Until recently, Sherry and I had two cats, Roy M. Quick and Alice Pea Tucker. We got the two tabbies when they were just little puffs of orange motion. Living in the same old house for 18 years, they knew the inner workings of our home better than we did.
For many years, their “magic window” was opened early in the morning, and the two jumped out to play for precious minutes on the side of the house. As if trained by some cat whisperer (of course, there is no such person), they hopped back on the window sill in unison ready for a little canned tuna when it was time to come in. In the afternoons, when the sun heated up our hardwood floor under our bedroom window, the two of them curled up together and breathed as if they were one.
Roy M. Quick died a few months ago, and we buried him in the bird garden. For days, I watched Alice Pea roaming our house, checking in cupboards and closets looking for her pal. I opened the “magic window,” but Alice Pea stayed on the window sill. Waiting. In the afternoons, she couldn’t find the right sun-soaked spot on our hardwood floor. The tuna in the food tray stayed untouched.
Sherry and I held Alice Pea and gave her extra love, but for weeks her meows sounded more like moans. We knew we were no substitute for her lifelong buddy, Roy M. Quick.
But early this morning when I opened the “magic window,” Alice Pea Tucker jumped off the window sill.
Aging comes with the pain of loss. There is no getting around it.
But time and love help the healing.