Dylan Thomas says to rage against the dying of the light. He implores it: rage, rage. What feeds the rage? From what source comes the energy to maintain a fervent opposition? At some point, things are exhausted, and the raging becomes but a whimper. No one hears a whimper.
When my sweet and loving kitty, Domino was at the end of her life, she creaked around, aged and infirmed and whimpered. She curled beneath the Christmas tree so still in the glow of the Christmas lights only to be found the next morning in her final peace. She was a loving companion, my kitty. A dainty calico that came to the flicking sound of my fingers. When she got old, she drooled a little. For a cat, she exceeded all life expectancies, dying after 17 years. My Domino did not rage. She slide quietly away, barely noticed. I miss her soft, silken fury and her willingness to curl up on my lap.