careers can be replaced, so can jobs, so can the outlet for artistic expression or scientific pursuit.
But how do you replace a life? A life lost is lost; there is no replacement. The world changes dramatically, and the change is irreversible.
Indeed, how bleak the world can be for those who have loved much and lost. How envious we become of those who love little. They can never really be hurt.
###
How bleak the world must be today for her parents. When you lose your only child, what have you left? Where lies your consolation in a world gone mad, a life suddenly turned upside down? Darkness comes more grimly somehow, the silence more oppressively. In times of grief, you survive by holding on to what you have left. But when it is an only child that you lose, finding that "something left" must be next to impossible.
I know the pain of loss. Even with the passage of time, it creeps up on you every now and again, making you pause to reflect on life as it has been ever since such loss--and wonder what is left. As you remember the good days, the days ahead seem even more daunting.
How we who grieve envy those who love little. They never will know the pain, the loss, the utter helplessness and hopelessness that we feel upon a loss. They may lose their loved ones, but they get by well. Their lives, after all, are focused on other things.
And they who love little are not as uncommon as it may seem. Rather, they are everywhere, focused on their careers, on accumulating wealth, on reaping honors, on making discoveries.
In a season of loss, such as I have known, it is easy to envy them--those people whose lives center on their careers, their work, their art, their science. For them, after all, what is there to lose that they cannot have again? Careers can be replaced, so can jobs, so can the outlet for artistic expression or scientific pursuit.
But how do you replace a life? A life lost is lost; there is no replacement. The world changes dramatically, and the change is irreversible.
Indeed, how bleak the world can be for those who have loved much and lost. How envious we become of those who love little. They can never really be hurt.
###
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Are we just cockroaches, Part 1
Anyone who has mourned the loss of a loved one knows that the single thought that offers the most comfort in times of bereavement, which gives us the strength to go on in the midst of almost unbearable and seemingly unending grief, is the possibility--more than that,the promise--of an afterlife, the continuation of our existence beyond the world as we know it, in a kind of existence we as yet cannot understand--one, however, that will allow us to be with our loved ones again, in a place with no more pain, no more tears, no more parting, no more death. Even atheists can--and perhaps do--believe in a greater consciousness that governs existence in its different planes, maybe not that god preached by Christianity and the other major religions, but a consciousness and intelligence way beyond our comprehension.
But what if there is no afterlife? Or god or that supreme intelligence governing the universe? What if god or that supreme intelligence, if it actually exists, sees us in the same way we see a cockroach, just a pest to be stepped on?
Put a different way, if we do not believe that the life we extinguish with hardly any thought--the cockroach, the mouse, the pig--continue to exist beyond their death in some way, perhaps as some higher existence, why should we believe that our own life, our own consciousness continues after we die?
It is the pinnacle of human arrogance and self-importance to claim an afterlife but at the same time dismiss its possibility for nonhuman life. After all, what makes us different from a cockroach?
In the play "Inherit the Wind," Drummon says, "Mr. Brady, why do you deny the one faculty of man [that] raises him above the other creatures of the earth: the power of his brain to reason? What other merit have we? The elephant is larger; the horse is swifter and stronger; the butterfly is far more beautiful; the mosquito is more prolific. Even the simple sponge is more durable. Or does a sponge think?"
The power to reason. Some would add the ability to empathize: the fact that, unlike most animals (chimpanzees, though, like humans, have been found to be capable of empathy), we can appreciate the fact that another living creature is experiencing pain. Others would add creativity. Perhaps imagination. But they all go back to Drummond's argument on thought, the power to reason, to remember, to create, the very power that makes us believe that we are higher than and separate from nonhuman life ("the one faculty of man [that] raises him above the other creatures of the earth")--the very thing that, unlike nonhuman life, gives us souls, we who have been made "in the image of God."
But think about it. What if there is something, some aspect of existence, that is far higher than the power to reason or to create or to remember? We cannot fathom it because we do not have the ability to do so. What if there is something beyond the power to reason that we, because of our small minds and limited perspectives, cannot even begin to comprehend?
What if, in the grand scheme of things, we were but cockroaches to a far greater intelligence, as much able to understand the language and thought of such intelligence as a cockroach is able to understand or appreciate the poetry of Yeats?
What if all the things we are so proud of, such as our thought and reason and creativity, are simply the crawling movements of a pesky cockroach to some greater intelligence that is capable of far, far more than we can even imagine?
Such greater intelligence would probably find it laughable, that we in our arrogance and unmitigated sense of self-importance would think ourselves worthy of the sympathy and appreciation of an intelligence responsible for the birth and death of planets and galaxies, or for the birth and death of countless lives for billions of years on our one planet alone. To such greater intelligence, it would be laughable for us to believe in an afterlife just as it would be laughable to many of us to think that cockroaches would actually believe in an afterlife for themselves, a place and time where every dead cockroach would gather in a paradise of their own--no more stepping feet or foul insecticides, just a free-roaming cockroach paradise.
Funny? So perhaps would our aspiration for an afterlife be to an intelligence that sees us in the same way we see cockroaches.
The thought itself can be distressing. If it were so, there would be no point to life. There would be no point to law or morality or ethics or decency. There would be no point to order, no point at all to kindness or mercy, no point even to beauty. After all, it all goes to naught. No reunions after this life, no paradise, no meeting of lovers and loved ones after death.
Ashes to ashes, nothing more. Like a dead cockroach being thrown into a waste basket and eventually being eaten up by ants.
When we pray to "God" or to that higher consciousness, why doesn't "God" or that higher consciousness answer? "Do you not hear me?" Pharoah asks in "The Ten Commandments." Indeed, does "God" not hear? Then again, do we hear the cockroach? Is there perhaps a cry for help every time we move to step on a cockroach?
This thought, however, distressing as it may be, should also be humbling. Shorn of the human arrogance promoted by the world's major religions, which places human beings at the pinnacle of existence, the thought of ourselves as some greater intelligence's cockroach might help us find the humility to co-exist with other inhabitants of this planet, to treat their lives and death with respect, knowing all to well that there is no difference between the death of a cockroach and the death of a human being, both instances being the end of life for something that had once been alive, and in the end being of no consequence to the higher beings with greater power and intelligence in a universe and existence we know very, very little of.
Are we made in the image of God, or are we just cockroaches to a higher intelligence?
Put a different way: If you were God, would you reflect yourself as a cockroach?
###
But what if there is no afterlife? Or god or that supreme intelligence governing the universe? What if god or that supreme intelligence, if it actually exists, sees us in the same way we see a cockroach, just a pest to be stepped on?
Put a different way, if we do not believe that the life we extinguish with hardly any thought--the cockroach, the mouse, the pig--continue to exist beyond their death in some way, perhaps as some higher existence, why should we believe that our own life, our own consciousness continues after we die?
It is the pinnacle of human arrogance and self-importance to claim an afterlife but at the same time dismiss its possibility for nonhuman life. After all, what makes us different from a cockroach?
In the play "Inherit the Wind," Drummon says, "Mr. Brady, why do you deny the one faculty of man [that] raises him above the other creatures of the earth: the power of his brain to reason? What other merit have we? The elephant is larger; the horse is swifter and stronger; the butterfly is far more beautiful; the mosquito is more prolific. Even the simple sponge is more durable. Or does a sponge think?"
The power to reason. Some would add the ability to empathize: the fact that, unlike most animals (chimpanzees, though, like humans, have been found to be capable of empathy), we can appreciate the fact that another living creature is experiencing pain. Others would add creativity. Perhaps imagination. But they all go back to Drummond's argument on thought, the power to reason, to remember, to create, the very power that makes us believe that we are higher than and separate from nonhuman life ("the one faculty of man [that] raises him above the other creatures of the earth")--the very thing that, unlike nonhuman life, gives us souls, we who have been made "in the image of God."
But think about it. What if there is something, some aspect of existence, that is far higher than the power to reason or to create or to remember? We cannot fathom it because we do not have the ability to do so. What if there is something beyond the power to reason that we, because of our small minds and limited perspectives, cannot even begin to comprehend?
What if, in the grand scheme of things, we were but cockroaches to a far greater intelligence, as much able to understand the language and thought of such intelligence as a cockroach is able to understand or appreciate the poetry of Yeats?
What if all the things we are so proud of, such as our thought and reason and creativity, are simply the crawling movements of a pesky cockroach to some greater intelligence that is capable of far, far more than we can even imagine?
Such greater intelligence would probably find it laughable, that we in our arrogance and unmitigated sense of self-importance would think ourselves worthy of the sympathy and appreciation of an intelligence responsible for the birth and death of planets and galaxies, or for the birth and death of countless lives for billions of years on our one planet alone. To such greater intelligence, it would be laughable for us to believe in an afterlife just as it would be laughable to many of us to think that cockroaches would actually believe in an afterlife for themselves, a place and time where every dead cockroach would gather in a paradise of their own--no more stepping feet or foul insecticides, just a free-roaming cockroach paradise.
Funny? So perhaps would our aspiration for an afterlife be to an intelligence that sees us in the same way we see cockroaches.
The thought itself can be distressing. If it were so, there would be no point to life. There would be no point to law or morality or ethics or decency. There would be no point to order, no point at all to kindness or mercy, no point even to beauty. After all, it all goes to naught. No reunions after this life, no paradise, no meeting of lovers and loved ones after death.
Ashes to ashes, nothing more. Like a dead cockroach being thrown into a waste basket and eventually being eaten up by ants.
When we pray to "God" or to that higher consciousness, why doesn't "God" or that higher consciousness answer? "Do you not hear me?" Pharoah asks in "The Ten Commandments." Indeed, does "God" not hear? Then again, do we hear the cockroach? Is there perhaps a cry for help every time we move to step on a cockroach?
This thought, however, distressing as it may be, should also be humbling. Shorn of the human arrogance promoted by the world's major religions, which places human beings at the pinnacle of existence, the thought of ourselves as some greater intelligence's cockroach might help us find the humility to co-exist with other inhabitants of this planet, to treat their lives and death with respect, knowing all to well that there is no difference between the death of a cockroach and the death of a human being, both instances being the end of life for something that had once been alive, and in the end being of no consequence to the higher beings with greater power and intelligence in a universe and existence we know very, very little of.
Are we made in the image of God, or are we just cockroaches to a higher intelligence?
Put a different way: If you were God, would you reflect yourself as a cockroach?
###
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
In memoriam, Boobie, June 18, 1991-July 21, 2005, lovingly remembered and terribly missed on the anniversary of his birth
My dearest,You nibbled on my button
and healed a broken heart.
You looked at me from behind her legs,
and I fell in love with you.
You were home.
I loved you every day you were with me.
You are gone now but always remembered.
And the love,
it remains.
Monday, June 09, 2008
Weary, getting wearier
I felt terribly tired last night. It was not the first time I felt that way. It was perhaps the same kind of weariness the old folks feel, having lived their lives, whether they achieved their dreams or not, whether they still have something more to give or not. It is that painful longing for rest. It felt it last night, perhaps more heavily than usual.
It's been more than a year now since Almond died, and the days have been so excruciatingly long. I get surprised sometimes to learn that things I thought had occurred years ago actually occurred just about a year ago, perhaps even earlier than that. The year that has passed since Almond's death seems like years, a lifetime, even several lifetimes. The days leave me weary.
Sleep comes as a comfort. Waking up brings distress.
It's been more than a year now since Almond died, and the days have been so excruciatingly long. I get surprised sometimes to learn that things I thought had occurred years ago actually occurred just about a year ago, perhaps even earlier than that. The year that has passed since Almond's death seems like years, a lifetime, even several lifetimes. The days leave me weary.
Sleep comes as a comfort. Waking up brings distress.
Monday, June 02, 2008
In memoriam, Almond Dec. 16, 1994-June 2, 2007, Lovingly remembered on the first anniversary of her death
"And death shall have no dominion.Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion."
- Dylan Thomas
Someday, I shall hold you once more;
Impatiently, I wait.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Prudence, April 2, 1999-January 13, 2006. Lovingly remembered on the anniversary of her birth.
You brought so much joy to us.
How changed the world has been without you.
Monday, March 03, 2008
What's love got to do with it?
It ought to be about dogs. About friends, that is, not trophies; companions, not inventory. Purebreeds are great, but askals should be welcome as well. Askals are canines, too.
Having worked briefly for the Philippine Canine Club, Inc., a non-profit corporation involved in the promotion of dog breeding in the Philippines, I came to see up close how the ownership of the "best" dogs around (note the quotation marks) does not necessarily translate into love for dogs. Where dog breeders are concerned, it's simply not a given. For many dog breeders, the professional ones at least, it's not about friendship or companionship. It's about the sport, the prestige, the prize. For that's what they and their ilk consider dogs to be: the subject of sport, even though the most common type of dog show in the Philippines, the so-called conformation show, is more beauty contest than it is sport.
I really shouldn't have been surprised or even disappointed. After all, I had seen it years ago when my babies, despite all I did to prevent it, still produced puppies. I could easily spot dog breeders when they came. How? They never smiled at the sight of puppies at play. The others did, those who came looking for a pet, often one to replace a pet they had lost. The dog breeders were different. They examined the pups like they would possible inventory, looking for patches of thin hair, the like. It often made you wonder if they could pass through the same kind of scrutiny themselves. Anyway, dogs are a lot smarter than these professional dog breeders think. One pup, Beloved, just lay down listlessly when a family of dog breeders came; when a mother came later looking for a dog for her child, Beloved was up and playing, showing her best.
Dogs know. And dog breeders, out to control, just don't give dogs that much credit.
For them, it's about the sport, the prestige, the prize. And perhaps the money that comes with all that.
Being around these dog breeders, though, you often wonder exactly what's in it for them. Many really don't love dogs. They don't talk about dogs that creatures that they love but as objects for competition. Outside of competition and breeding champion lines, the dogs are nothing. They spend much, yes, but for the monetary or prestige objective, not for the actual care of such wonderful creatures. But do they really get much money out of breeding? Maybe, maybe not. With all the money they put in for the best food, who knows if they actually make money? Who can afford their dogs? What's in it for them anyway? You got me.
I have a theory, though. For the most part, I've found professional dog breeders to be mediocre people who, outside of their money, much of which has come out of accident of birth, they don't have much by way of accomplishment to speak of. They have a bloated sense of self-importance, such that they expect to be attended to lavishly every time they come around. So they breed dogs. It's easy. The dogs are beautiful to begin with. You just have to make sure you don't spoil that beauty--which dog breeders often do, however, by turning dogs into robots.
For them, what's love got to do with it?
Having worked briefly for the Philippine Canine Club, Inc., a non-profit corporation involved in the promotion of dog breeding in the Philippines, I came to see up close how the ownership of the "best" dogs around (note the quotation marks) does not necessarily translate into love for dogs. Where dog breeders are concerned, it's simply not a given. For many dog breeders, the professional ones at least, it's not about friendship or companionship. It's about the sport, the prestige, the prize. For that's what they and their ilk consider dogs to be: the subject of sport, even though the most common type of dog show in the Philippines, the so-called conformation show, is more beauty contest than it is sport.
I really shouldn't have been surprised or even disappointed. After all, I had seen it years ago when my babies, despite all I did to prevent it, still produced puppies. I could easily spot dog breeders when they came. How? They never smiled at the sight of puppies at play. The others did, those who came looking for a pet, often one to replace a pet they had lost. The dog breeders were different. They examined the pups like they would possible inventory, looking for patches of thin hair, the like. It often made you wonder if they could pass through the same kind of scrutiny themselves. Anyway, dogs are a lot smarter than these professional dog breeders think. One pup, Beloved, just lay down listlessly when a family of dog breeders came; when a mother came later looking for a dog for her child, Beloved was up and playing, showing her best.
Dogs know. And dog breeders, out to control, just don't give dogs that much credit.
For them, it's about the sport, the prestige, the prize. And perhaps the money that comes with all that.
Being around these dog breeders, though, you often wonder exactly what's in it for them. Many really don't love dogs. They don't talk about dogs that creatures that they love but as objects for competition. Outside of competition and breeding champion lines, the dogs are nothing. They spend much, yes, but for the monetary or prestige objective, not for the actual care of such wonderful creatures. But do they really get much money out of breeding? Maybe, maybe not. With all the money they put in for the best food, who knows if they actually make money? Who can afford their dogs? What's in it for them anyway? You got me.
I have a theory, though. For the most part, I've found professional dog breeders to be mediocre people who, outside of their money, much of which has come out of accident of birth, they don't have much by way of accomplishment to speak of. They have a bloated sense of self-importance, such that they expect to be attended to lavishly every time they come around. So they breed dogs. It's easy. The dogs are beautiful to begin with. You just have to make sure you don't spoil that beauty--which dog breeders often do, however, by turning dogs into robots.
For them, what's love got to do with it?
Sunday, January 13, 2008
In memoriam, Prudence April 2, 1999-January 13, 2006, on the anniversary of her death.
You were our jewel.
Now so terribly missed.
Monday, January 07, 2008
A cat's tale
(Published in Prime Weekly under the column “Still Life,” June 15, 1989)
It came about suddenly, the realization. One night I noticed how the cats were all around, as if in a world within a world. I saw the compact shapes by street corners and garbage piles, perhaps figures at a distance revealed only by the faint light of street lamps. It was a world that came alive at night, a world where I was a stranger, an intruder. The cats seemed to be everywhere, just lurking in the darkness, and their presence almost seemed to carry purpose. What that was, however, or if there was really anything of the sort, I couldn’t say. But they were there, stray cats, survivors in a world of no compassion. The night ushered in their world, and that world became clearer and clearer with time. I would see them watching, and at times I would see their eyes. Those eyes were almost frightening. But then they were only cats, strays, and the cats had always been around, neglected, fending for themselves, surviving somehow.
One night while I was on my way home I noticed something different about the cats. I noticed, what, a purpose in their movement, direction. I saw one cat emerging from the darkness. I didn’t give the matter very much notice till I saw others doing the same thing. The occurrence struck me as strange; I thought perhaps that it was just coincidence, some matter that merited nothing more than a moment’s thought, but as I walked on I noticed a certain oneness in the way they moved, in how other cats joined what could have been a solemn march, in how they all seemed to be taking to the streets, as if by some silent understanding. That night, overcome by curiosity, I followed them.
Cautiously I did, taking care not to cause any disruption. The cats moved slowly, even then with purpose and direction, and as I followed them I knew there was a reason for what they were doing. Somehow I knew. Quietly the cats seemed to be headed somewhere. I moved with them and watched them. Several times some of them stopped and seemed to look at me, but then they always continued on their way. To where, however, I still didn’t know.
For the moment my world was reduced to the cats. Only the world of the cats existed, and I was an outsider, an observer. I was there, it seemed, only by their silent consent. I followed them, wondering where they were headed, till finally they stopped. And I realized that there were other cats around, some with their bodies barely visible in the darkness. They had gathered by a dark portion of one street, and I seemed to be the only person around, as though I had been chosen to witness whatever was to occur, if anything. It was quiet by that portion of the street, and the cats were no longer moving. They were simply waiting, so it appeared. They stayed by the sides of the road as vehicles passed by now and again. Then I saw one more feline coming.
By the light of a distant street lamp I caught sight of the approaching figure, just one cat moving slowly, wearily, even then with a feline grace. The other cats kept still and waited. The cat continued on its slow approach. The other cats looked on, rather solemnly. I remained where I was, keeping still and just observing what was happening. What it all meant, I still didn’t know. Just the cats waiting for this one cat on a quiet road. The strays, the homeless, the unloved.
Then I saw the light. It got brighter and brighter, all so quickly. A car was coming. The cat continued in the same direction toward the others, still slowly. The car was moving faster now, yes, the bright headlights beamed. The cat was in its path, and the vehicle wasn’t slowing down. The other cats did nothing. They just looked on silently. The vehicle sped closer to the moving cat, the newcomer. I wished to call out, perhaps for the driver to put on the brakes, but I never got to do so.
There just came the sound, that horrible sound. Like something bursting.
The vehicle was quickly gone. The other cats were still silent.
Another vehicle was coming. A third. That sound again, that sound.
The other cats just looked on. Witnesses, I thought.
For some time there was an uneasy silence. One cat gone, a stray, run over three times in a world of no compassion. After a long silence the cats began to wail, as if in grief. Almost in an anguished chorus, the stray cats wailed, as if the mourn the loss of one of them, just a stray, a survivor till that night. And as the cats wailed, I listened, even then chilled by the sound.
Till the cats turned silent and began to leave, some of them walking away slowly, others just running and disappearing into the camouflage of darkness. I remained where I was and just looked on as the cats disappeared. One cat stayed close by, hardly more than a kitten. It seemed to look at me, to watch me for a few seconds, then it walked away, alone, a young survivor in a hard and heartless world.
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