In the Eye of the Beholder (continued)
In Massachusetts

And then there was the cat -- or cats. It was the habit of the orange male to cross the road and jump up to the railing on the porch where he could observe, not the phoebes (because they were too high above him), but the beautiful girl inside my house who lounged all day on the far side of the kitchen. Lonesome as she was, he was her diversion. Now, porch gone, phoebes in the tree outraged, the orange cat lying mournfully where the porch had been, and the beautiful girl watching despairingly from within, along with a sorrowing woman who awakened to the understanding that we all -- fur, feathers, and flesh -- were grieving the same loss, even if not in the same language, of relationship, of continuity, of place and purpose.

In retrospect, the event of the little porch became a metaphor in my mind for all the change that goes on around us which is unexpected and beyond our control. Recently "developers" came to that area which had been designated as "scenic" and which had been untouched in many ways since Revolutionary times, forcing newness on the old, carving up the woodland habitat which was the home of a family of black bears, and a number of other creatures. The beautiful girl who lounged in the kitchen is gone now too -- with the phoebes, with the porch, with the woods, with the country lane, with the quiet and peace. And the fine orange cat, advanced in age, and having experienced the loss of so many things, now looks upon vanishing meadows... and remembers.

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