Cats.

This inspiration for this post, sadly, is a friend and mentor who lost a cat, a stray they had been feeding and looking after.  And by lost, I unfortunately mean their neighbors found the cat on the road, hit by a car.  It's strange the memories that the experiences of others can bring up for us, and how much we feel them no matter how many years have passed. 

This isn't a picture of Bindy, but this is what he looked like.

I've only had two cats in my life.  Duke was the most recent, and we sadly had to give him away because he was not comfortable around small children.  He'd try to bite them and claw them, and no matter how much I love a cat my baby comes first.  The other cat's name was Bindy.

Bindy was short for Bandit, so named because of the black fur around his eyes.  My parents had gotten him from an aunt before I was born, I think.  In any case, I don't ever remember a time of my young life without him.  He loved to play with yarn, of course, but like all cats I think his favorite thing to do was sleep.  I remember sometimes in the winter when I'd go out to play in the woods behind our house, he would sometimes follow me and step in my boot tracks.  He would always come to me when I was crying, and he always seemed to know when I was sad.  I remember him coming and bumping me with his nose when I was laying on the couch sick.

I also remember a day in the June, 1998.  It was my brother's third birthday.  We had all piled into the van and were on our way to town.  We had just pulled out of the driveway and onto the gravel road.  Mom was in the passenger seat and my Dad was driving.  Mom was looking out the window, and she suddenly let out a gasp.  "Gordie, was that...?", I remember her saying.  My Dad said yes, and not to say anything.  Of course, I wanted to know what was happening, and they wouldn't tell me.  Eventually I forgot about it, going about with the trip to town.  I think we went to McDonald's.

Later, once we had gotten home, I was in my room making a present for my brother.  I remember it was something I had learned how to do in school, making a chain of people.  I had construction paper everywhere.  Then my dad came into my room, and sat down on the floor with me.  And he told me that Bindy was dead.  He told me that Bindy died naturally, laying by a sunlit tree in the neighbor's pasture.  I think I remember him taking me on a walk to see the tree sometime in the following days.

He had brought Bindy back to the house.  Dad dug a hole in front of my tree, a Maple that my parents had planted for me. We wrapped Bindy up in a pillowcase.  It was white with purple flowers on it.  We put him in a box, and we buried him.  The next spring, a single brown-eyed susan grew on top of his grave.

It's strange the memories that the experiences of others can bring up for us, and how much we feel them no matter how many years have passed.  And isn't it strange how clear and concise they are? 

Goddess Bless,

S.