A Nihilist Who Cares

Dell Amore, Della Morte

My cat, Jasmine, died. She was getting old for a cat, being about 12 and a half years and something of a companion of mine for almost that entire time. She lived with my father and brother in Edmonton for the last 3 and a half years of her life, because the kind of life I could offer her in Vancouver didn’t befit the kind of life she loved in Edmonton (I have no yard for her to run around and play in, and would be home rarely enough to see her). But whenever I would go to visit Edmonton, seeing Jasmine was one of my favourite parts. I loved my cat.

Jasmine was named after the princess from the Disney Aladdin movie, and she was always my princess. Since she was a kitten she had retained the softest fur I’ve ever felt and had the most gentle and affectionate demeanour I’ve ever seen in a cat. She was also the calmest being I knew. I think I learned a lot about being the calming presence I am from her.

I’ve always had a special affinity for animals, but I got along especially well with Jasmine. She provided  a way for me to enjoy solitude without loneliness. Listening to her purr often did more for me than talking through my problems with even the closest of human friends. Once, my friend D asked (jokingly, he thought) whether I would save Jasmine from a burning building before I would save him.  I never did answer him, because I honestly didn’t know. And D is one of my closest friends.

But now Jasmine is gone.

I didn’t see Jasmine in her final days. She died on January 4th. I did get to see her close to the end, however, and I was still surprised to learn that she died when she did (I saw her last on New Year’s Eve). She was slower and thinner than she was in the past, but I attributed this to her age (she had long ago lost her youthful vigour and energy, and was eating less and sleeping more with each passing year). When I saw her, she still affectionately purred and rubbed up against my legs, still jumped into my lap when I read, and mewed for me to come keep her company when she ate. That is, she was the same cat I knew and loved until her end. She showed a calmness and strength in spite of her failing health, where most people would give in to sadness and pain. Maybe she didn’t know she was dying; maybe she couldn’t comprehend she was dying. For me, she lived the argument that Epicurus laid out over two millennia ago: that death is nothing to us. Death is a sudden thing, and in an instant ends our experience, including our ability to fear. While we exist we are not dead, and while we’re dead we cannot fear or suffer. Why lessen our life by fearing death?

Life is a long defeat. We can try to evade death as long as we can, but anything we do is only a stall. When confronted with our mortality, we can focus on death and give in to despair. Or, we can recognize that as long as we are able to think on death, we are living. So why not focus on life? The greatest test of character is how we act when faced with the greatest adversity. The most admirable - the most noble - character is one that rails against futility, the one that lives life enjoying the moments available to them. I’ve read Epicurus - I’ve read his argument - but it took the death of Jasmine to really teach me.

I think it only fitting to end with the Epicurean epitaph.

Non fui, fui, non sum, non curo (I was not, I was, I am not, I do not care).