After we found out our cat Maia was sick, we threw discipline to the wind and allowed her to eat, drink or do basically whatever her kitty heart desired. Oddly, one of her favorite things to do is eat grass; odd, because it usually makes her sick. That is, unless it happens to be wheatgrass, which is fine for cats (and humans) to enjoy anytime:



Because Maia suffers from kidney disease, the vet recommended a source of running water that would encourage her to drink more. But we found a new way to pamper her last time we went to buy cat food: an ingenious "aqua garden" that grows wheatgrass hydroponically in the fountain:



Cat, you don't know how good you have it.

We have a cat. Maia, named for Zeus' consort and the mother of Hermes. (I was taking Greek Lit the semester that Rob adopted her.) She's a Siamese, which means she is even more disdainful than most cats; in fact, I often say (usually through clenched teeth) that she's the most cat-like of any cat I've ever owned. Her favorite stunt is to enter a room where humans are present, position herself just out of arms' reach, and sit down - facing away from said humans. There is no way to say more clearly, "I am displeased." She is allllll cat.

But she gives us plenty of non-aggravating moments, too. Last year, we trained her to jump through a hula hoop for a kitty treat, a feat she repeated for several friends and family members. She's great company when you're tired of talking to people, as our jobs require that we do all day long; she does meow a lot, but you're free to interpret her speech however you like. And, characteristic of her breed, she is fiercely affectionate towards Rob and me, often waking us in the night with a frenzy of kneading paws and loud purring.

So yes, I am devoted to her in a way that some would consider unhealthy. (We don't have kids. Maybe that helps put all of this in perspective.) But I didn't realized how attached I was until several weeks ago, when we began noticing that she was losing weight. She lost two pounds in about a month's time, a fourth of her body weight; she basically stopped eating, period. Visits to the vet showed she had some kind of an infection, and finally it was traced to kidney disease. Her kidneys were failing, we were told, and she would always be sick, and eventually she would die.

It had been a rough month already; we'd switched food three or four times, tried wet food, tuna, yogurt, all her people-food favorites, in an effort to tempt her. We'd also been giving her pills three times a day. Have you ever tried to give a cat a pill ONE time a day? Just imagine trying to pry open a live oyster with your bare hands. Only inside the oyster, instead of squishy, briny yumminess, there are rows of sharp teeth. And the oyster is flailing around and trying to slice you in half with its claws. Okay, maybe this analogy isn't so relevant, but you get the idea. It took both of us, and often there were tears and/or colorful invocations as we tried to get her to cooperate for her own good.

So after all that, the doctor told me she had kidney disease, and he recommended subcutaneous injections to make sure she was properly hydrated. Subcutaneous injections meaning, putting a needle in the cat's back and holding it there for several minutes while trying to keep most of your skin and clothing intact? I asked. No, actually, I didn't really ask that. I was trying to hide the fact that I was already getting choked up, thinking that this was the beginning of the end. He was telling me to make an appointment with an internist, who could do an ultrasound and find out if there were any other possible causes for the weight loss; I called and booked the appointment, which was $500 just to walk in the door. Then I laid down on the bed with Maia, who appeared blissfully oblivious, and sobbed.

After feeling thoroughly sorry for myself all afternoon, I thought, at least I should do what I can to make her happy while she's with us. Our indoor cat's ultimate goal in life is to spend as much time outside as possible, so I put her leash and harness on and opened the front door, and she scurried out into Kitty Paradise - our humble yard.

I grew teary again as I watched her making her usual rounds - sniffing the dirt, picking her way through flowerbeds, eating grass she would probably throw up later on my Oriental rug. And then, without really intending to, I started weeding one of the beds. It felt good to be able to control something, however insignificant. I went and got my clippers and cut away the spindly sundrops, and I pulled the dead leaves and stalks out of the irises, and I divided the lambs' ears into smaller, prettier chunks. I took all of the dead, sad foliage and stuffed it in the compost bin. As I walked back around the house to rejoin Maia, who was sun-drunk amid the azaleas, I realized I hadn't been sad for almost an hour. It felt so good to be free, just for a moment.

So I guess that's what gardening is all about, for me. It's not that it's some kind of transcendental experience, or a complex and meaningful analogy about life and death. It's just that it's something to do with yourself when you're temporarily unable to handle your own life. Whatever is bugging you, you are free to put it down next to the bed while you weed it. Yank out the crab grass that's crowding your beloved plants. Rearrange and prune with abandon. And when you're done, step back and enjoy your work for a few minutes, before turning back to your life, and your pain, with a fresh perspective.