About a Cat

I was born an animal lover.  My mother was and still is constantly surrounded by cats and occasionally, dogs. When I was small, folks around our 20 acre "mini-farm" figured out that my mother would take every stray that came along and we had 27 cats, 2 dogs, chickens, 2 horses, 20 head of cattle, a hog, some ducks and a turkey.  Having grown up around animals and not many people sometimes means I relate better to my critters than I do human beings.
 
Since adulthood, I've had cats and later, dogs of my own.  Two years ago, my first kitty died.  I thought it was a fluke to have lost her at a relatively young age 13 but now my 11-year-old cat KC is in rapid decline as well: this time it's kidney failure.  The invisible enemy is stealing her away right in front of my eyes.  Her weight has dropped and her energy is reserved for the truly tempting: the nightly yarn ball stowing or strolling in to investigate can opener noise. 
 
It is in these small routines that I rely.  The hardest part of knowing when it's time to say goodbye to K.C. is that she can't tell me how she feels: I have to guess by her movements, her variance from habit and schedule, her willingness to be touched and where I find her in the house.  Although it kills me to do it, I stroke down her back every day, gauging her weight in the space of a hand.  My eyes follow her across a room and look hard in to her eyes.  I want to ask, "Does it hurt?"  But she only gazes back, silent, eyes wide and bright and bigger now in her heart-shaped little face.
 
This is my long and painful goodbye to a well-loved friend.  She's due for more blood work in a few days but I already know the answer:  her little body is almost done.   So as darkness comes, I let her have her way a bit more -- drinks from the sink, cuddles on my lap, treats often.  When I stroke her glossy black fur it is my whispered prayer that I have given her a happy life.  I know how happy she has made mine.