End-of-Summer Blooms

This afternoon, I visited my friend Florence, who with her husband grows magical flowers. When I pulled onto the gravel driveway, I was struck by the clematis weighing down the arched gateway into a nearly forgotten garden where zinnias bloom nearly shoulder-high, a small rabbit snoozed, grape tomatoes ripen, and a dog and cat lie buried next to a sundial. It's one of several vignettes, as Jere describes the different gardens composing their yard. It's a place of life, and of death that renews life.

When my cat Grady (a nickname for her official name, Gray Drawers) dragged herself into my den and yowled one evening six years ago, I called my vet who agreed to meet me and then my friends who agreed to take me. Grady died in the car, mid-yowl. I had never before witnessed a dying animal's suffering , although I had been part of putting down another cat, Poor Pitiful Pearl. She, however, had purred as the vet administered her final dose.

Most upsetting was that I couldn't bury Grady the next day because I had to go to Chattanooga, two hours away, for the entire next day where I was to present two sessions at a teachers' conference. In my place, Florence and Jere conducted a private service, complete with a few words, singing, and flowers. They buried Grady near their beloved dog Buddy.

Their small kindness and their beautiful blooms serve as fitting memorials to our pets.