When George died is a short poem about a cat who changed my life…
When George died,
every cat in the universes
stopped purring for precisely one second.
The change in vibrations never reversed.
More from a morning’s inspiration…
When George died is one of those inspirations that swept into my mind while I’m taking a shower.
I don’t know. I must’ve been thinking about the beloved people I watched pass out of existence, and some quick epigrams popped up.
First, it was my father, and of course, George was not “people.” George was a cat, and he shared his life with us for 15 years.
Every pet companion believes his or her cat, dog, horse, etc. is exceptional, and I’ll stake that claim too.
All are exceptional because, like people, they are original, unique characters, unforgettable if you genuinely respect them and their differences.
But When George died isn’t about how exceptional he was.
It’s about how exceptional all cats are. Just like people.
Something’s lost when any creature dies, their physical selves disappearing. The loss echoes across all the universe.
It’s fleeting, and most will never notice. But something’s lost when death smothers the spark.
With George, I thought it was a bigger loss than most, but it’s about the love lost to all of us.
“I Can Ask”
Chair Fay Christian opened the Operations Advisory Committee on February 12th, reading out member names from a prepared sheet that omitted Melissa Wade. It didn’t feel intentional, but it struck me as odd precisely because it came from something prepared. Lydia Tang gently corrected her, noting that Wade was, in fact, a member of the committee. Wade met the moment with grace, or perhaps she simply wasn’t bothered by it.
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