Those of us living out here on the edge of the world—the northern Gulf of Mexico coast—were already experiencing bone shattering grief over BP’s criminal assault on our environment and way of life.  So I relished the opportunity to bear witness to the journey: caterpillar to chrysalis to butterfly.

As I watched the lime green, black striped and yellow polka dot critters munch and poop, munch and poop, and then molt before my very eyes, I remembered seeing a black swallowtail a few days prior frantically hover and flit all over the plant and had thought that it was an odd and beautiful site.  Ah ha!  I had been watching the birth of larval life and hadn’t even realized it.

Worried that my one plant would not suffice, the next day I trekked into town and bought an entire flat of parsley.  Saturday morning, Bill set up a video camera.  Yes, we taped them (video to come, yes indeed!).  Larvae gazing: That's what we call excitement on the edge of nowhere.

Saturday afternoon, I checked on our brood and was saddened to see that their ranks had been reduced by half.  Being pathetically optimistic, I decided that the missing caterpillars had trooped off to begin the next phase of their journey and was miffed that they hadn’t used the long piece of driftwood I had stuck in the clay pot as their chrysalis post.

 Just a few hours later, Bill and I were standing in our kitchen talking when he yelled, “No!”

I followed his gaze to the deck just in time to see a male cardinal swoop in and pick off yet another caterpillar.  So much for my optimism.  Tennyson’s nature red tooth and claw was in full gear.

We immediately moved the remaining six—parsley flats and all—to the screened front porch where, over the next few days, I watched them grow nearly five inches long.  The top of the screen was torn and I observed three of them make a slow ascent out into the world, disappearing into the wild tangle of an unruly cabbage palm.  The next morning, I was delighted to see that two of them had returned.

By week's end, only three remained.  We had protected them long enough that they could continue their amazing journey: Isn't that what humans are supposed to do?  

Still, it’s embarrassing to admit how excited I was when I saw that one of the trio had made its way to the wood header and had begun the process of going into what I have decided was a self-induced coma.  It took only a few hours for it to lose its brilliant colors and morph into a well-concealed brown chrysalis. 

The remaining two ate less and seemed to fall asleep only to wake again and eat some more.  I think they were resisting the journey, content in their parsley jungle.

But DNA has a way of winning out.  I watched as the smaller of the duo made its way to the top.  I was hopeful that it too would drift into a chrysalis coma on my side of the screen.  Thrilled, I watched it approach its chrysalis sibling.  Perhaps I would have my very own private chrysalis farm. 

The caterpillar moved closer and closer—I was smug in my joy—and then to my everlasting horror, the caterpillar began to eat the chrysalis.  I screamed.  I picked up a twig, yelled, "Stop that!" and separated them.  Over and over, I did this until finally—close to being stricken with heat stroke—I gave up and reluctantly decided that nature had to do what nature does. 

I also decided that the chrysalis-eating caterpillar must have come from the same gene pool as the corporate heads of BP, Halliburton, and Transocean; by eating the chrysalis, there would ultimately be less competition and, therefore, more food.  Damn the consequences: greed knocks to smithereens the fair balance of nature and humankind.  The only thing that allowed my to be amused by any of this was my writer's propensity for mocking self-examination.

By morning the caterpillars were gone.  The chrysalis was still there, although what damage it might have sustained I didn’t know.  I moved my parsley farm back to the garden where, with lots of watering and sunshine, it is thriving.

Today, my lovely pit bull, Murmur Lee, began barking, her stubborn gaze pinned to something on the porch.  I looked out and joy shot through me like a meteor arcing through a new moon sky: the metamorphosis of life had taken one more brilliant turn: a beautiful, glorious black swallowtail butterfly lit on the screen. 

These days I latch on to anything I can turn into a talisman.  I look for signs of life amid the devastation BP has wrought and so often only find death.  I seek omens that perhaps all is not lost and run into brick walls composed of corporate neglect and greed.  But today, today I received a reminder, in the form of a winged prayer, that we cannot give up:

From the edge,

Connie May 

Those of you who have read my memoir, When Katie Wakes, know that the unconditional love of a Labrador/German Shepherd mix named Katie helped see me through the dark days of being a battered woman.

On St. Patrick’s Eve—nine years ago today—I lost my dear Katie. She is buried just steps from me, in the backyard, facing the bay, under the shade of a palm tree. It was where I could find her on most any sunny day.

She was with me for 18 years.

As I buried her–it was about 3 o’clock in the afternoon–a soft rain began to fall; the sky did not clear until morning. My other dogs stayed by her grave, throughout the night, refusing to come in despite the weather. I think they were watching over her soul as it transitioned to some place we can’t yet know.

I find grace in the fact that as I write this, a spring shower has just arrived. I cannot shake the feeling that Katie brought the storm on as a cosmic kiss.

I miss her everyday, but on this anniversary of her passing, with the scent and sound of rain engulfing me, the loss is fresh, new, overwhelming. Yes, indeed, a remembrance is in order.

Katie: a black dog with a white heart, ticklish feet, eyes that left no doubt she was an old soul.

Katie: a wild child who smiled with a largess that escapes even some humans; she showed all her pearly canines.

Katie: she had a sense of humor, knew I was going to cry before I did, and never suffered fools.

Katie: the Houdini of Dogdom, defying the laws of science, escaping through cracks in a fence she couldn’t fit through.

Katie: cow-barker, cat-licker, wind-chaser, sun-bather, lover of the McDonald’s drive-thru.

Katie: Cuban sandwich thief, perceptive, smart, snorer, understood that the dressmaker down the street was just crazy enough to be avoided.

Katie: full of hope, full of light, full of unrepentant dog love.

Katie: died in my arms, not in my heart.

Katie: a patient girl who put up with me singing into her dense coat, “KkkKatie, kkkKatie! You’re the only ddddog that I adore!”

Katie: she loved her Guinness.

Katie: what a good dog she was!

On this St. Paddy’s Eve, if the spirit stirs you, tip one back for Kateland, The Wonder Dog, knowing that there is goodness in this world and that sometimes it arrives on your doorstop with four paws, a wet nose, and a soulful bark.

Heart and soul,

Connie

P.S. Links to love: Adopt a Pet,  The Clarissa Burden Postcard Project, The Clarissa Burden Launch Party in Tampa, Pre-order How Clarissa Burden Learned to Fly, Some Recent Writing, A Good Interview,

We’ve all got them.  They make the world spin and our lives more interesting: Secrets. 

We also have to unburden ourselves from time to time . . .