I spent most of my twelve years with Puss-In-Boots taking his aloof presence for granted. His grey furry body curled up on his favorite chair was an expected sight each day. Puss had a distinctly grumpy side to his personality and was never one for sparing the claws and spoiling the child. A quick ‘hello’ and a pat on the head was all he needed in the way of social intercourse with his humans for his heart lay in the streets…well, at least one, Princess Street. For out there held the possibility of a beheaded mouse, a downed sparrow or, in his dreams, a big, juicy squirrel.

Years before, my mother had rescued him, literally, on a dark and stormy night in Southern Ontario where we lived in the 1950’s. I was five year-old so when it came time to name him, there was only one name I knew for a cat (cat heroes were scarce in those days), hence the unoriginal name taken from that children’s classic.

For all of Puss’s independence and my teenage self-absorption, when he was diagnosed with cancer, I was devastated. I patiently hand fed him cottage cheese when he could no longer manage food on his own. When he had the energy, I played ‘mouse’ with him, shaking my wristwatch around the door molding, pretending it was the intended prey (and breaking it in the process). He even consented to nestling in my lap more often, so I would sit in one position until my legs cramped and I had to move.

Puss became thin and lost interest in playing mouse. One day, I came home from school for lunch (as most kids did in the sixties) and my mom said gently, “It’s time to say your ‘goodbyes’ to Puss.”

My stomached felt sick and that I wanted to say, “Let’s wait one more day.” But I knew he was done. I knew we’d already stolen selfish days at his expense.

I knelt to pat him and his frail self still purred a greeting. I whispered to my darling and although I don’t remember the exact words, I know I told him I would love him forever.

I walked away, looking back one last time as he sat in his favorite green chair. I knew that later that day, I would look for the grey furball sleeping in that chair. And I knew that each time I saw it empty, my heart would break. I tried to imprint my mind with his image so it would never fade.

Mom was left with the job of that last trip to the vet while I headed back to school hoping that someone, something would distract me. But nothing could. My sweet boy died during biology class.

When I arrived home, Mom told me that Puss’s body was in the garage. Somehow I found that comforting – I could place him. He was somewhere, almost as if he just wouldn’t come inside from a great hunt.

At least, his body was somewhere.

But where was my testy, lovable old guy? Where was that spirit?

Thanks in part to the Beatles and their famous trips to India to visit the ashram of the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, by 1970, teens had been introduced to Eastern Philosophies, if only in superficial ways. Indeed, my forward-thinking mother had signed us up for yoga classes when I was fifteen – an edgy feather in my cap at the time.

Not long after Puss died, Mom gave me a book on metaphysics. The author drew on all the great writings from history to make his points and I found this to be an amazing approach to spirituality. I immediately turned to his chapter on Immortality and found a wisdom that would help me with the death of my pet. These are the words that helped me then and still do today when a loved one dies:

Never the spirit was born;

The spirit shall cease to be never.

Never was time it was not;

End and beginning are dreams.

Birthless and deathless and changeless

Remaineth the spirit forever

Death hath not touched it at all

Dead though the house of it seems.

This is an excerpt from the Bhagavad-Gita, a holy book for the Hindu people. From that time forward, I have found the fusion of the world’s wisdom a treasure from which to draw great riches for my spirit and my faith and to put Puss and all my loved ones in a realm where there is no such thing as dead and gone.

by Barbara Allen Burke

“Hey, Barbie!”

I heard my mother’s stern Sunday voice calling.  I ignored it and continued to rummage through the refrigerator.

“Barbara JoAnna Allen!”

Ooh.  Now I was in trouble. I looked over the refrigerator door.  My mother glared at me from the kitchen sink.  I watched soap suds slide off her fingers into murky dishwater.  “You get out of that refrigerator and get your chores done. Now move.” She started scrubbing a pan. “I don’t want to be late for the service.”

My sister Karla stood beside her on a stool next to the drain board.  She was still wearing her church clothes from the morning service and had a dishtowel wrapped around her waist.  She looked over her shoulder and made a face at me.

I walked behind them on my way out of the kitchen and yanked the towel to the ground as I left.

I hung over the top of the corral fence, chin resting on crossed arms.  Sunlight glinted off the horses’ water trough. A breeze ruffled waist-high grass.  It was one of the first really warm days of the spring season. After four hours of choir practice, Sunday school, and the Morning Worship Service, it felt good to be outside. Usually, the prospect of another two to three hours of church in the evening didn’t bother me.  I’d never really known anything else.

Not today.  Today the sunshine called.  Today I was tempted to run barefoot through the field and tramp down a swath of grass to make a nest for myself.  There I would lie on my back and watch clouds.

I climbed down from the fence and started back toward the house.  Unaccustomed to my rebellious feelings, I slid deeper into them.  I deliberately scuffed my church shoes in the dirt.  I stooped to gather a handful of stones from the gravel at my feet.

“I hate church,” I thought to myself. I threw a rock at the corral fence.  It hit the wood railing with a thud.  Anger had made me accurate.

I went in the back door, bracing for my parents to tell me to hurry.  I was surprised by silence.  I walked through the family room into the empty kitchen. Soap suds filled the sink. My sister’s dishtowel lay on the stool by the drain board.

“Mom?  Dad?”  Where was everybody?

I hurried through to the dining room – empty – and into the living room– also empty.  My father’s Car and Driver magazine spilled onto the floor.  My youngest sister’s blocks sat in a messy pile in the corner.

And then I knew with blinding clarity what had happened:  The Rapture.  The Lord had returned to call his faithful servants unto himself and I, Barbara JoAnna Allen, had been left behind.  I could just picture it.  While I was moping in the yard, my more righteous mother, father and sisters had been transformed into ghostly, light-filled figures and lifted straight to heaven.

I brushed away tears and trotted through the house, afraid to confirm what I already knew.  The bedrooms were empty, the beds rumpled, closet doors open.  I ran into my own bedroom and there, lying on the bed, were my Sunday clothes, set out by my mother.  They accused me of my mean-mindedness and sloth. And now the Only Train Bound for Glory had come and I had missed it.   How stupid could I be?

I walked more slowly, trying to remember all the sermons I had heard about the years of Tribulation that would follow the Rapture. I had to find a way to face it.

I headed toward the barn. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move. The family station wagon sat in its usual place.  I stared.  There in the car sat my parents in the front seat, facing each other, talking.   My sisters leaned out of the windows.

“There she is,” called my sister, Karla.  “Are you coming or what?  We’re waiting, and the car’s getting hot.”

I didn’t know what to do.  I wanted to run and kiss my sisters’ faces, curl up on my mother’s lap and let her stroke my hair.  I wanted to hug my dad and feel him hug me back.  I wanted to laugh out loud.  I wanted to apologize to God.

What I did was get in the car.  It was time to go to church.