The specific location my Dad buried Lenny, and then Dylan, is unknown to me. But I know they are six inches under, somewhere in my back garden. Possibly wrapped in plastic bags. They died within a few months of one another. I have heard of life-long human companions dying of a broken heart, so I suppose it is possible for animals to suffer the same fate. I'll google it later.
I was too young to know their full story therefore I have filled in the blanks from my Mums memories. I know that my Dad named the pair: Lenny after Lenin, and Dylan after Bob Dylan. From those two names alone you get a rich glimpse into the times in which they lived. There is a photograph somewhere of me as a baby on the floor next to one of them, smaller than my feline sibling.
So, naturally they died. For cats they were old, but they had to eventually die. I don't remember my parents sugar coating the truth. "The cats are gone, never to come back. They are dead and you will never see them again".
Cats die. Grandparents die. Your Mother and Father will die. Your husband or wife will die. Your children, and your children's children will die. The only thing to do is accept this, because even if we don't, it'll happen anyway. I guess what I'm trying to get at here is that by knowing and acknowledging death it helps us celebrate life. It reminds us that life isn't infinite. We should make the most of a walk in the park, spending time with friends, riding our bikes, getting drunk and falling over, or whatever you chose to do with your time. You get the idea.
Lenny and Dylan had a nice life. They did cat things. They lay in patches of sun in the window. The chased birds and caught mice. they did what they liked to do.
