The Queen’s death was unexpected. Yes, she was old. 96 is a very good age by any standard, but with her husband reaching 99 and her mother having seen the other side of 100, somehow the Queen’s passing felt premature. Mildly surprising.
As someone in their 30s, I realised that the Queen has always been a background figure in the fabric of my identity. An implicit part of being British is that the Queen was my Queen, and I was a subject of her majesty, no matter what my views are on royalty or republicanism. The Queen was part of who I am. So with her death, I find myself unexpectedly affected. As if a small part of me has been uprooted and dusted off in the sun. Moreover, this particular death has perhaps reminded us all that we are mortal, that the world changes, that nothing is fixed and permanent.
I didn’t have pets as a child. My Dad always said that four kids was enough, and so other than a brief time of owning stick insects (somewhat lacking in cuddleability) I didn’t have pets until my husband and I bought a kitten nine years ago. That kitten went on to have her own kitten, and we now keep them both in the lap of luxury.
I saw Podrick being born, popping out of Daisy looking like a big slug, dark, wriggly and wet. He has known no life other than being mine, and I love him fiercely. I am also painfully aware that he will die, and that this moment is not really too far off in the context of my longer life. The average lifespan of a cat is around thirteen, and he is now eight. Probably more than half way. So I do my best to cherish him, to absorb his presence into my awareness, to create indelible memories of his being in my life.
Often when Pod sits on my knee I will take a moment to focus on him, to be aware of his soft and weighty presence in my arms. I stroke him, try to fix the grey of his fur in my mind, marvel at the delight of his purring. He is currently asleep on the sofa next to me, oblivious of my tears as I cry at the very thought of losing him. For my cats will die, and I grieve their loss before it even happens, suspecting that it will affect me more profoundly than any other grief I have known.
And yet somehow their short lifespans are a gift to me. They remind me of the importance of noticing, of cherishing, of allowing oneself to love fully and openly in the moment, despite the knowledge of pain that love brings. Nothing in this world lasts forever. To be open to love is necessarily to be open to loss and pain, the ache of grief that doesn’t go away. My life carries pockmarks of pain through the loss of friends, moving house, mourning phases of life, pastimes once enjoyed, changed relationships, and the growth of myself. But looking back on all this loss, I am glad of the grief because of what it marks. For I have known great love, loves that still burn within me like embers, loves I will carry for the rest of my life. I love deeply, cherish deeply, mourn deeply.
But I would choose every time to have my cats, to wake in the morning with Pod pawing at my hand wanting breakfast, his smelly breath in my face. To have him, to love him, even in the knowing that I will lose him.
My cats are mortal, but somehow the Queen’s death has reminded me of their creaturely fragility, and simultaneously drawn my attention to that sharp truth we so often like to pretend isn’t real – that I, too, am going to die. That you will die. That every person we have ever known and loved will die.
And yet, we continue to love. It is a choice, I believe, to remain wholehearted in the pursuit of life, and to keep one’s tender heart open to all that our human experience brings. It would be an easier task in some ways to close myself off, to reserve my affections, to be wary of forming attachments. But these choices, while arguably safer, are smaller. Smaller for myself, making small my own self. So in the face of my inevitable demise I wish to embrace what I can, and to welcome pain as the necessary sidekick of love, the evidence of great joys and of a heart expanded.
The Queen is dead, and her passing has cast a shadow. And while Podrick and Daisy delight me each day with their feline ways, I hope that their delightful, purring, spoilt selves continue to live in my broken heart for many years after they too have passed away. For I choose love, every time, even knowing that it will bring tears. Every wound and ache on my soul is a symbol of joy, a beacon declaring that a gift of love was given and received. My life too will come to an end one day, and when it does I want to have burned brightly. So I give thanks, from the depths, for it all. I blink my tears aside and kiss Pod on his head, and try to etch his whiskers into my memory.
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