Sitting at a picnic table reading Sartre
Waianae Beach, Hawaii
A cat had walked out from beneath a parked car, and I stopped writing
in my journal. I watched as the cat moved from the shaded underside of
the parked car, nose in the air, attracted to the smell of garbage. As the cat
jumped to the rim, it slipped and fell to the ground. It was not the typical
cat landing, though. The cat hit the ground on its side. Slowly, very
slowly, it moved back to the shaded security of the underside of the
car, turned, and crouched next to the front tire as its bulging eyes
looked in my direction.
The cat, skin and bone, was sick. Its ribs appeared to be bursting
through its skin. White mucus drained from its eyes, which looked to
be about ready to fall out of their sockets. The mucus ran all the way
down the cat's nostrils. All feline prowess had left the animal; a
hungry ghost remained. It sniffed the air. It could still smell the
food, but the heat of the afternoon sun had sucked from its body
whatever energy it had. The whole scene was over in less than a minute.
I felt a knot in my stomach. My head sank to my journal, as I hid my
eyes from view. I tried to swallow but couldn't. I found some release
in the blackness of my cupped hands. How could a cat, the most
self-sufficient of animals, deteriorate to such a decrepit condition?
Why? What purpose could be served by all this suffering? Accepted
realities, logical systems, and concrete facts, the stuff that made
the world sane, couldn't make sense out of the scene before me. I was
screaming inside, and then, above the decibels, I heard a voice, "But
haven't you been here before?" it said. "Come on; what's new about all
this?" I knew immediately it was MV.
"Who among us has had a role in making creation sacrosanct? Who among
us has not felt the torment of unasked for needs? Who among us can see
what tomorrow brings? You of all people," he said, "should know this.
Stop faking it. Stop venting, and get on with it."
"Get on with what?" I said. "There's a soon to be dead, dying cat under that
car, and you are intruding on what had been a very solemn moment for me.
So, I repeat myself, what's to get on with?"
"You call this a solemn moment? You slay me," replied MV. "You see
death, and immediately think `boogieman.' You see death, and recoil in
fear and loathing. Death is a gift, but I wouldn't expect you to
understand that."
"Stop that," I said, "the last thing I need is to hear my own
voice praising death."
"You're right," said MV, "what's to praise? I misspoke myself. I meant
to say death should be a constant reminder that life should be lived
well. Comprende!"
"Haven't you any compassion, man. Don't you see the agony on that
cat's face," I said.
"Well, actually, no, I don't," replied MV. "I see resolve; that is
all. Animals' know more about death than you do. Ever wonder why that
is? And compassion! Its way too overrated if you ask me. If people
stopped feeling sorry for themselves and others, maybe more would get
done to prevent the `need for compassion.' Like right now, what
actually do you see, a flaw in Mother Nature, or just a dying cat?
Let's say, for instance, that you were that cat. Would you feel
compassion for the guy feeling sorry for you because you didn't have
enough to eat? No, I think not. So what's all this about anyway? An
`exercise in nothingness?' You know what I mean, eh?"
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