When your little cat dies

2nd January 2005. 9pm

I just returned from Slovakia. Been travelling since 8am: taxi from Jana's flat to Vrutky train station; train trip from Vrutky to Bratislava; taxi from Bratislava train station to bus station; coach trip from Bratislava to Vienna Airport; flight KM513 from Vienna to Gudja; car drive from Gudja to Tarxien, where I picked my Gelsomina and then drove home.

One of the first things I learned soon after I met my sister Violet at the arrivals was that Kyra, my other sister Carmen's four year old cat, died on 1st January. The sinister details of Kyra's sudden death are the following: sister Carmen invited the whole family (bar me who was still in Slovakia) for a New Year's party. Kyra, being one of the most asocial home cats I ever met, stayed in a room away from the merry makers. The last to leave the party was my other sister Violet (the one who picked me from the airport). Thinking everyone was off, Kyra walked all the way to the front door - much to the surprise of Carmen, Violet and their spouses - and enjoyed being fondled by all. Kyra walks back. Violet and hubby say the last Happy New Year by the front door and leave. Carmen walks back to the kitchen where she finds Kyra strayed in the middle of the corridor, eyes wide open and shining green, motionless. They immediately realise Kyra's dead. Massive heart attack. So everyone's saying.

Requiescant in Pacem, Kyra.

Needless to say, Carmen and all her family are in mourning.

I wrote about Kyra because her demise led me into an old habit of mine: thinking of death on New Year's. The list of friends and acquaintances who passed away in 2004 is sadly quite long. And looking forward to 2005 I wonder who will be next to depart. I have my private fears about this. At the same time my mind is also preoccupied with the harrowing scenes of the aftermath of the tsunami in south Asia. Harrowing. The scenes are also a reminder that man does not rule the world after all.