For me, forgiving others is a snap. OK, maybe not that easy, but I can reason myself out of grudges. After all, I hurt myself much more than I hurt the object of my anger and doing that makes no sense. I may as well just punch myself in the face whenever I have anger toward a person. I would probably do less harm to myself.
But forgiving myself? That's a thousand times more difficult. You see, I had a beautiful calico cat named Rosie. We adopted her and her sister, Gilda, the summer of 1994. And, when she was 14 years old, I caused her death. And I knew what I was doing.
My daughter, Lyra, had been battling cancer for a couple of years, and her immune system wasn't in good shape, so we had to be careful. Then, for no reason that I could understand, one of the cats started pooping on the comforter on Lyra's bed. I couldn't figure out which cat was doing it, so I tried to catch her at it.
No luck. I finally decided, though I wasn't absolutely certain, that it had to be Rosie. I spent days calling around, trying to find someone who would adopt her. No one wanted her. The Humane Society didn't take pets from individuals. Finally, the only resource left was the animal control center.
So one afternoon I put her in her carrying case and drove across town to the animal control. I was crying my eyes out. Finally I'd filled out the paperwork and the worker opened a cage door. I pulled Rosie out of her carrier and put her in the cage. When I let go of her, she turned around and looked at me with bewildered eyes. As if she spoke it out loud, her face asked, "Why are you doing this to me?" It was a look of betrayal and utter heartbreak.
The next morning, I walked past Lyra's room and there, on her comforter, was a pile of fresh poop! I'd blamed the wrong cat. I immediately called animal control and, when the lady answered, I asked her how much it would cost to get my cat back. She ascertained which cat I was talking about. She said, "oh, we don't have her anymore."
I was mystified. Had the Humane Society taken her? I didn't understand, so I said, "What do you mean?"
The woman said, "We put her down early this morning."
How could that be? Rosie hadn't even been there 24 hours. I found out that they'd decided she wasn't adoptable, so they just... killed... her. And it was my fault.
I cried for two days straight. My counselor came around for our session, but all I could do is cry. Lyra would stand by me, looking worried, pat my arm and say, "Don't cry, Mommy!" But I couldn't stop. Taking Rosie to the pound was the most evil thing I ever did. I sacrificed her. I betrayed her love and her trust. It is unforgivable.
My sweet Rosienose. I hope, after I die, I will be able to see you again so I can tell you how sorry I am and how much I love you. Maybe then I might be able to forgive myself.
If self-forgiveness is a prerequisite to reaching this place with its many names, I'll never get there, because there's just no way I can ever forgive myself.
No two calicos are alike, but Rosie looked an awful lot like this cat:
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