It was the dullest of autumn days, the air was still, and I was listening to music, which I think is why meeting the cat was so surprising. I was inside myself, and seeing the cemetery, dimly, as that text-based plot of landscape I know quite well, with some interesting wildlife and such rich links to a century of human involvement with death and loss, when all at once there was this cat.
A friendly creature, looking at me and knowing I looked at him. Willing to be approached and then keen to be stroked, despite the over-friendly dog held by my other hand.
For the cat the cemetery is such a different place. Although part of a human family, the cat knows nothing of words about love. Ernest’s headstone is a nice, stable vantage point. He lives in a world of smells, movement, prey, the chance of food, and that coyly on their terms interaction with humans that passes for domestication in cats. His presence was a jolt to my perspective.
A very welcome one, of course. How good to be approached by something so alive and so clearly itself on a damp autumn day among the graves; a happy interrupter of my thoughts.