One Baccarat glass candle holder, found at a yard sale. One antique plate. Several lesser items.
Thousands of dollars in food, litter, vaccines, and, lately, veterinarians.
Your glee at being released from the cage, your home for the first four months of your life.
Your circus acts on the stair banister.
The embarrassment of watching you hump your teddy bear in front of company.
Nights disturbed by piercing yowls.
(The male vet: He’s neutered, not dead.)
Countless cleanings of your upchucks from floors, rugs, upholstered furniture.
You frightened my housemates, intimidated my friends, discouraged the vet, persecuted the dogs.
So demanding, so oblivious to the wants of others.
Sending Maxine to the emergency room with a bitten, swelling hand. But still she loved you.
Full of teeth and growls and purrs and insistent demands for affection.
Staking out Abigail as yours, only yours, and defending your territory with deep-in-the-throat warnings.
Your fondness for women, your passion for men.
Stalking the contractors during renovation, earning the title: The Inspector.
Plush, handsome, fearless, huge orange cat, you’ve become a thin hank of scruffy fur.
For weeks, you wanted me to hold you, just hold you still against my breasts. Now, you want not even that.
You’re hungry, but you will not eat. You vanish in the pillows.
For you, it’s time.
You bully, you inconstant friend, you gorgeous, fierce and lovely cat.
For me, time comes too soon, too slow, too sudden. Not yet, I say. Not just yet.
I see you bend, stiff, around your pain. Jumping becomes more and more difficult.
Soon.
Tomorrow.
UPDATE Friday 25 July: Spike and I are still in denial. With the vet’s approval, we are giving each other a few more days. I do realize this is a temporary postponement.
He has rallied somewhat, is eating (drinking) evaporated milk and chicken broth. He is purring again. He is asking for my lap again.
And he has it.
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