Posted on Jun 8th, 2007
by 
davie
Lucy is sick. She sleeps and sleeps and sleeps. She licks her tail incessantly and all the fur has come away from the place where the fox bit her. Puss and blood ooze slowly from the teeth marks. When she wakes, she smiles with her eyes and yawns. Blinks slowly in greeting. Purrs. But she is very sick.
The vet came yesterday. She had driven up in a minivan and hopped out gaily. She wore a purple smock and baggy pants- the kind worn by nurses in hospitals and nursing homes. It brought up memories of Highland House and George, that neat old feller who fell out of bed because he had to go pee and there was no one around to help him. The purple smock radiated ugly and it was hard to see the beautiful nurse lady at the same time without turning away quickly.
The nurse had rubbed ointment on Lucy's tail. Lucy didn't fight and holding her down was easy. She meowed in pain as the antibiotic went on. The nurse gave her a shot- a rabies booster shot. She took off her gloves. She had wanted to take Lucy back to the clinic to watch, in case rabies developed, but it was too much. It couldn't be done like that. The nice lady was insistent, like the nursing assistants in the nursing home had been. She needed Lucy to be watched.
No.
Now Lucy sleeps and sleeps and sleeps and smiles and purrs and there is no purple smock to reflect unnatural hues on her stripes.
The fox had bit her almost a week ago. John and Carol and Andy had all said to take her to the vet- but they all had money. There was no money for the vet. No money for ointment. No money even for food, which was okey because there was a lot of food. Just no money. And Lucy had gotten better, it seemed. She seemed fine. Putting some regular human antibiotics stuff from the shelf behind the mirror on her tail seemed enough. But Lucy was worse and calling the vet there had almost been sobbing. Guilt and pain. Guts twisted into a tight knot of rage and frustration and helplessness and hopelessness. Help. Help.
And the vet came, but there is nothing to do but give a shot and wait. If she shows signs of coughing, or of temper change, or excessive drooling, or convulsions, or anything... she would have to be killed. The vet could do it, she had said. They would give Lucy a shot. She would purr, and get sleepy. She would fall asleep and she would never wake up. And there would be no pain, drooling or craziness.
No.
You will be alright, Lucy. You will wake and be happy and purr and raise your tail and it will flick from side to side and you will blink happily through the grass and play with flies and mice and there will be days when you lay on your back for your tummy to be rubbed and ...
There will be none of those things. Lucy is coughing, now, and drool runs down her chin. She is confused but not mean. Her eyes are restless- she gets up and walks to the door. She walks into the bathroom. There is something that she has forgotten- something that cannot be found. In every room she meows with a rising coo. And it sinks in- she is saying goodbye to each room. She doesn't want to leave, but the rooms are leaving her- they are leaving as her mind grasps helplessly at the shapes of things. Things are slipping away. Gone. Gone. Gone.
No.
But no is not enough. The world does not understand no and there is no magical spell, no reiki, no healing light, no god-sent rays of light.
When Dad died all those years ago, there had been a no. No, no, no, no, no. There had been a need that could not be denied, but dad had gone, his eyes half open, dilated, staring into something beyond the confines of his bedroom. There had been no, and he had already gone. When Grampa went, he had gone with a violence of spirit that shook the floor. No single heart attack could sink him- the captain at his helm ordered the plugs pulled out- demanded the ship be sunk. But the very ship itself had resisted him and sunk with tremedous upwellings, deep gasping breaths. Life parted with effort, wrenched itself from the world and family. There had been no and an answering yes of willpower that could not be matched.
Why was there no money for the vet? Why was there no ointment? Guilt. Shame. A purple haze settles on every window. The grass is purple, the trees are purple. Hypocrit. Hypocrit. George is gone, whose loss was blamed- placed at the feet of his caretakers. There had been deep blame. Purple blame that cast stares and anger amongst the shadows of despair. There had been no money for more help. There had been no money for better beds. And George was gone and now Lucy is gone and there is only guilt and shame and regret and anger and frustration and rage and helplessness and hopelessness.
Everything is moving- shifting- being brought about and falling apart. The world is a sea of pain and delusion. The world is a purple sea of despair.
Something moves inside.
There is the memory of Lucy standing at the sliding glass door, head cocked to one side. her lips are slightly parted in the lightest of whispers. One blink, one tail twitch.
And the sun rises with a flash of golden white. Tears come, rolling down lips that won't conform to a frown.
Ah, this is the bitter-sweet affection for a painful world that I crave. It's as though I am here, looking out for you, O world, and you, my love and light,
are
always
ending.
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poetry
October 2009 
