Memento Mori

Memento Mori is medieval Latin for ‘a remembrance of death’. It was meant to put everything in perspective, to remind people that what we do in life is transient and, in view of what comes afterward, relatively unimportant. But, in recollecting death, we must, almost by definition, recollect life, as well.

Three years ago, my friend, my first cat, Tungsten, died. Each year, I write something in commemoration of that occasion. Though I don’t mention it as often, I think too of my foster-cat and friend, Bear-Bear, who died in 2014, after spending ten months with me. I remember the deaths of these two cats; they are very strong, unpleasant memories. But I also remember their lives, and what they brought me.

I know I am not alone in the knowledge that a first cat suffers from ignorance. Tungsten was my test-subject, though neither of us knew it. I learned much from her. I saw for the first time a cat’s bum-wiggle, when she was about to charge something; that made me laugh, and still does. I watched Tungsten pretend, to conjure up a situation in her mind and then act upon it. I experienced with her the tribulations of second – and third, and fourth – cats, and how they interacted, or didn’t. I learned that a person can grow very fond of a cat.

Bear-Bear came along after I knew much more about cats – though not enough, of course. He was cheerful and unworried about much that trouble others of his species. Even during car-rides to the veterinary hospital, he chatted away as if on a Sunday drive. I witnessed how a cat can love people, when his very last act was to try to crawl onto my lap. I placed him there, and that was where he died.

Yes, I remember that death came for my friends, Tungsten and Bear-Bear. But before then, they brought me happiness and surprise, frustration and accommodation, mystery and realization. This, I remember, too.