Circle of life stuff

Twelve years ago last February, we lost my nephew.  He was in his 30's, and he died in his sleep.  His mother never did recover from grieving.  For me, the tears did not come until a month later, when my dog Diamond breathed her last on the vet's table, with me stroking her head at the end.  Then the tears flowed freely.

It seems to be happening in reverse now, as Rubia has again gone missing, and she was failing more before she did.  She's been gone since Monday the 28th of August.  She hadn't been eating, drinking, or using the litter box the last couple of days before that.  Since she came back twice in the most recent yo-yo episodes, I was not quite ready to say she's gone for good, but in my heart I feel that way.  She just slipped away when I was doing a chore and did not return.

Baby Rubia, when I first brought her home (eight years ago).  

Recent snap after she came back the first time, when she seemed to be getting better.

The last photo I took of her, when she was hunkered down on the deck, before she slipped off on Monday morning.  She has not returned.  

There seems to be little logic in how long a pet will live, especially if you rescued them.  Rubia was born in a shed and lost her mother to a speeding car.  The Prisoner is four years older than Rubia was, and began life in a rural home where his pregnant mama was "dropped by the side of a road".  Beyond that, there are many guesses one might make about  everything from whether a cat is indoor/outdoor, to the vaccinations, to sometimes surgeries, to turning your back on them to unload the dishwasher.

If she has, as my mom used to say "crawled off into the bushes to expire," I have to go back to what I said to my sister in law when she lost her son (the nephew mentioned above), "a life does not have to be long to be meaningful".  

Saturday evening, flipping through the TV channels, I came across the movie Steel Magnolias.  Y'all know that's a multi-hanky movie, right?  That's when the tears started to threaten.  Well, I guess it proves the eyes are functioning and connected to the emotions, even the eye that had the cataract removed.

Sunday before Labor Day I shared the news of her departure with the family.  My house has shrunk to a one-cat household again.  The Prisoner seems plaintive with his meows, as though he, too, questions her absence.

I maintain that Rubia lived a good life and that she added to mine, even when I called her a nuisance.  

Life is Good.  Spark on!