Our cat Sophia died unexpectedly last month.

I have asked myself a thousand times—why? There is no answer, but my mind keeps posing the question.

Eleven years ago Dave found two tiny feral kittens on a construction site. We brought them home, not knowing how they would adapt to humans if they lived. We held them and talked to them and named them for Italian movie stars: Sophia and Gina.

Sophia had Siamese features: seal-point markings and slightly-crossed, blue eyes. Energetic and full of curiosity, she was always on the prowl for her next meal. She followed me up and down the stairs, countless trips each day from my desk to the kitchen and back again. Last weekend cutting up potatoes and carrots to go with a pot roast, I glanced a dozen times at Sophia’s spot on the floor expecting to see her, sprawled out, watching me.

Trying to make sense of my sadness, I returned to a book I had read a few months earlier. The Philosopher and the Wolf. Dave discovered the author, Mark Rowlands, when he heard him interviewed on public radio. I was skeptical—keeping a pet wolf is a bad idea—but there was something compelling about his story. Rowlands bought the pup, named Brenin, in Alabama and quickly realized that if left alone the wolf would destroy his house. And so began Brenin’s life as the philosophy professor’s constant companion, attending university lectures and rugby games for several years until they moved to Europe.

Using those shared experiences, Rowlands explores the human relationship with animals focusing on the areas in which humans have traditionally considered themselves superior—intelligence, morality, and understanding of death. It was the final chapters of the book I reread.

Brenin, like Sophia, died of cancer. His was a long illness, gravely sick at first and then  recovering his health (to a degree) for a few months. Rowlands describes a day when the wolf was feeling better and wanted to go out for a run with him, a practice they had had to discontinue months before. It would be their last run, but for a brief time Brenin was back to his old self.

Like most if not all animals, wolves do not understand the concept of death, of nevermore, as the end of life. For them there is only the moment with no memory of the past or anticipation of the future attached to it. Although Brenin was dying of cancer, in that moment he felt good and wanted to run.

Sophia’s end came quickly. During the last two weeks of her life we shuttled her back and forth to the veterinarian’s office as he tried to figure out what was wrong with her—examinations, x-rays, blood tests. She didn’t exhibit any obvious symptoms, was just a little off.  The most worrisome sign was that she had, a couple of times, refused her food.

On Sophia’s final Monday we took her in for an ultrasound. Dave and I held her while the veterinarian shaved a large swath of her belly. The image showed a shadow, a mass.  We left her at the clinic for a needle biopsy.

I picked her up a few hours later, surprised to find it was the spunky Sophia who emerged from the cat carrier, meowing and ready for lunch.  She butted her head against my leg, purring as I opened the can.  Sandwiches for us, oil with bits of tuna in it for Sophia.   It didn’t end  with the tuna.  She ate dollops of Gerber’s baby beef and spoonfuls of chicken cat food that afternoon.  A feast.

Tuesday was a long day spent biding our time.  Sophia came to the kitchen, but turned away from her food after a bite or two.  Mostly she napped under our bed while we waited for her test results.

It happened quickly on Wednesday.  The diagnosis of carcinoma came with a referral to a local veterinary surgeon.  Within an hour Dave and I were meeting with him while he examined Sophia, walking  us through the possible scenarios.  We opted for surgery; he thought she had a fifty-fifty chance.

We went home.  More waiting. The surgeon called us from the operating room.  The cancer had spread to most of her organs.  She would only have days to live.  We asked him not to wake her, to let her die peacefully without pain.

I have reexamined every moment of the two weeks trying to find a path we could have taken that might have resulted in a different outcome.  But it’s to no avail.  Every path leads back to Sophia under the bed, probably in pain, with too little energy to race me up the stairs anticipating a treat.

It’s been four weeks.  Although it gets a little easier each week, the kitchen still feels lonely.

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Rowlands buried Brenin in a clearing near a beach in France where the two of them had spent time walking and running.

Dave and I had Sophia’s remains cremated.  We put her ashes, returned to us in a black tin decorated with red flowers, on our kitchen table.

RIP Sophia 5/22/04 – 5/20/15

I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming I am a man. —Chuang-Tzu

White Peacock
Photo By: Paula Nixon

Butterflies and flowers.  Sunlight and  shade.

There’s no better place to start a Tuesday morning than the Albuquerque BioPark’s Butterfly Pavilion.

I carefully closed the second of two screen doors behind me and entered the realm of giant swallowtails, zebra longwings, and common buckeyes.

A pale orange Julia lit on my jacket—a fleeting brooch—gone as quickly as it had appeared.

Morning glories and lantana, blanket flowers and butterfly bushes, all in full bloom.  So lovely and quiet. If only I could take up residence here for the summer:  a desk, a pad of paper, and half a dozen sharpened pencils.

Photo Credit: Paula Nixon

It’s a world created especially for lepidoptera—moths and butterflies.  They are safe in here except . . . a small boy knelt next to a blue butterfly on the floor.  His mother cautioned—he’s just resting; don’t squish him.

On my way out I paused to admire three luna moths clinging to a butterfly net propped up against the wall.  The opposite of butterflies, moths are active at night.  These pale green beauties will bide their time, waiting until the gardens have gone quiet and the sun has set.  Then they will take flight, up into the trees to look for mates.

Before leaving I asked one of the docents to made sure I wasn’t harboring any hitchhikers. Outside the screens, the world is not so friendly to the winged creatures.  Pesticides and development continue to wipe out their habitat, threatening their survival.

On the path through the gardens I stopped at the Monarch Waystation planted with milkweed and nectar flowers, a place for butterflies to rest and feed.

It’s one thing we can all do—provide refuge on our patios and in our backyards.  The reward: flowers and butterflies.

Photo Credit: DrPhotoMoto via Compfight cc

It’s gotten quiet at my hummingbird feeder and I understood why after I read Anne Schmauss’s column this week—the females are busy at the nest feeding hungry chicks.  Next month the activity will pick up again with babies coming to the nectar for the first time and the rowdy rufous hummers arriving from the south.

Schmauss also talks about the amazing migration we have experienced in Santa Fe this season, but I, unfortunately, have not seen the colorful tanagers and warblers that have been stuck in New Mexico longer than usual due to storms to the north of us.  I stopped putting out seed several weeks ago to discourage bear activity and have only seen the regulars: robins, doves, crows, and lots of house finches (male, pictured above).

The small red males and their less showy mates perch on the feeder stand and sing with the gusto of Pavarotti.  I’ll be listening more closely after hearing this recent episode of Bird Note—is that a call or a song?

So far I haven’t noticed any of the finches nesting in our outdoor light fixtures, but that’s been one of their favorite spots in prior years.  We try to discourage it, the perch is precarious and the nestlings are at risk of falling out.  So what’s the best thing to do  should you find a baby bird out of the nest?    All About Birds provides the answer in this question of the week post.

I have learned more about baby birds than I thought possible watching the Decorah eagles this spring via a camera trained on their nest.  There’s still time to get a look at the three eaglets, now big birds,  but it won’t be long before they spread their wings and take flight for the first time.

I’ll miss having breakfast while watching the eagle family, but Laura Erickson and Marie Head’s book, Into the Nest, is a consolation.  It’s filled with up close photos of bird families, from eagles to wrens to jays.

Have a great week and spend some time outside!