Disaster in Paradise by Bath Amanda

Author:Bath, Amanda
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: BC, Johnson's Landing, Kaslo, landslide
ISBN: 9781550176964
Publisher: Harbour Publishing
Published: 2015-03-27T16:00:00+00:00

On Tuesday morning, August 28, 2012, Christopher, our niece Margie and I carried my MacBook with all due care and speed, like paramedics, to Greg, a computer guru Margie knew in upper Kaslo. A bear had invaded and ransacked his porch the previous night, and Greg performed brain surgery on Macaroon perched on a kitchen chair amidst the wreckage. It was all very Kootenay.

The hard drive slipped out, to be rehoused in its silver case. Greg gave me the connecting cords. Back home, I plugged it into my new computer. Up came the list: all my documents, including my previous book manuscript; 7,600 photographs; my email—everything! We’d done a séance, communicated with the dead, extracted a brain and Macaroon had loyally responded, after six weeks under the mud. Apple computers!

On Tuesday afternoon I wore a large hat. Christopher put on his favourite Hawaiian shirt, retrieved from under the mud. With Margie along, we drove to the Landing. Renata arrived by boat. Kurt joined us and we collected Ozzie’s body. I held the box on my lap in the car. The weight felt right—the weight of my cat. But I was reluctant to look inside. How changed would he be?

We talked of Ozzie and remembered his endearing habits and sense of humour. How he’d learned to thump his tail against the window next to our bed—thunk! thunk! thunk!—at three a.m. when he wanted to come in. His evident distress if Christopher and I raised our voices in anger. His affection for us both, and expressions of delight when we got down on the floor for head-butting and nose-rubbing sessions. He understood the love talk we endlessly bestowed on him. He knew he was our rey de la casa. We’d been his devoted servants and we’d all loved every minute of it.

Christopher placed the box on the purple picnic table and opened it carefully, taking pains to protect me from the sight of his head injury. I concentrated my gaze on his black paws with their perfect leather pads and rounded claws. His paws were beautiful. The little cat was curled on his side as though in sleep. I stroked his back for the last time.

We’d brought a pillowcase shroud, and wrapped it and his body in an Irish linen tea towel that depicted a kitten. We took turns digging the hole under the mulberry tree in the garden, halfway between the graves of two other beloved felines: Renata’s Kapiti and our first cat, Rocky. We marked Ozzie’s grave with flat rocks specially chosen from the beach, and laid flowers on top.

Knowing where he rested was a comfort.

We next visited the new “mound,” all that now remained of the spot where the house had stood. The bomb crater had vanished. Duncan had filled the hole and levelled it but the surface was rough and treacherous underfoot. He’d placed a large boulder on top of the mound, marking the approximate centre of the house. The boulder was comfortable to sit on.

Kurt, Renata, Margie,

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