I always tease my husband that when I die I want to be buried in the backyard. And not only because I eventually want a peaceful return on the vast amounts of time and energy I've spent designing, planting, weeding and watering my little slice of heaven. The practical side of me sees it that way, but the dreamer in me has always gotten so much more out of the experience of gardening.
Gardening offers me a connection with nature that no other experience could. Nurturing my plants like small children, listening to the rustle and calls of the wildlife that has deigned to share space with me, losing myself amid the grandeur of sun-dappled leaves--then finding myself again when the wind whips around, and the clouds open up, covering me in cold, fat raindrops. I'm not merely a bystander to nature's majesty, after all. I'm participating in a meaningful relationship.
One day last week, as I wrestled with a particularly tenacious weed which staked a claim by my shed door, I heard a sad little cry on the other side of the garden path. Looking up, I spotted a small, battered, tortoise-shell cat crouched in the pachysandra, watching me warily. Something about the feline made me pause. I sat back, and made soothing noises to coax the tortie over, and tentatively she made her way to me.
She was in such bad shape that I caught my breath at the sight of her: no collar or tags, reed thin, missing a tail, matted fur, and green ooze in the corners of her eyes. Most disturbing of all were the omnipresent flies circling around her. As I slowly reached out to her, she so readily accepted me, basking in the gentle petting I offered, that I smiled in spite of my dismay.
I made chatty little noises, and asked how she got in such rough shape. Of course she had no answer, but her large green eyes looked back at me with such gratitude, that it brought tears to my own. I went in search of food for her. I scouted out some chicken from the previous night's dinner, and brought it out to her. She sniffed a bit, but quickly turned away.
Puzzled, I went back in the house, and filled a small plastic bowl with cold water, hoping that by the time I returned, she'd have eaten the chicken. Yet, when I made my way back out to where she sat patiently waiting for me, the food remained untouched. When I offered her the water, she checked it out, but barely lapped it. Confusing behavior for a cat who clearly looked to be starving and dehydrated. Then she snuggled up to me again, rubbing her frail form against me. I realized that the only thing she wanted from me was attention. So we sat in the dwindling sun, sharing pets and nuzzles.
My mind was spinning. What could I do to help her? I knew that I must do something, because the fragile little creature was truly on her last legs. I mapped out a strategy for canvassing the neighborhood in search of her owners, then wondered if I could locate and dust out my old cat carrier, and get her to my vet. She was in serious need of fluids and antibiotics. As I ran my fingers along her fur, I discussed my plans, which she seemed amenable enough to. I suspected that as long as I kept petting, she'd keep nuzzling. As the sun went down, I left her with promises of further action, and retired to the house for the night, careful not to let my frisky dogs out the back door to bother the poor old girl.
When I returned to the yard the next morning, she wasn't around. I searched the grounds for her, and called out, but she didn't come. With a sigh, I skimmed the first fallen leaves of autumn off my pond's surface, then began weeding around the back screened porch. Something caught the corner of my eye, and I looked over, seeing the little cat resting against the house, amid the last foliage of the day lilies. But she wasn't resting. She was gone.
It struck me then, with a poignancy that made me smile even while the tears brimmed my eyes: she'd come to me to die. The gentle old girl, who'd seemed to have so few choices near the end of her life, had chosen the terms of her death. And she'd decided that I was to help her on her way. As I dug her grave below a graceful maple tree, and eased her into the ground, I recalled all the times I'd joked about being buried in my backyard. I looked around, and nodded, listening to the trickle of the waterfall into the nearby pond.
That little cat had chosen well.
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