I was fascinated by them. For the design of the tombstones, for the variety of size and intricacies involved, for the dedications, and for the level of decay.Presumably Seattle has some cool graveyards, too, but Edinburgh has tombs that are older than the state of Washington, and that, for some reason, introduces a different level of gravitas that appealed to me.
I've been fortunate to not be touch with much death in my life. I lost a grandfather who was quite dear to me (and, indeed, my namesake) but I retain all of the rest of my family I've ever known and I've never lost a close friend. I suppose this is partially a function of my relatively small family and my inability or unwillingness to make many friends, but I understand I've been lucky and I don't look forward to the pain that will inevitably occur when I lose those close to me.
(Although I guess I might go first. Many more nights like my last one in Scotland (again: blog coming) and that might be the case.)
Actually, I have lost those close to me. When I moved out of my house to strike out on my own in a post-marriage world I had three cats. Houdini, Truman and Potter. (Truman actually moved out to join me a couple of months later, but close enough...)
Three cats is so many to own. Three cats are so many to know all at once.
Along with an inability to approach women, an unwillingness to consume alcohol, my divorce and my advanced age, I had to explain how and why I had three cats.
It's crazy-lucky that I ever got lucky.
It would have been a lot easier if I had owned three plants.
Unfortunately, I never took to owning plants. They were never part of my house growing up, and I never had any interest nor talent in keeping them alive. The extent of my plant ownership is buying flowers for women I like or family members on special occasions.
The three cats I had were a pain, but I loved them. And, after loving them and sharing their lives, I started to lose them.
I lost Potter, the youngest one, suddenly in 2011. He took a nap and his body shut down, basically.
Truman, the one who seemed destined to go first, finally saw his body go out about a year later.
Then, almost like clockwork, Houdini died in the last few weeks. He was almost 16 years old and was in great health until, well, until he wasn't.
My apartment is not empty. I still live with my English bulldog, Rumpelstiltskin. He's adorable and he's got a lot of energy. But as I sit here, typing about my lost cats, and I see him jogging all over my apartment, hither and thither and never at rest, even as I remember he's a puppy, I am reminded of the scene in Rushmore where Bill Murray proclaims his lack of understanding of his own sons.
Maybe I'm just a cat person, I dunno.
After Houdini died, I received condolences from some who knew he was gone. I received three gifts, specifically, from my vet, my office, and a friend. All were plants.
You may recall something: I am not a plants person.
It was sweet, and I appreciated the sentiment, but I knew I was just counting down the hours until I killed the plants--or they killed me. (OK. I maybe have seen Little Shop of Horrors one too many times.)
I wouldn't know how to water them. They wouldn't get enough sunlight. I would neglect giving them food. Or repotting. Or any other plant-related stuff that I had no idea how to do.
As luck would have it, none of those things caused the untimely (if rather rapid) demise of all three plants. What did? Gravity.
I think that most plants are sold in little starter pots, and I guess maybe the idea is that the plant is moved from the little pot to a larger one for proper care ... ? Maybe?
Anyway, I didn't do that, and the plants were top-heavy and one by one they toppled. And broke. And died.
So I am mourning the death of three plants and three cats. And watching my dog snort and run around senselessly, oblivious to it all.
And I am smiling. What's wrong with me?
