Obituary For My Cat, Wayne Rainey - April 15, 1994 - November 3, 2006

 

 

In the spring of 1994, I was lying in my bed in a float house when Wayne burst from the loins of his mother, the stray who showed up one day all charm and good intentions, but failed to tell me she was in the family way.   

 

In his early days, Wayne caught the occasional bird. So, when he felt like hunting, I would sit with him and say, "I will always give you good food, I will never abandon you, and birds just want to be free like you and me." I put the pictures in my mind and reinforced this daily.  Eventually I would find him asleep under a blooming lilac that was abuzz with hummingbirds.

 

Wayne allowed Beedoop, the baby robin, to share his window shelf, no cage, and they would sit together for hours watching the bluff. Once I caught Wayne sleeping beside my head with Beedoop perched on top of him. A baby flycatcher needed help, and when I let it out of its enclosure for the day, it flew out and landed between Wayne's paws on the bed. I left them there, nose to beak, and went to the kitchen to blanch the morning mealworms.  

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Wayne was my best friend (sorry Kathy, you're just my second- best friend), my significant other (though not in the biblical sense — he was neutered), and the one who showed me that communication with animals can be deeper than we imagine. It requires respect, attention, curiosity, and a dose of magic.

 

After Wayne’s death, I spent two days building the meowsoleum. I schlepped boulders to make walls. I lugged huge flat rocks for stairs. I made dirt.  I used to think a labour of love was something you did not because you had to, but because you wanted to. Now I know it is much more. It is hard work that drives you up through sadness.  It's a way to spend grief.

 

The night before Wayne’s death I wrote of his incredible bird spirit, and I told him that I would bury him with feathers. By 4:00am he was gone and I placed him on his window shelf. By a single candle light, I went to play the song I associated with our time together. On top of the stereo was a wren. We watched each other. After a moment I said, "Little wren, I have to put you out." I reached forward, and it flew to the desk. I went there, and it flew to the shelves, and finally it came to rest on Wayne's body. I stood before it, now knowing why it had come. I reached out and it let me hold it. I nudged the door open with my foot, opened my hands, and the wren flew up into the starry, predawn sky.

 

Wayne is survived by the hedgehogs and the chickens. Also Dapple the deer, Sable the llama, Beedoop the robin, herds upon herds of wild birds, me, and these two magnificent ravens who watch over us all. – Jay Rainey