At nineteen years of age, Bijou was an old cat. “Beej” came to live with us as a semi-feral kitten when our oldest daughter was just three. She was a member of the household when our next daughter came home two years later, and still here when our third daughter arrived five years after that. As a cat, she did what one would expect that cats would do. She preyed on birds, mice and squirrels. Then she proudly brought them home as demonstrations of her hunting prowess and ability to contribute to the family larder. She warmed laps and comforted sad moments in young girls’ lives, purred worries away while being hugged, petted, and snuggled. In her prime, she jumped to the earth from a two-story window. She was not big, but she dominated male cats more than twice her size, and dogs larger than that. She was at home both in our living room or prowling the neighborhood. Like the kitchen faucet, she was a fixture in our lives: turn her on and the affection flowed both ways.

But like all living things she aged. Fewer mice were brought home. She stopped jumping from windows. She avoided the big neighborhood Toms and slobbering dogs. She slept more. Her hearing became almost non-existent and she could not see well. She lost weight and some of her teeth. The hairs around her jaw turned white. On summer days she found places warmed by the sun and lay there absorbing heat into her arthritic bones. Sometimes we’d have to move her from the driveway so we could drive in or out. We thought, one day we’ll find her in a favorite warm place where she dreamed her last dream, and purred her last purr: a quiet, dignified ending for a venerable feline. But this sedate end was not hers. She found a warm place on the street in front of our house and the wheels of a carelessly driven car found her and kept going. Still alive, we found her broken in the street. She died while her helpless family waited in the veterinarian’s office. Young women that had held her to their bosoms all of their lives sobbed uncontrollably. Death is a sobering part of life.

Family pets offer lessons. As members of our families they fulfill places that we may not notice until they’re gone. Then holes appear in our lives: their special places are empty without them. This is their final lesson. One day while we rest other larger holes will appear and regardless of their size the great wheel will turn and move on. Our pets, including Beej, show us that the cycle in which we all participate is always completed. The circle always goes around: the end is inevitable for us all. That we, and those we love, might be like or even be the cat, may escape us. That the wheels of a passing vehicle will certainly bring us to our end is not a thought we embrace. That our end may not occur in a peaceful dream or a blissful purr is beyond our waking wish.

To confront our inevitable mortality is not morbid. It’s the way it is. In our deeper philosophical selves we may give an acknowledging passing nod to this irrevocable truth: Death waits. But in our yearning, immediate, sensate selves we mourn an old cat thoughtlessly struck by a car that didn’t stop. It is a portent of larger things to come. Thanks for the reminder, Beej …

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