A friend of mine, an Episcopal priest, preached a sermon about how honest animals are and how animals may be closer to God than we humans.
“A horse is honest in its horseness,” he said, “a dog is honest in its dogness, and so forth. We humans, however, can be who we say we are and not be honest. We have the ability to lie. I've never known an animal to lie.”
Fascinating idea, I thought then and do now. I have a cat we call Millie. Of course, I don't know what her real name is, and she's not about to tell me. She responds to Millie, but I think only to patronize me. Lying on my lap, as is her habit evenings, or lying on the keyboard of my laptop, as she does whenever she feels I need a break from whatever I do with the laptop, or if she is telling me it is time for her to eat by pushing my hand away from the keys and setting a yowl that is maddening in its pitch and repetitiveness, I observe her closely. She observes me, too.
Now and then I will do something that is, to her, incredibly thoughtless, like sneeze or cough. At a sneeze she will jump from my lap and complain loudly as she stomps off to the kitchen. A cough will garner a stare that communicates eloquently her disappointment in me. She at times will take my hand in her mouth and hold it, not biting, and look at me as if to say, “I can and I shall rip this off if you disturb me one more time.” You see, that's honest. She isn't pretending it is all right with her if I do untoward things, she telling me to stop or else. She's upfront, as is said.
Only one other person—Millie is my fur-person—was that upfront with me in all my life, and that was my wife, Miriam. No, she did not take my hand in her mouth, but she would hand me my head if I was stupid or on the brink of stupidity. Miriam observed me closely, even at times lying on my lap, and I could always count on her for an honest opinion. Like Millie, Miriam was true to who she was, content in her humanism or woman-ness. Because of Miriam, and, I might add, Millie, I understand what I should have learned as a youth: know myself before ever becoming responsible for anyone else. I see it as a vital lesson because if we cannot function on our own, cannot take care of ourselves, cannot know and feel comfortable with ourselves, we cannot be of much use to anyone else. Miriam didn't need me. She loved me and cherished our marriage and me, but she did not need me to complete her. Millie also can function without me; cats are born hunters and killers.
Me? I'm not so sure how I'll make it on my own. Miriam died in August, and for the first time in my entire life I have only me to depend on. As I reflect on my life I see I have been a dependent all of it. To saying nothing of childhood and the dependency inherent in that, I was married the first time at 21, right out of college. I had a wife. I had a soft place to land whenever I fell. After four gorgeous daughters joined our lives, I was never alone. When the marriage failed, probably because I didn't know who the hell I was, I went directly into the arms of Miriam. She became the love of my life, my
raison d'etre , and we had 29 glorious years. But, now that she is gone, I know how much I was tied to her, how much she defined me, and, in reality, allowed me to not know myself.
My point is that I took a dishonest path and never leaned who I am. I let Miriam define me, something that no one should ever let happen. Millie doesn't define me. She allows me my hand so long as I do not disturb her, just as Miriam offered my head to me if I was stupid. Both are saying, look at yourself; know yourself. So, I guess my ultimate point is to advise all people, young and old, to concentrate on being honest about who you are; be honest in your humanity.
My other point is, reflecting on my friend the priest and his sermon, that as we get to know ourselves better we get closer to God, whoever he, she or it is. I'm not an agnostic or an atheist; I am a hoper. I hope what I believe is true, and I think in reality that is all we can do. We really don't know what is out there, but we can hope.
The night Miriam died, Millie, who is not a friendly cat at all and who was at odds with the hospice team from the moment they set foot in the house, came to Miriam's bed. I lifted her up and placed her beside Miriam's body. Millie sniffed, as all cats do, then turned to me and placed her head under my right arm. She knew. And, I think she knows where Miriam is now; that's why she tries to keep me honest. So, my task now, at these advanced years, is to become and whole honest person. Thank God I have Millie. Thank God I had Miriam.
