What death can touch

“It is a fearful thing to love what death can touch.”
(Anonymous)

As I write this, Pudgey is curled somewhat in my lap. He smells. I’ll be honest- he’s actually kind of gross. It’s the drool, mostly- and some food smeared into his coat. I’ll give him a bath in a little bit, but it won’t help. Not completely. I won’t push him and scrub him the way he truly needs in order to really be clean. I’m afraid it’ll hurt. I know, you didn’t expect me to write about the smell of elderly, ill cat, but… thems the breaks. 

He’s shaky in his gait. Not nearly as smooth as he once was. I remember watching him prowl around the house like a predator, like the panther he is (well… the panther he thinks he is). Now he looks more like Grizabella. I’ve always associated that particular cat/role/song with my moms old cat KiKi, but I think it fits for Pudgey now. And maybe he’s got a little bit of Gus, the theatre cat, too. But he still gets on and off the furniture. And uses the stairs for my bed. So there’s still some physicality in him. Though I am terrified of him taking the stairs at night, without a light…

Everyday with him is a gift. Even if I do spend much of our time wiping drool and schmutz off his face. He snuggles me- something he didn’t do much of in the first half of our relationship. He climbs on top of my demanding petting and scratches. I miss his cry, though. His pathetic meow- too weak for his big self- was always a favorite sound. But it’s changed now. I’m sure it is due to the tumor and its growth. There’s barely any sound. If any is even attempted. Heck, I miss him hissing at me for annoying him. At biting at me when he was done with attention but I continued petting anyways. Those behaviors are basically gone.

He prowls around the couch looking for me. Or around me when I’m in bed. So at least some things are still there. And when I look in his eyes, I see him looking back. It’s like those moments of perfect clarity with a dementia patient. I know he’s in there, even as his body slowly fails him. Fails us. I told him that he has to let me know when he’s ready… I don’t know that I’ll know when to let him go.

He’s left my lap now… off to patrol from the couch to his plate. To see if I’ve freshened his food while he’s sat in my lap. Logic has never been his strong suit. Do I upset him with a bath now or wait til morning? Can I stand the smell of drool? Eh… he just wants to cuddle. That’s more important than my senses, right? I thought so.

~ by elizabeth ann on April 27, 2013.