Benecio – he’s gone
Bowron on the death of heher beloved cat
OF LATE I have found myself wishing there was at least one supermarket that didn’t have an aisle devoted to pet food.
For those who have experienced the death of a dearly beloved animal, a trip to the supermarket can be a painful experience.
By sheer force of habit, one finds oneself trotting down the pet aisle about to select the most important food items on the household list, only to be brought up sharply by the cruel reminder you have no business being there any more.
I used to thank my lucky stars that cats couldn’t text, knowing that if they could the phone would be jammed with messages of inquiries as to my whereabouts, and commands to hurry up and come home but don’t forget to stop at the butcher’s for chicken necks and to pick up Breakfast at Tiffany’s from the DVD store.
These melancholy days I even miss the pitying looks of supermarket checkout operators who used to ask how many cats I had while processing an endless line of tins, sachets, bin liners, kitty litter, to which I would supply the outrageous answer: ‘‘Just the one.’’
Cupboard shelves are now cruelly empty, a far cry from the heady days when Benecio’s tucker took up the lion’s share of the space, for who could bear the disdainful look, the sheer disappointment in the furtive glance that staff had been unable to have what tickled his fancy on tap at all times.
Now I can no longer cut short visits, rush home at the sound of thunder to hold a trembling paw, or make excuses that I can’t go away to stay with friends because Benecio Del Toro, Wiremu (only used during Maori Language Week), the Fur Sir, The Lad, The Boy, Handsome is dead and unutterably gone.
If I wanted to I could stay out all night and not be put on the mat or hear his piteous accusatory cries at the turn of the lock.
His death is on my hands after asking the vet to nudge it along and perform what I refer to as the ‘‘home kill’’ as he went lifeless in my arms and those inscrutable cat’s eyes looked into mine as if I’d never been born.
Who in their right mind would ever love anything, the murderer asks trying to turn her back on the enormity of the moment, the silence of the house screaming of his absence.
Ah yes, the gathering power of loss, the bite of raw and savage grief that cannot be got around – you can’t go under it or over it, you have to go through it like a boat into the eye of the storm.
And then ‘‘to celebrate’’, that hackneyed expression, Benecio’s life and times and be grateful for the immense good fortune of travelling with him a little along the road, to remember the velvet of his touch, to applaud his elegance and style, his insistence in donning the black and white tuxedo at all times even in the terror and dust of the earthquakes when everyone else went feral.
Not for him the casual sports coat or the slack of a jandal, it was spats and evening tie to the very end.
He tried his best with me lying on the bed as I got dressed in the morning nodding his head at an ensemble he approved of and shaking his head at the shabby rest.
An abundance to thank him for his wisdom, his perception, his loyalty, his very real healing powers and continued efforts to keep his bitch on the straight and narrow.
A veritable lion among cats, as all cats are to us and that is their great gift. They become more than just animals while we humans remain the underdog.
I’d like to think that while we were having our great adventures together he’d used up the full quota of his nine lives.
During the first snowfall that hit Christchurch in the bleak winter of 2011 he and I woke and walked out into the wonderment of the big white before, paws wet and cold, he turned back and went inside.
I looked down and smiled at the trace of his pawprints and mine together, a brief statement of us before the snow fell and covered our tracks.
He’s gone.
Ah yes, the gathering power of loss, the bite of raw and savage grief that cannot be got around – you can’t go under it or over it, you have to go through it like a boat into the eye of the storm.