Maccabee aka Maccs
November 23, 2005 — December 5, 2017
An Appreciation
Just Two Of The Many Looks Behind Maccs’ Incredible Eyes
Nine lives? Uh-uh. Just one. And it ended too soon. Twelve short years.
The eyes. At the end of the day, it was the eyes. Always the eyes. Windows to the soul behind those eyes. To the personality behind those eyes. Even, perhaps, to the intellect behind those eyes.
The man wondered why he felt such an overwhelming sense of loss. Is still feeling such an overwhelming sense of loss. Why he feels such pain.
Not a spouse. Not a child. Not a parent. Not some other person. “Just” a pet. “Just” a cat. How could he possibly compare he loss of a pet–even Maccs–to the loss of a closely associated human being?
Embarrassing? Shameful? Weak?
Really? Why?
Maccs always listened to him. With consummate patience. Well, at least more patience than demonstrated by many of the man’s two-legged counterparts. He could try out his ideas. His thoughts. His vision. He could share his optimism. His hopes. He could admit his fears. His frustrations. Maccs didn’t always answer, but he always listened. Kind of like a quiet life coach.
If Maccs finally grew weary on occasion, thought the man was running on too long, starting finally to bore even the coach, Maccs just went and got a toy, brought it over to show off. To change the subject. Or he went over to his food dish and looked back at the man. And if the man responded, as he always did, Maccs was always quick to butt heads, to say “Thanks for listening to me for a change.”
And he always did listen to Maccs too. Especially when Maccs finally told the man he was hurting.
It came so quickly. Too quickly? Maybe not. The man put the cat’s obvious pain ahead of his own and did what he had to do. For Maccs. Maccs’ suffering is over. The man’s is not. But he’s working on it. And he’ll get there. He’ll move on. But he won’t forget. The man won’t forget the cat.
Unlike humans who often don’t tell other humans how much they were appreciated until after they are gone, when it might be too late, the man always told Maccs how much he was appreciated. He told him that every day. Well, almost every day.
The man and the cat. Maccs. They shared a bond. A camaraderie. Love. Joy. So, it’s understandable and appropriate for the man to be feeling as he is now. No need to be embarrassed. To feel weak. To be ashamed. Even if what the man feels may be something many who choose not to have pets might not be able to understand. To feel. To experience.
So, why, then, does the “man,” avoid the personal first person tense “I” and instead hide his feelings, his pain, behind the less intimate third person tense “he”?
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