How old does a human have to be to understand the meaning between life and death

A story about life and death on a small scale.

How old does a human have to be to understand the meaning of life and death?

We knew it was going to happen; it had to happen. Polly had had the kind of stroke that isn't good for a cat. She was blind. In a strange and sadly comical manner she would bump into things. I remember every detail of her ambling straight into a cupboard door, and then her confusion; crying and cuddling her, telling her not to do that because it scared me. In the end we couldn't bear it.

I was only six years old.

The main thing I remember from that cold autumn day is the sense of dread overwhelming me. Slowly, numbly, we got out of the car. Her beautiful tabby face stared, blind and confused behind the bars of the carrier, as though jailed. Her soft padded paws shifted uncertainly: her whiskers drooping and her body tense, as though half an understanding was screaming and buzzing around her.

Creaking open the door; the bell tolled. The receptionist smiled toothily at me. I glared back. She looked questioningly at my parents - they confirmed with a nod. After that, there wasn't much to think about except knowing that once she was gone, she could never come back, and there wasn't any hope whatsoever. Is this what death is supposed to be like? The door opened and I shrivelled up. I wanted to take Polly and run away and then make her better and she would be ok and...
Who was I kidding?
I looked at her and she looked at me.

I don't know how to describe what happened next and I don't want to. Everyone said goodbye to her, and it was like she knew what was happening. She didn't make a sound as she was taken into the death-radiating room.

Thinking about it now, I wish I had gone in with her.

Maybe I was too young.

I guess I wouldn't let a six year old do that.

Sometimes the animal struggles, the vet said.

My sister and I drew pictures of her, until we were invited in. Scared and awkward I stepped through that door, and a shaky hand, which I realised belonged to me, crept forwards.

I stroked her: nothing.

I tickled her: no response.

She was nothing more than a limp lump of fur with her head lolled to the side and her tail tense no more. The main detail I remember now was her sad, dead tongue, sticking out. I reached out again and touched it. I felt as dead and empty as she was.

And yet, just a couple of weeks later we got Paddypaws, who had previously been a wandering stray. She was a slim cat with a beautiful coat of fur, which was as black as the winter night sky.
She had short, cute whiskers and was less than one year old.
She was pregnant.

This would be her first litter. It would be very soon, in fact, that she would have her kittens. I think that I was confused what was happening but I could also sense excitement and anticipation in the atmosphere.

Some parts of the scene are so hazy in my mind and some are so sharp. Was that the time when, before I found them, I was playing with my little sister Phoebe? Was that the time when I heard a faint mewing coming from my bedroom? Was that the time I remember calling everyone to come and see? I do remember awkwardly stepping into the room, noticing the open drawer and staring at the fluffy minions of darkness snuggled up next to their mother.

Words can't do justice to getting across the pride of Paddypaws. I've seen a cat smile a thousand times but none had so much amazement, so much pride, so much... everything. Cats don't smile like a human, they can't pretend to smile, it is their whole being that communicates. Whiskers splayed, eyes gleaming, a steady blink. I felt like a very small child seeing and experiencing their first snow. A whole, impossible new world had been born - but instead of outside my window, it was in my underwear drawer. Before I knew it I had pattered across the carpeted floor and anxiously touched them. Pure warmth and soft fur under my careful hand. Paddypaws nuzzled them protectively.

Three kittens, two black and white, one tabby. Two lived. One black and white kitten never saw the world. We buried it in the back garden. My parents said it would help the plants grow.
Frankly I prefer kittens to flowers.

My parents were with me when I saw my first dead body (Polly). But when I saw my first newborn, it was me, and me alone having the privilege to be the first person to see them. New, innocent, unscathed.

How old does a human have to be to understand the meaning of life and death?

Well, I was six.