Maverick 2
That sweet old man is gone.
Maverick is the first cat I love at the shelter, and he dies so quickly I can’t believe it, a breath and then he is gone.
It’s exactly how I think death shouldn’t be (why can’t it come with a warning?). And yet it so often is this way, a silent speeding in the night.
A swing through a screen door takes me into the shelter, and really, that’s the lightest of doors; I slam it without meaning to; you would too; a puff of air would do it, the briefest of exhalations.
But I’m in, and my eyes slide over direct to Maverick’s pod. I haven’t been here long, you remember. I still assign property.
Cassandra the volunteer coordinator sees my look: “Maverick, he’s passed.”
She’s using the euphemism because I’m a volunteer, but what an apt description. He’s passed, easy and quick like a breath, the way a screen door swings when there’s nothing to it; when you could open it with an air puff.
That sweet old man who sat at my feet and gave comfort.
I haven’t been here long, but I like it. Frankly I’d never thought about the comfort of it, the way even a strange cat will curl at your feet when you are tired. But this death is taking my breath away.
“Maverick, he’s passed,” said Cassandra, and I know she’s using that euphemism just for me. She’s seen the stricken look on my face; she’s heard my gasp for air.
He’s passed: an implication of ease that has the ring of untruth. I’m a new volunteer, though; maybe it’s true.
A puff of air, a breath, and in the night this cat stole away.
