Remembering Pixi

Yesterday was the one-year anniversary of the death of a very dear family member, our cat, Pixi-Paws.  Pixi was actually our daughter, Laura’s fifteenth birthday present.  We drove to our local Humane Society so Laura could make the choice herself.  She even had the name picked out before we got there, although Pixi ended up being anything but small.  Pixi was around 6 months old when we adopted her and soon grew to be a very round girl.  Although Pixi was definitely Laura’s baby, she became beloved by all of us.  When Laura went off to college and then was unable to take her afterwards, she remained with us.

Pixi was not your normal cat.  She was very talkative and tended to squeak or chirp rather than meow.  And she would come when we called which almost never happens with a cat. Perhaps it was because she thought food was involved.  Pixi lived to eat and would spend long periods of time waiting for her next meal.  Although she was a lot to hold, she loved to be cuddled and would often lick our faces.  She didn’t discriminate either.  Dogs were okay with her.  She would hang out with our dogs if allowed.  Late in her life, I observed her licking our dog, Piper’s head several times; Piper seemed to like it.

Pixi tried to hunt with little success.  It was comical to watch her run with her fat swinging from side to side.   Our other cat, Mandy, was an excellent hunter, but didn’t care to eat her prey so ended up supplementing Pixi’s diet.  As Mandy aged and stopped hunting, somehow Pixi began catching things.  Amazingly, one day she managed to catch a squirrel—and immediately ate it.  (I am so glad I didn’t witness that one.)

Pixi had her share of adventures.  She may have been loveable, but she was certainly not the brightest cat I’ve ever had.  There was the time she disappeared for 3 days.  We looked all over, called her name, asked our neighbors.  Our yard is an acre and we combed every inch.  I had to call Laura, in college at the time, and tell her Pixi was missing—she was heartbroken.  One afternoon, I began yelling her name from our deck.  I thought I heard something so I kept yelling, following the noise, getting closer and closer to a very plaintive meow.  I ended up standing next to our neighbor’s house and there was Pixi.  She had fallen into the well of the house’s crawl space.  I needed to jump down to grab her.  I had one happy cat and a very relieved daughter.  Pixi ended up stuck in a crawl space one time after that, only that time it was under our own house.  We figured out that both times she had probably been startled by fireworks and had tried to hide.

Pixi could be very territorial.  It took us a while to figure out that it was our sweet cat starting the fights with neighbor cats, resulting in visits to the vet.  Then there was the time I spotted her running to the back of our yard after a raccoon; you can bet I retrieved her very quickly.  One day I was gazing out the back door and I noticed a fox running around our large evergreen tree, running from something.  To my astonishment, Pixi appeared—the fox was running from Pixi!  Suddenly the fox stopped and turned around, a sort of “wait a minute” moment.  Now, the next minute might have been immensely entertaining, but envisioning another trip to the vet, I quickly opened the door and yelled, scaring the fox away.

Although Pixi was generally sweet and cuddly, she became a tiger when we tried to put medicine down her.  We would roll her in a towel, Bob would straddle her and hold her, yet she would still somehow manage to scratch or bite me or spit out her medicine (the pink stuff was the most delightful).

Pixi’s weight became a concern in the latter part of her life, requiring a special diet.  Mandy’s food was put up on the counter since Pixi could not jump up well due to her size.  However, she was always looking for ways to sneak food.  She could pry open cabinets with her paws; we had to tie them closed. She would get up on the small bookcase in the next room and peer around the doorway longingly.  When we weren’t watching, she would jump onto a kitchen chair, next to the table and somehow (it should not have been aerodynamically possible) she would jump across to the kitchen counter and run around to Mandy’s food.  It took a concerted effort to get this cat’s weight down.

By the fall before her death at age 11, Pixi began to have kidney problems.  She seemed to improve, then became very ill in January of last year.  The vets did what they could.  She mostly stopped eating, totally uncharacteristic for her; my encouragement did little to persuade her to eat.  I was stuffing special veterinary food down her throat and sometimes injecting fluids.  As we approached the end of February, it became clear that there was no hope.  It was difficult to watch her fade away.  Bob flew out of town on February 25 (my last day on my job).  Before he left, he dug a hole for me.  By this time Pixi was so weak that I moved her from place to place.  On Saturday night, February 26, I put her in her favorite spot on the couch, then sat next to her and spent the evening there.  Periodically I talked to her, petted her, and told her I loved her.  At one point she picked up her paw and placed it on my hand which was next to her, sort of an acknowledgement of me, I think.  It is hard to express what this little cat gesture meant to me—I will never forget it.

That night I placed Pixi in her cat bed.  In the morning she was very limp but still alive.  I put her back in her favorite spot; she was so cold that I covered her with a blanket.  I left for church and when I returned she was gone.  Tears flowed.  Laura called me before I could call her.  I broke the sad news to the rest of the family.  It was tough, but I managed to bury her before dark.  Her grave is now marked by a headstone from Laura and a bright bunch of artificial daffodils.

I can’t believe an entire year has passed, my dear Pixi.  I still miss you and will never forget you.

An Interfaith Gathering

So much of what we see in the news today is negative.  It seems that this nation and our world are more divided than ever.  The cause of much of this strife is religion, especially religion of the fundamentalist variety.  Many people simple cannot accept anyone whose beliefs are different from their own.  At the extreme, the “non-believers” become “they” and are demonized.

Tonight I attended an interfaith event for prayer and reflection on peace.  Nine different faith communities shared.  The evening began with a reading and a song led by the Unitarian Universalist pastor followed by a contemporary song led by a rabbi on a guitar.  The prayer of St. Francis of Assisi was offered by my pastor, and then the Ilowan’s Children shared their Metta prayer.  We all sang together:

“May all beings have fresh, clean water; may all beings have food to eat.

May all beings share love with someone; may all beings have a home.

May all beings know their true purpose, be well and happy and free from strife.

May all beings be free from suffering, to this cause I give my life.”

This was simple and sweet, reflecting universal desires—sung by 100+ people of different faiths.  The next participant was from the Muslim community; he shared an ancient writing about “your mission of peace,” meaningful and apropos for our times.

After each piece we sat in silence then a bell was rung and the next participant(s) rose.  During the first times we sat in silence, I noticed a restlessness among the crowd, perhaps people uncomfortable with the long period of quiet.  However, by the time we got to the meditation, I noticed a distinct difference.  A woman from the Eckankar community led us in the Hu song, sort of a long hum—I found it centered me.  The silence that followed was easy, peaceful.  A Sufi master led us in a guided meditation, again very introspective, yet connecting us to the earth and all life.

We sang together “Faith Is Being Open,” a song written by a member of the Metropolitan Community Church, a congregation that specifically welcomes GLBT people.  Our evening concluded with a meaningful world religions candle lighting and beautiful music.

This was a special evening for those present, one I wish I could have shared with more people.  There were open hearts, acceptance.  In the quiet I could feel the Spirit moving among us.  In truth we worship the same God; we just experience God in different ways.  Tonight we came together and shared.  There was no “they,” only “we.”  Love reigned.  We will do this again.

Sick Days

I am not sick very often. When I catch a cold, I tend to keep on going—perhaps I’ll go to bed earlier, take Vitamin C, etc., but I try to keep up with my normal daily activities. Not this time. My husband has been coughing for nearly 2 weeks. He gave it to me. I didn’t feel bad so I kept on going. Two days ago I was feeling achy, so I went to the YMCA to loosen up my stiff joints. Not a good idea. By early evening I was running a low grade fever and had to cancel my plans for the evening. Yesterday, I convinced my husband to go on a “date” to the doctor; we came out with matching antibiotics. (It’s so nice to share.) By evening I had a high fever. I vegetated in an easy chair in front of the TV (which I never do). Today I woke up with a headache so I stayed home. I realize that I don’t play the sick role very well. I never nap but today I did. I don’t feel like doing anything, can’t think clearly, yet I’m bored. Clearly I’m spoiled. That’s not to say I don’t have my aches and pains, but I do manage to muddle through with those problems most of the time. How would I handle a serious illness that affected my ability to function both physically and mentally? I honestly don’t know. I suppose I take for granted the ability to be doing something constantly. I tend to be driven by the need to be productive—that old Puritan work ethic. Now I need to take a break from that for a few days and just get well. And I am reminded to be grateful for my usual good health.

It Is Still Winter

I knew this would happen. And of course it would be TODAY when I had an early morning medical appointment. I cracked open the front door to see if it was raining and to my surprise snow blanketed the ground. Snow? Two days ago it felt like spring. It was sunny, 50 degrees, and my neighbor was working in her yard. People shed their winter coats. I knew it was too good to last--it IS still winter. I started the car, and then returned a bit later, planning to brush off the snow. But no, the snow was frozen to the windshield. I should have suspected as much when I nearly fell after slipping on ice while walking to the car. After some scraping and grumbling, I was off to my appointment. How many more weeks of winter? I am so ready for spring.

Lawmakers Affirm Discrimination in Idaho

Discrimination. Bigotry. Will it ever end? If you live in Idaho, it is easy to believe that it will not. Today, fellow church members and I sat through a print hearing for a bill to add the words “sexual orientation” and “gender identity” to the Idaho Human Rights Act. So many people were there to support this bill that they had to move the hearing to another room. Didn’t make a difference. The senator who presented the bill was emotional but stated his case well. Didn’t make a difference. No questions. No discussion. The motion to print the bill was voted down on a strict party-line vote—two Democrats voted for it and seven Republicans voted against it. They said absolutely nothing to the approximately 250 people who sat there in support. Gutless. There were gasps of disbelief. Tears. This is an issue that deeply affects the lives of many people in this state. These senators did not care. They did not want to listen. “Idaho is too great for hate.” Maybe someday that will become the truth in this state. In the meantime, discrimination is alive and well in Idaho.

Waiting for Spring

When winter overwhelms me, I remind myself to think of spring. Waiting is hard. I picture a butterfly suspended in its cocoon. To a casual observer, there doesn’t seem to be much happening. However, inside that protective cover an amazing transformation is taking place, a process not even the butterfly understands. When the time is right, and only then, a beautiful creature emerges, ready to spread its wings. Not everyone makes it through this change. But there is hope for a new beginning. It takes a bit of faith.

Does God Have the Right Job for Me?

After suffering through two job losses this past year, friends and family have tried to comfort and encourage me by saying that God has just the right job for me. And when I didn’t get the job I wanted, it was that God has something else in mind. Of course there’s the often quoted phrase, “when God closes one door, He opens another.” I did respond that I didn’t want to blame God for my job loss. I would love to believe that God has that perfect job for me, and at the right time God will simply hand it to me. However, I don’t really think that’s how God operates. Oh, it would be SO much easier if God had a plan for me, if God would simply tap me on the shoulder and say, “Do this!” It would be much simpler. But life doesn’t seem to work that way—it is more complex than that. God gave us brains and free will. I think we were intended to exercise them. It seems that God works in much more subtle ways, perhaps with gentle nudges. It is up to us to listen and to make choices for ourselves.

Contrasts

Lifeless trees punctuated by blue sky—the whole world seems to be lit up on this cold winter day. Squirrels scurry through the bare branches of the cottonwoods, going about their business. The sound of distant traffic and honking geese provide a kind of white noise. Contrasts. I am struck by how bright the sunlight is today and yet how dead the trees appear. And here I sit. Caught between the two. Motivation escapes me today. In fact, I think if it weren’t for the sunshine, I wouldn’t have gotten up today. I stare up at the branches outside my window—so stark right now, but in a few months the life within will become obvious as green leaves appear. Let’s see what the spring brings.