Tribute to Trillian (April 1998)

Last night was a very sad one for our family. Our cat, Trillian,
seemingly out of nowhere appeared very sick. I took her to an emergency
veterinary clinic and she was diagnosed with having a chronic kidney
condition. Our options were either for a series of agressive intravenous
treatments that would prolong her life from a week to a month, or to
have her put to sleep. We chose the latter.

We've had Trillian for almost 9 years. Melanie found him shortly after I
graduated from Occidental outside of the campus library. We decided to
name her after the character Trillian, a space nymphette, in the
cult-classic sci-fi series THE HITCHHIKER'S GUIDE TO THE GALAXY. She has
survived, we figured, 8 moves, and has lived with Tino Ramirez, Rob
"KIT-TAY!!!!!!" Cunningham, and Bryan "Trillian, get out of my room!"
Hanaki. She also bravely rode out the 1994 Northridge earthquake while
living just north of the epicenter in Saugus.

Her pal Goblin, adopted when Trillian was 4, has kept her company and
has absorbed much of the attention of Jolee, much to Trillian's relief.

Trillian was the first to approach Jolee on the day we brought her home
from the hospital, and has remained aloof, but had grown to tolerate our
daughter who is cat-crazy (as Goblin would attest). Trillian of late has
been coming into Jolee's room every morning and meowing good morning to
us which always delighted Jolee to no end.

It is easy to forget in today's world what simple pleasures we take for
granted that animals can give us. Trillian was a presence in our lives
and she will be truly missed. Those of you who have visited our home in
the last nine years know what a sweet cat she was. As a poet, I also owe
her a debt for inspiration. Cats are favorite topics for poets, and
Trillian has played a major part in at least two poems that have been
published in magazines. I have attached one to this message that is not
only inspired by her behavior, but is hauntingly apropos to the
occasion.

Bill


ESCAPE

A dead cricket reclines on its back
as if sunbathing,
while my cat watches intently.
A tabby paw pats it tentatively,
expecting a response, but getting none.
A sniff sniff and a slightly parted mouth
analyze and categorize
as puzzled eyes ask me: what is this?
I do not respond.
I am thinking
about my childhood, and my friend Derek,
from down the block. He would capture
grasshoppers, deposit them in clear plastic
sandwich bags, and hide them in his secret lab:
an ancient basement freezer filled with frozen
meat. The next day, he'd exhume a stiff corpse
out to the blistering mid-west sidewalk
as all the younger kids gathered 'round
and watched him gently stroke the insect's
rigid sides until it stirred and awoke,
sluggish from its cryonic slumber.
The little girls would run screaming
and the boys revered him as a god.
The grasshopper had a story to tell,
a tale of adventure and escape.

The cricket in my living room was not
so lucky. I do not know if my cat
killed it, or if it wandered in to die.
Regardless,the end result is the same:
silence.
A meow,
questioning, retrieves me from childhood
as I enshroud the body
in a Bounty paper towel
and lay it to rest in the garbage.

Every now and then, Death will move me,
even in the tiniest manifestations.
There is no escape from certain epiphanies.


originally published in Atom Mind, July 1997