Compañero!

'Kay. So I promised not to write a novel again when I blogged. But then somebody extra special died. I learned something new today. I learned the debut episode of Columbo was directed by a 25 year old Steven Spielberg. I'm in my 40s and I never knew this before. Neato.

Columbo.

As a kid, it was clear I wanted to be an actor. I was the nerdy cousin who inflicted my grandiose ideas of entertainment upon my twin and other extended family members and friends to put on some form of cabaret or play during family get-togethers and I was quite the bossy little director. I'm sure I had a vision each time I made them learn lines I'd made up and waltzed them around the concrete basement so they'd learn their blocking correctly.

Falk called Columbo an "assbackwards Sherlock Holmes"

Growing up, I watched Columbo. I was a little obsessed with character acting and I remember being impressed that "that guy could do that with his one eye". I thought it was part of his character schtick. I didn't realize he really had a glass eye. Because of his stature, I remember thinking he was Irish when I was a little girl. He had that glint in his eye. Both eyes. (And not because one was glass.) He'd lost his eye due to cancer at the age of three.

Peter Falk.

What was not to love? He was that sweet mixture of self-deprecating humour and humility married with a distinct aura of wisdom wafting off the shoulders of his shabby trenchcoat. He was Columbo. But he was also an incredibly versatile and talented actor.

When I was growing up videos were unheard of. The only way you'd hope to see some of your favourite films was to try to catch them on television. Every year, my siblings and I would scour the new seasonal copy of the TV Guide for when our favourite movies were going to run. At Christmastime, we knew what to expect and mark 'em down on our calendars: It's a Wonderful Life, the original A Christmas Carol in black and white with Alistair Sims; we'd highlight in the guide when White Christmas was on and The Year Without a Santa Claus.

But the rest of the year, we had to pour over that guide with a fine tooth comb for stuff that would run maybe once and on some obscure date. Classics like: Twelve Angry Men, To Kill A Mockingbird, Duck Soup (really anything Marx Brothers), The Quiet Man, Mrs. Miniver, How Green Was My Valley, What's Up, Doc?, Murder on the Orient Express and It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World.

Falk played the taxi driver in that last one - this was pre-Columbo days. What an ensemble cast with the great comedic brilliance of: Spencer Tracy, Milton Berle, Buddy Hackett, Edie Adams, Ethel Merman, Phil Silvers and my personal fav from the film, Jonathon Winters. But no matter how brief the appearance, even in an ensemble production, Falk would shine. That aura, again. I read that, as an actor, he was always late. This makes me love him more somehow. HA!

When interviewed on the role of Columbo, Falk said, "I'm a Virgo Jew, and that means I have an obsessive thoroughness. It's not enough to get most of the details, it's necessary to get them all. I've been accused of perfectionism. When Lew Wasserman (head of Universal Studios) said that Falk is a perfectionist, I don't know whether it was out of affection or because he felt I was a monumental pain in the ass." A Virgo. No wonder I loved him. A fellow Earth sign. And he was about as down-to-Earth as you get.

I think of him in another role I loved of his: the grandfather in The Princess Bride. One of his lines was so Falkian, I'd wonder if he adlibbed it except that William Goldman wrote the damn thing. I love that Goldman, who wrote screenplays for films like The Marathon Man, All the Presidents Men, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and A Bridge Too Far also wrote The Princess Bride. He authored the book first, then penned the screenplay. In that film, the grandfather (Falk) tells his grandson, "when I was your age, TV was called books". Amen.

Falk's character also explains that everytime Westley tells Buttercup, "as you wish", what he's really saying is, "I love you."

The film that made me want to join the circus
and become a Trapeze Swinger

When I was 22, I fell in love with a film directed by Wim Wenders called Wings of Desire. I remember seeing it during its first run at the local indie cinema - the only places those days you could catch foreign films. I remember being so stunned by that film, I sat in silence while all the final credits rose slowly upwards on the screen until the projector actually turned off before I was able to move and leave the theatre.

I tried to order the soundtrack and it took me 3 years to finally find a copy I could purchase. The original score was penned by an amazing musician named Jurgen Knieper. A crush inevitably developed on Nick Cave.

That film gripped my heart in so many ways and I kept returning to see it. I must have seen it maybe 10 more times over the next few years, grabbing any chance I could when it ran again. And every time, there was something new that I had missed before. There just was so much depth to that film. So many layers. And it held more meaning for me once I fell in love for the first time finally myself.

One of my favourite aspcts about the film is that Falk plays himself. He's Falk in Berlin doing Columbo but you get the real sense that this really IS him playing himself. And you totally believe that he can see the angel Damiel, played brilliantly by Bruno Ganz. Maybe it's the glass eye that makes you believe it. For me it was one of the special qualities of that film - how the children can still see the angels. So it's no surprise that an adult like Peter Falk can, too, with his childlike spirit and amazing insight.

When my son was born and, especially the first few months, when I would hold him and nurse him, or lie him down to change his diaper, he would look up at me and then up, further up - he would look past me, he would gaze at the ceiling and sometimes he would giggle and smile. I swear to God, a few times he pointed. Now I'm not religious at all, but I'm a spiritual girl. And when he'd do this, sometimes the hair rose on my neck. I wrote a short piece on my photography blog as a kind of nod to this. When asked about death, Peter apparently once said, "it is just a gateway." I can believe in that. Damiel is mortal now so I hope Cassiel is showing him the same kinda ropes. Welcoming him to that other side with a warm "Compañero!" I like to picture that.

To smoke, drink coffee. And when you do it together, it's fantastic!

Today I read that Peter suffered Alzheimer's when he died. Apparently he had trouble remembering who Columbo was. It sucks to read that. He was so brilliant at playing an absent-minded detective. Of course, that was just acting - not just for the role, but the character himself. Columbo was only pretending to be absent minded while he was solving the crimes and figuring out the criminals he pursued. One thing for sure, whatever he suffered with dementia, we will be slow to forget his legacy.

To this day, Wings of Desire remains my very favourite film.

The scene where Falk describes to Damiel what living a mortal existence is like may have been scripted but you get the sense that Falk is 100% behind the scripted words. That Falk knew Life should be lived just like that. Every little thing appreciated.

"Just one more thing..." We're heading out to the video store right now as I finish typing and I'll cross my fingers Wings of Desire is there. I haven't seen it in years, but tonight, after I put him to bed, I yearn to crawl under the covers and turn the lights out and extend my own hand for a shake. And as I watch, I'm going to whisper, "I can't see you, but I know you're here...I wish you were here. I wish you could talk to me. Cause, I'm a friend." I hope he hears me.

The same day Falk died, New York became the largest state in the United States to legalize gay marriage. Little steps. A small gain after this huge loss. Maybe a gift to the betterment of humankind from the other side.

A wink from a glass eye that could see beyond the gateway.
As you wish, Lieutenant. As you wish.

In a final scene of Wings, a motorcyclis is killed and an angel bends over him to recite this poem as he moves from Life into his next existence.

Appropriately, named The Song of Childhood, here it is. For you, Peter.

Ketchup

Yes, actually, I am still recovering from the Harper majority win, why do you ask?

When I last posted, I was going to follow up my political plea with a post called The Hangover or The Morning After The Night Before. Unfortunately for the next reign of Harper there is no morning-after pill. I am still floored. What galls me is that violent riots shook Vancouver the other night when the Canucks lost the Stanley cup but people DIDN'T take to the streets after Harper WON! The riots post the Bruins win left a bad taste in everyone's mouth across the Nation.

I don't mean to imply I encourage such a disgustng display of sorelosered-ness, but if it had happened after the Harper win, I might have understood a bit more what inflamed the rioting. I don't understand those nimrods in Vancouver who left the rest of their city and country flabbergasted and ashamed. When you witness around the world what people actually riot for, when it's legit - the right to vote, to overthrow a dictatorship, stuff like that - what happened in BC makes you just shake your head. Pathetic.

My girl

The thing is, I really was going to write a response to the Harper win, but my dog died two days after he was voted in. She was 14 years old and I first got her when she was about 9 or 10 weeks old. I can't write about her right now. But I do plan to write a memorial post dedicated just to her. Her loss kind of knocked the wind out of my sails for a bit and I didn't care much about Harper anymore (the ire over his majority win is rearing its ugly head once again, though, to be sure. It's like a zombie that will not stay underground.)

say cheeeeeeeeeeese

Also, since I last posted, my baby turned two years old. Jesus. So yeah. I've yet to write about all I feel about that. Since the last post there's been a death, a birthday, a wedding and a baptism. It's like I've been cast in a Mike Newell film. I guess it's true what they say: when one door closes, another always opens. If a door ever closed on Harper, though, I hope it just stays shut. No welcome back mat rolled out for him again, please, Cosmos, I beg you.

So that's the current plan: I'll be playing some 'ketchup' for the next few weeks and will endeavour to post briefer, more concise, blog-sized, edible posts more often rather than being absent for months at a time and then trying to catch up by writing a novel. I've lots to say...but I'm going to have to work backwards a bit to catchup and then I'll just move forward at a better, more regular pace from there.

fresh maple syrup

Thanks, again, for your patience. And the condolences I know you send to me. For the Harper win. For my doggy loss. The weather has been matching the mood of these events pretty well over May - it was both wet and cold. But now the sun seems finally to have located where I live. I think he just got lost for a while there. With solstice approaching this week, I really do want to believe that summer is finally here.

We could all use a little Vitamin D right now. It's time.

Slaying the Dragon (Part II)

(...continued from Part I)

Since the second week of March, there visited upon us, back-to-back, non-stop illness in one form or another. I think it began when I stayed out all night in the cold to grab him a spot in a highly popular local daycare. I'd heard the stories that people "lined up the night before" and I was thinking this meant perhaps 10pm or midnight. Registration wouldn't open until 8am but when did I end up lining up? 5pm the night before.

That's right. Twelve, perhaps fifteen crazy-ass parents lined up in the cold outside a daycare for 15 hours until those blessed doors opened for 8am registration. My parents took him for me and, unlike most of the other parents in line, I had no partner to "switch off" with. My body was cozy. Yes, it was early February, and I had donned every layer in my closet, but my feet were freezing! I begged everyone to let me keep my spot while I raced home and put on my cross-country ski boots. They were gracious enough to allow it. Hell, it actually became a really neat, bonding time with some funky people. There was a guitar, a ukelele. Everyone sang, told jokes. Someone had set up a tent. A couple of guys brought a propane heater. And when one of the spouses showed up close to midnight with a bottle of bourbon or scotch, we were suddenly figures in some Tom Waits song because by that hour, let me assure you, none of us cared we were all swigging from it like Depression-era, train-hopping hobos.

Singing the Sheep Dip Blues

Of course, come 8am when other dazed, sleepy parents trickled in who had not heard about the night-before-lineup-rumour-that-turned-out-to-be-true, the sudden realization that perhaps waltzing into a daycare to sign your child up with the reek of bourbon breath was perhaps not the best first impression to make dawned on all of us, but by then it was too damn late (or early) and we were too exhausted and frozen to care. We were only too happy to be herded like sheep into the warmth of the actual building where we could begin to defrost, our hands shaking as we filled out the necessary paperwork, faint smiles playing around our frozen lips, proud of our sacrificial selves in the knowledge we had secured our bairn with a spot the next autumn.

A bonus: the knowledge that for the next few years, we as parents could walk our wee ones into the daycare pointing at the ground, saying, "See this slab of concrete? Your mother lay on that all night in the WINTER so that you could come here..."

Okay. Okay. I refuse, as long as I possibly can, to play the guilt trip card, but it's fun to dream and giggle over it now. I actually met some amazing people that night and thought, "Wow. These are the parents of the kids my child will be hanging with over the next few years. Cool."

The downside, of course, was the sinusitis that ensued. I quickly passed that on to my wee boy. And that, combined with the emotional stress of parting ways (me to work, him to daycare full days), brought on pneumonia for him. This was followed almost immediately by full-blown ear infections in both ears for me (loss of balance and hearing in my right ear for close to two weeks), followed by a bout of pink eye for him and then the nastiest gastro bug working its way through our region hit us both with all its might.

You give me fever

He vomited Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. I took him to emerg the Thursday and Saturday in between neverending loads of puke-piled laundry. My tummy waited until Monday to begin vomiting. I lost 8lbs in one week. And having already lost about 15lbs over the winter carrying him on my back in his carrier while we walked around town, I dipped well below my weight before I got pregnant.

For close to two months, not one week went by that one or both of us did not end up in emergency at the local hospital and/or our family doctor's office when we could get in: Sinusitis, Pneumonia, Otitis Media, Conjunctivitis, Gastrointitis. Somebody-save-us-nowitis. Bang, bang, bang, bang. By all accounts, our bodies were rejecting this huge transition in our lives and screaming, "We're not ready yet for this! We don't think either of you are ready!"

I spent almost as much time at home or in medical buildings as I did at the office and just as I'd returned, too. The other parents of wee ones on staff gave slight sympathetic nods and chuckles, recalling their own germ-induced onslaughts, I suppose.

Since last I posted, my wish was to turn my focus solely onto him for a spell during this massive transition back to work and into fulltime daycare, though it quickly became obvious I would have no other choice regardless. We have been going through extreme emotional and physical change (he is growing like a weed and I'm withering away to nothing). This blog o' mine remained sorely neglected. I wish to thank those of you who've visited, commented, discovered, read and stuck around.

In two weeks, he will, unbelievably, turn two years old and he is now, thankfully, thriving in his new environment. Got a note the other day from the daycare to say how proud they are of him that two days in a row when he saw another child crying, he went over and hugged him. He has moved from consolee to consoler already. I fought back tears reading that note, but the tears won, let me tell you. And even though I feel this kind of caring and compassion is just in his nature, I'm going to take full credit while I can. We've been, for the most part, on our own since he was born. Family and friends have their own busy lives going on, understandably. Such is Life. And we are surviving. Better than surviving. And, when in dire need, kind souls dropped soup to us, baked loaves, tucked chocolate and sympathy inside our screen door. We are blessed where we live.

The Dragon of Germ-ridden Daycare has been slain now, I hope. At any rate, I'm lowering my sword, dropping my shield and slowly raising my visor.

We are finally surfacing into health again, resuming happiness, and opening our minds and hearts to a Spring that has yet to really show herself. We call to Her now. Come, come to us! We need you. We're ready.

We're ready now.

Slaying the Dragon (Part I)

I recently wrote one of my writer friends that I felt my blog had become this withering, old grandmother of mine in some distant, remote long-term care facility I rarely visited anymore. Of course, both sets of grandparents are long gone for me. But I've been really missing blogging and feeling guilt over its constant neglected state. Life has felt more harried and health issues have been munching up the last few months, dining on each spare moment I might have had without even a belch.

Starting in January, we were allowed occasional visits to my son's new, upcoming daycare as long as I remained with him. I would take him and stand apart to observe how he played and explored his new environment. With each visit he seemed to grow more comfortable with the place and the number of other little people, the concepts of sharing, waiting a turn. Our initial visits were brief: perhaps an hour, no more than two, each time. I could sense that, though he was fine to go off and play without the interaction he was used to from me at home, there was a subtle "checking in" every so often. He would get lost in play but a glance would be thrown my way to ensure I was near and accessible.

Driven crazy by daycare

I thought he was adjusting admirably. My mistake was the February visits became much more frequent such that he became used to my presence there with him. There I was, patting myself on the back like a fool counting her eggs, believing the transition to fulltime was flowing as smoothly as possible. By the first day I returned to work fulltime (March 1), he was in shock that I would not be spending the 8 hours with him.

I began to measure his growing acceptance of this fact by where/when he'd begin to cry during the dropoff stage. At the beginning, he'd wail when I put him in the car on our driveway in the mornings. Slowly, I could get him in the seat tearless, but when we parked outside the daycare, he'd burst. Eventually I could park and he'd wait until he was inside the actual doors. Then a few mornings, we made it as far as down the hallway before the act of removing his coat in front of his cubby brought on Niagara Falls. On other rare occasions, I could get him all the way into the actual room before the waterworks.

What put my heart through the ringer most mornings was the fact that, in the face of his howling sobs and upstretched arms and the cries of "Maaammmmmmmmaaaaaaa", I had read in the literature that you, as the parent, are encouraged to keep a 'happy countenance' as you drop your child off so that she/he doesn't sense any worry on YOUR part about leaving her/him there for the day.

Now, I am a trained actor. In addition to four years of university training and various subsequent workshops and seminars, I've had a good amount of theatre and film experience. I further auditioned for the Royal National Theatre's Summer Programme in London, England, a programme which auditions in five cities in the States and two cities in Canada for a mere 30 spots each summer, and I got in and garnered some incredible training in that programme.

But I can say without hesitation that doing a tapdance with a big smile on my face while choking back my own tears and burying the deeply ingrained desire to grab hold of my reaching Sonshine and run out of that daycare with him every morning in some mad embrace, wild and happy once again, to the freedom and luxury of time we've had for close to two years was the most demanding acting job I've ever had.

My friend, Karl, tried to console me with "in a few weeks, you'll show up and he'll be totally indifferent to your presence and not want to leave what he's doing there and that will hurt even more." Damn you, Karl, for being spot on.

But just as I began to feel all sorry for myself that he was maybe no longer missing me or yearning for me the way every cell in my body was for him while I sat back at my desk, the onslought of germ warfare began. Perhaps this was Mother Nature's cruel joke, "You want more time together again? Okay, bring on The Sick!"

(Continued in Part II...)

genesis

The end of one year has come and gone and what a year! Last year's word for the year for us was "Move" and that is what we did: my Sonshine rolled over, reached out, began to crawl, stood up, toppled over, and eventually began to walk and then toddle. Now he is on the verge of running his little heart out as I chase him around the kitchen every night, something he loves.

And, of course, we had our own epic "Move": from my rural home of the past decade to a new, old farmhouse (only slightly younger than the old, older one) in an urban setting this time.

Yes, last year was definitely the year for moving. And this year, I am moving on ~ onward, ho!

This year, I've chosen my Word of the Year to be "breathe/breath": as in take a breather, step back and breathe, stop and smell the flowers, take a breath before speaking (integral for me because I tend to blurt out my emotions without thinking or taking time to formulate what I'll say or recognize how my words might affect the listener(s)). I want to focus on getting back into yoga again and more regularly. After the harriedness and chaos of last year's monumental changes, my focus this year will be to close my eyes, take a deep breath, relax and trust myself, my instincts with each step forward.

I have also made this particular word choice for the year to focus on finding my breath deep within and by that I mean discovering my voice in my writing and further, in the storytelling I do via my photography, something I equally wish to kindle as a growing project on the side of the work I do to pay the mortgage. I continue to play with various photography projects on my current flickr photostream. This year it is my fervent hope to really let my creativity spark and see how high and hot its flame can grow. Like Gordo sings it, I'm trying to get into things more happy than blue. Hope you'll join me as my journey continues...

To that end, I have begun a new photography blog: Lenstrel. The title is one I've coined based on the definition of a minstrel: a traveling entertainer who recites poetry and sings folk songs. With my photography blog, I intend each photo to be its own poem in a way, and I will include music that inspires or complements the photos I share, along with a short, creative writing blurb at times (at other times I will let the photo tell its own story).

I turned another year older last Friday and this particular year I feel like I have been reborn in more ways than one! So 'breath' is definitely an apropos word for this new year as I feel I am taking my first real breath after a long period of stress and upheaval. I look forward now to the new year that stretches out before me and feel excitement (and some nervous anticipation) about all the changes it promises.

locks curling with (nervous) excitement

One impending change will be my return to work after almost two years off to give birth and raise my Sonshine. So I am cherishing these days we have left together but I know he will thrive in a busier learning environment than I have been able to provide alone with him. His mind is a sponge right now and absorbs every little thing. He will love the busy routine of the days ahead. And the plan is to have atleast 6 weeks off (paid!) each summer as he is growing so this will not be the end of our free time together, thankfully. We hope to travel, camp and I intend to delve more than spare time into my writing and photography once the days grow warmer.

I want to wish everyone out there one magical 2011.

And remember to BREATHE! :)

Music: Gordon Lightfoot, Minstrel of the Dawn

eclipse

Just a brief note: a lunar eclipse on the Winter Solstice is occuring tonight (or, rather, early tomorrow morning for those in EST). The partial eclipse, as though a bite has been taken out of the moon, should be visible at 1:33am EST with the total eclipse beginning at 2:41am EST and lasting 72 minutes, according to NASA.

What can I say? You already know how I feel about stargazing. It's what inspired the commencement of this very blog! So you can just imagine how I feel about moongazing.

Tonight I am missing the pitch-black of the backyard of my previous homestead. But I will stand at the bottom of my driveway or on my back deck and try to peer through the city's light pollution to catch a glimpse of anything I can despite the current cloud cover above.
The last time there was a lunar eclipse on the Winter Solstice was on December 21, 1638. That's right. Three hundred and seventy-two years ago. The next time it will happen, most of us won't be alive. It will be December 21, 2094. So. I'm thinking you really shouldn't miss out on this event tonight if you can witness it.

Normally, the Winter Solstice is also called The Darkest Night of the Year. Only this year, it will just so happen to be that bit darker with the moon turning an amber colour behind the shadows tonight.

My son and I wish you all a beautiful Birth of the Sun tomorrow as the earth tilts towards the Summer Solstice and the days begin to stretch and grow brighter. And we hope that all your days grow brighter in 2011!

Music: Bonnie Tyler, A Total Eclipse of the Heart

The Ninth Life

My cat died tonight. He was 17. He had been mine for 16 1/2 years.

The way it happened was all of a sudden. He'd always been in good health. I guess that's usually the best way to go, they say.

I was playing with my son this evening in our front room and I heard my cat fall. I called out to him even though I know he has been deaf the last couple of years. At first I thought he was upstairs but when I discovered him, he was lying at the bottom of the stairs having what looked like an epileptic fit. All four limbs were flailing in different directions and his head was spasming like he was being electrocuted by some invisible cable. My first instinct, of course, was to pick him up and that's just what I did. He continued to flail and make biting movements with his mouth, jerk and spasm in my arms. I wrapped him in a blanket and held him until his body started to slow its movements. His head finally calmed, he started frothing at the mouth a bit and his tongue stuck out involuntarily. But the staccato of spasms gradually ceased until he lay still in my arms, something he has rarely voluntarily done in all the years I've had him.

I called the local animal hospital which, ironically (or not), was the same place I held my golden retriever when he died 16 years ago now. In fact, I ended up tonight in the same room with my cat when he was given his final injection. I felt as though my old dog was waiting there on the other side, my claddagh ring in his mouth, ready to guide this cat to my other kitty who passed away three years ago in June of 2007. They were both very close. Only about a year apart in age.

Life is so strange. We recently moved back to this area and ended up mere blocks away from where I first found this little abandoned, feral kitten. Actually, my twin sister found him. (Thank you, thank you, thank you, sis!) She had been visiting the duplex where I lived and we were painting my bedroom when she spied him outside the second story window. I called the Humane Society to see if anyone had reported missing a tabby kitten. I already had one cat and hadn't planned to have another, but they got along like a house on fire so I kept him.

My head is so full tonight of all the memories I have of him. My heart is full of them. Even in his dotage, he was so patient that I introduced a baby (of all things!) into the last year or so of his life. He was never declawed and had plenty of opportunity (and reason, likely) to protect himself from tail being pulled or ears being tweaked. But he would just strut patiently away from my son as though nothing had happened.

What comes to mind the most are the nights I would talk to him those months following the end of my marriage in January of 2007, especially once my first cat died the following May. He was my sole companion out there in our remote, rural farmhouse. I felt so thankful for his company and his love and affection. It was a lonesome time and a pretty damn emotional year or two that followed.

I think people who've never had a pet sometimes can't fully comprehend how much they become members of your family. How they are sometimes like your "children" (especially when you don't have any children). And my two cats and my dog were very much that for me for many years when I needed little ones to mother and love in that way.

I realized tonight, in conversation with my brother-in-law, that my cat who died today was only born a couple of blocks from here. Maybe he'd sensed that he had come full circle. That he was "home" again. Maybe he felt it was time.

I am very glad I was home when it happened. That I could hold him during the scariest moment of his life. He didn't know he was having a stroke. He didn't know what was happening. The vet explained that one pupil was dilated and the other wasn't. That he had lost function on one side of his body. She said we could wait a day to see how he does, but that he might have other seizures and, having witnessed him go through one today, there was no way in hell I wanted to risk him suffering that again. They left me alone with him for a few minutes and then returned and I held him while they gave him the shot to put him to sleep. They warned me if there is a struggle, as often happens, they would stop the injection and perhaps try another spot. I nodded. They asked me to hold onto the top of his body. I held him very gently. His little paws were crossed over my fingers and I cradled his tiny head in my right hand. He didn't move a muscle while they injected him and they both gasped quietly and said, "Wow, he is so sweet." Even in death, he was a gentleman. So patient and calm. That's how I knew he was telling me it was the right decision. He was ready to go.

Still, it rips your heart open. This is it for me. I know down the road I plan to get a puppy for my son, a companion of his own. Maybe when he's around 7 or 8 years old. But this guy is the last cat I will ever have. The two cats I had, I just can't imagine finding two better than them. I've always been a dog person and I guess I got lucky twice. My luck just isn't always THAT good. Murphy's Law tends to rule the day.

But I have to tell you. This morning. Uncanny. He must have known this would be his last day. When I came downstairs he was lying on the ottoman and turned to look at me. And he looked so beautiful curled up there, I grabbed my camera and took some shots of him.

Now, anyone who's ever photographed animals will tell you it's almost impossible to get a clear, focused shot. They turn their head in one or their tail twitches in another or they start to jump off the couch. They usually end up a complete blur. But he just sat there and let me take some lovely shots of him and then he looked me right in the eye, straight into the lens. Like he knew. Maybe he was saying goodbye and wanted me to have some proper keepsakes of him.

I didn't know they would be the last shots I would take of him. I want to share them with you. Here he is: Setanta.

For weeks now I've been complaining to anyone within earshot that there has not been enough snow to my liking and finally today the skies opened up and the white stuff came down. For good this time. To stay. On the drive home from the vet clinic they were falling as big and heavily as my tears. It's as if he made sure this would happen today. A goodbye gift to comfort me. A balm to my grief. To be blanketed in this way. Pristine, white snow covering everything. A clean slate. A new beginning. A final, perfect farewell.

Goodbye, my furry little guy. Thank you for being such a great cat! Thanks for being so g-d chatty. I loved that you were so talkative, especially when I was otherwise surrounded by silence a good part of the time (even during my marriage). I cherish the years we had on our very own out there on the farm. Just you and me. Thanks for making the good times over the years greater and the hard times easier.

And thanks for being so lovely and patient with my wee Sonshine. I know you were happy for me that I finally had a human baby to mother.

I know Brandy and Zosia are with you now and you're playing and all four limbs are working okay where you are and you can see good as new and you can hear just perfectly, again.

I hope, wherever you are now, you hear this:
I love you and I will miss you. Lots.

xo