Mother’s Day brought all the siblings up to see my mother and she enjoyed a whirlwind of a weekend, indulging in a big, family, dinner at my sister, Katy’s, house and being taken out for the obligatory brunch on Sunday.
Delivered safely back home later that afternoon, Mom was met at the door by the 12-year-old object of her favorite topic of conversation, her beloved cat, Chloe, who meowed and wound around her legs. Immediately, Chloe was enveloped in my mother’s arms, kissed and made much of and then released to encircle her legs once more. Sinking down on the sofa in her sunroom, both my sister and mother overheard Chloe began to yowl and, to their horror, watched as the cat collapsed before them and died.
Just like that.
Katy telephoned to relay the sad news and asked if she could bring Chloe to us for burial, which she did. Paul, having buried two of our dear cats just this past month, sighed, and dutifully strode out into the pouring rain to dig yet another grave in our pet cemetery which is only feet from our front door and lies beneath a wild rose bush with carefully arranged large, mossy, rocks that encircle a bird bath.
Chloe’s towel draped body was buried with dignity and a scattering of rose blooms. She truly was a loving and affectionate companion for my mother since being deposited, as a rambunctious kitten, into her hands.
The oddest thing for me to take in has been my mother’s reaction. Fully expecting tears and depression, my mother took only a few moments to say good bye to her cat and that she loved her before Katy removed Chloe and brought her to the farm. Upon telephoning her that same evening to see how she was, Mom seemed quite bright, and, while she spoke of how very odd and sudden the death had been, there seemed to be no sign of grief. Or the the following day. Or the next.