Bugge missing Bowie

Bugge.  Still missing his dead brother as far as we can tell he likes to smell and play with the tracker that Bowie used to wear around his neck.

 This last weekend we spent time at my family property near Salt Point State Park.  We have owned the land since 1962 and I have spent much time there off and on since then.  The community is a wonderful one in that despite the physical distance between land/houses and people, there is a lot of networking and support.  The Timbercove Volunteer Fire Department is exactly that - all volunteer and is closely supported by the community. 

No one ever instructs us that fairness does not exist.  Instead, we have our heads filled with the IDEA of fairness, equality and democracy.  The Americans idealize and trumpet their so called Democracy.  These ideals are only that . . . to be striven for and aspired to but in the end . . . they are only ideals.  There is nothing fair about death and how it comes to us most of the time.

It has been a week exactly since our Bowie Cat died.  Reflecting on the capriciousness of life and death, fairness and equality.  There are many that live that deserve death and vice versa.   

Blood in the Street - Bowie Cat, Killed by a hit and run Truck.

 On June 14, 2023 our cat, Bowie Cat was killed by a hit and run truck.  We had gone to work a half hour earlier, kissed our Bowie Cat and his brother Bugge goodbye and always said to them, Be careful, don't die today.

One does not live in this world without inherent risk. We planned, executed the safety plan as best we could.  In the larger scheme of world crises we remain aware of the tentativeness of all things and the scale.  Yet, sadness persist.

    I got the call @ 0800 from our friend and neighbor John.  I walked over to tell Vic in the PT department.  We got home around 0815 and John had put Bowie in a box with a towel and washed the blood off the street.  I looked at Bowie enough to know it was instant and instantly horrible.  For Bowie Cat was a beauty.  A seal tan and black long drink of beauty with shimmering blue eyes that made him more human than cat, more of a wonderful mysterious alien than something of this world.

The boys . . . shot through a screen door.  Bowie Cat on the left and Bugge Cat on the right.  Three years old, they were brothers, litter-mates from the beginning of time, attached with an almost visible line of love and an unknowing of what it ever could mean to be without, without the other, without a brother.  They often moved as one organism.    

It has always amazed me with extreme wonderment at how animals, cats in this instance, can leave their mark upon our hearts, heads, emotions and most of all in our ability to love.  They can, if allowed, teach us to be more human and as complicated as it can be, as hard as it can be, to let love in the gate and become more open to the world.  All by loving these small simple furry creatures.  

I do not know much about cat grief for the loss of a brother.  I only know mine which is deeper and more bountiful than I ever could have known.  In a sense, they were there at the beginning of our life in the house we live in now.  We, in conjunction with the Cat Boys, made a home.  And now, with much sadness and grief we are bereft and mourning the loss of our friend and buddy, Bowie.

Bugge shows his grief by climbing into the box holding the body of his dead brother. That is my interpretation but when he meows over and over, pawing at Bowie to get up to wrestle, to play, to fight and roll in the dirt . . . that is the love and grief of a missing half.  This I choose to believe.  If nothing else he knows the smell of death, the stillness that it brings.

It is an honor to love.  A chore, a delight, a cosmic mishmash of what it means to be human or an animal in this universe.  We choose to love most of the time or at least to let love in the gate, to attach itself to our hearts and psyche.  At other times love comes to us from nowhere, knocking at those damn gates, intent to be let in, not to be forgotten, insistent on its acceptance into our innermost sanctums.  I will not disregard such a gift.

 

Bowie Blue Eyes . . . they get you every time. 

He could be Buddha like.  Or maybe he was Buddah.  Whatever he was and is now,  He is loved.  He was the type of cat who would run out to the sidewalk and greet people walking by.  Neighborhood walkers would stop and wait for him.  The local children knew him.  Our very young neighbor next door would come over and call him, Bowieeee, Bowieeee. Bowieee, Bowieee.  Over and over again in her small sweet voice.  And out of the woodwork would come Bowie and then they would stop, stock still and just stare at each other before finally the petting and loving began.

Thank you Bowie. Thank you for hanging with us as long as you did.  Rescued with your brother from a field of dreams only to die on the street of despair.  You had three incredible great years on this planet. You brought such laughter and joy to the lives we created with you and Bugge.

From such a small creature came an outsized capacity to effect others and bring a deeply satisfying peace and stillness of mind . . . then to shrieking laughter in an instant. These are the gifts of Bowie Cat.  I am sad but grateful.  I am grateful and honored.  My tears flow composed of all things great and small, love and fear, sadness and joy, knowledge of death and life. The unsparing nature of the universe and the endless wash of wave and tide from whence all things are borne.   Grief and sadness lies upon our hearts but over all that is the triumph of joy, love and happiness. 

Thank you Bowie Cat for all these things and more.