Death of the semi-colon and one small cat...

My small cat's death will not rank high in earth-shaking importance, if it ranks at all. It will simply carve another memorial in our own hearts, my husband's and mine. Not too long after Cutter Bob died, our cat Rita had a stroke. She lost the use of her back legs and her full sense of reality. Now she stays in my laundry cupboard, where I have rigged up a hospice consisting of clean bath towels, her special kitten milk, and a bowl of water. Mostly she sleeps, but sometimes she is frightened, spaced-out, lonely, or in pain. At such times, I lift her out, massage her muscles, and drip Pedialyte on her tongue. She will be nineteen in August, if she lives that long. If she were a human, she would be 94 years old.

When I realized how desperately sick she was, on top of the other signs of great age, I knew I could not have her put to sleep. She is not often in pain, she still eats with pleasure, and shows signs of enjoying her pats, rubs and attention. The other day she even managed an ill-tempered swipe at me. Even so, those aren't my reasons for rejecting euthanasia.

I've been a Buddhist for many, many years now. And Buddhism, at least the branch I follow, is not big on tidying up life to suit ourselves. So I take nature as I find it, and attempt to follow its lead as best I can. Tending to an old and dying animal is sometimes heart-wrenching, but mostly it's my great joy. I like being around Rita, and her Rita-ness, while flickering, is still apparent.

She is, like all our cats, a moggy...a mixed breed. If she's one thing more than another, she's Japanese bobtail, but with a tail. More specifically she's a Miko. Miko's are white, red, and black, and common in Japan. American Chinese restaurants often display a cat statue with a upraised paw, one with Miko coloration. The upraised paw is a characteristic bobtail expression. It's one Rita employed to great effect, although she didn't just raise her paw, she often waved it to get our attention.

Each morning for the past three weeks, I have peered in at her, fully expecting her to be dead. I'm astonished at her will to live, although I shouldn't be. Her will has always been ferocious, and employed delicately. Each evening, I have whispered to her that her work is done and that it's all right to let go, but Rita, as she always has, will exit on her terms. Oh, my sister, I pray that I will meet you in your next incarnation. How happy I will be to see you again!

And, also a contender in the small announcement category, Slate magazine ran an article titled, Has Modern Life Killed the Semi-colon? I'm generally nonplussed by people who are outraged by published misspellings, who criticize another adult's pronunciation, or who believe text-messaging is a clear sign of the end-times. Who cares? I think. Let others communicate entirely in initials, if they want to. Similarly, I think it's perfectly fine if a punctuation mark vanishes. The history of punctuation is littered with the corpses of peculiar little marks that once meant something, and have now gone.

I just hope the period doesn't give one last gasp and croak. I'd kick up a fuss at that one. The Romans didn't use them, and what a mess it is trying to decipher Roman Latin.

But, from my experience at death-beds of all kinds, I know some things can't be predicted.

The death of the semi-colon, the death of my tiny cat: both will come in due time. It will be a time not of my making, not subject to any hope or influence from me.

Somehow life is sweeter for knowing that.