Pavarotti D.W. Waddlebutt Fatboy Boyd
He came in Monday evening and brought me a beautiful kangaroo mouse, long tail and fawn colored. He dropped it at my feet, very proud of himself, and rolled over and talked so he’d get his belly scratched. I gushed appropriately, got him a little taste of milk, which he devoured before plunging into his kibble. Some play time, some couch time, and then he went out as usual. That was the last I’ve seen of him.
He was (is?) a Zen Buddha cat, living his cat life directly. Rambunctious, affectionate, loyal beyond description, he was a big beautiful boy of joyous cat impulses. He was always at my side, my feet, my head, my hand: in the shop he sat on the workbench while I worked, in the studio he laid in his bed or often on the worktable, watching, occasionally “helping”. He helped me build every building, and laid bricks with me on the kiln. He sat up with me endless nights and hours firing the kiln in all kinds of weather, either in my lap or in his chair beside me. He’d sit up on his window basket while I cooked, and stretch out beneath the woodstove whenever it was glowing. He’d cram his big self into the little catbed, coiled beyond belief and snore loudly for his midday naps. He’d sit by my side, in my lap, at my feet, or on my keyboard when I wrote.
Every day, when I’d drive up the drive, he’d come running down to where I park and do one of two things: either jump into my lap when I opened the door, or plop down and roll round and round in the dirt and dust till he was grey all over, talking the whole time. He always came when I called, better than the dogs even. And often he would walk with me and Lucy in our mile long loop up to the logging land and back. Me, golden retriever, and a big fat cat bounding along happily.
He wasn’t an aloof being- he loved everybody wide open and equally, even if they didn’t like him, and didn’t hold grudges. He was constantly cat-happy and in good humor, a feline comedian. Always ready to pose for a picture or 10. Our dogs were his favorite playmates, the girl kitties his friends, even though sometimes they had trouble sharing the same space. Almost every morning at 4am he’d come in and pounce on the bed, his bulk like a sack of potatoes, kneading and head butting me till I woke up and scratched him, then he’d hop down and go into the guest room and get up on his bed for a few hours of extended snoring. As soon as he heard me up and getting coffee together, he’d be down, looking for a taste of milk. And the Pavi day was begun.
I don’t know where he is, or how he is. I hope he’s somewhere warm and dry and healthy. We live in such a rugged area, I’m afraid something may have happened to him, though I don’t know how. He’s big and strong and burly, loves to run, loves to climb. But he has never gone out of earshot. I could write pages of how hard I’ve looked for him, how many miles I’ve trudged these last couple of days, trying to find him in case he was hurt. He’s a big boy, but we live on a big mountain. And it is a lost cause.
His absence has left a hole so big that I fell into it, and am only now able to start crawling out of. I would have never guessed it would hit me so hard. This is the result of being so attached. So now, even though I’m reconciling myself to the inevitable permanent change, I’m leaving his bed, his sleepy blanket, his window basket and food bowl out and ready. This decision equal parts denial and hope that maybe he’s on some sort of cat vacation and will come home soon from a Very Big Adventure.
If not, I’m almost ready to believe he’s actually a Yamabushi cat. He came to live with us in order to teach us how to play, stretch, eat, sleep and love unconditionally, all without hesitation or reservation. How to live with cat-mind. No one needs these lesson more than me. Either his work here is done, or he gave up (I’m not so good a student sometimes). At any rate, one way or another he’s moved on.
I love that cat fiercely, and miss him terribly. In the moments when I can see past my own little sadness, I realize how lucky I am to have had him as part of our life, and how grateful I am for his company. He made me laugh (not an easy thing to do) and showed me the possibility of life from a different perspective. I wonder if I ever said thank you, or if he would have known (or cared) if I did? He was a greatest possible friend and companion, and I am only now realizing, a great teacher.
A lifetime ago when I went to Japan, I was fortunate enough to be taken to a temple by a student I met on the street, wanting to practice his English. He asked if he could walk with me and talk, and not knowing Japanese at all it seemed like a fair exchange for him to take me around to see some stuff. I had been to a couple of temple entrances, but wouldn’t go past the gates, not wanting to offend or impose. But he let me know that usually its ok to go to the public areas inside the gates, just not to take pictures or make noise- in short, be respectful. I could write a whole piece on this but the part that matters now is the prayerscroll nuns/laypersons.
The temple grounds were completely enclosed by a stone wall…the whole place was otherworldly and very peaceful. I can’t recall if this was Buddhist or Shinto (but I’m thinking Shinto) but there was a small hut near a huge outdoor alter where several women would paint a prayer scroll for a small donation. Then the scrolls would be gathered up, and burned on the alter so the prayers could go up into the heavens and the benevolent spirits would hear, see and act on them. I’m remembering this hut was at the entrance to a very old and beautiful cemetery which was on the grounds. So I suppose that most of the prayers offered up were for the well-being of ancestors. I have always thought this was a beautiful and appropriate way to celebrate the lives of those that have moved on.
I remember it being a beautiful day, sunny, and the cemetery was lush and green, grass, bamboo, and moss covered stone everywhere. And there were a lot of people out around the cemetery, and they seemed happy. Alters and headstones had flowers and rice and sake scattered about, children were picnicking on gravesites. I asked the student about this, it seeming unusual to me…he said these people come to celebrate the lives of their ancestors instead of mourn them, and that this scene was a regular occurrence.
So now I’m thinking about making an alter outside, and painting some prayer scrolls, and making some offerings. Not only for my beloved Pavi, but for Grace and Yoda (friends of a dear friend) and all pets long gone, always mourned, but not celebrated. And why not for people gone and mourned but not celebrated? (my grandfather, my friend Gail, my sister, my friend Kitty…the list could get long…) Maybe this is the big lesson that Pavi came to teach me: to celebrate instead of mourn.
If he does wander back through, and isn’t gone for good, I’ll thank him for the lesson, and promise never to forget it, then pour him a big saucer of milk.
11:20:06 AM 
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