I was sitting on the porch and staring at the cat in my lap when the phone rang. Rebecca called to say her sister, Rachel, would be delivering farm eggs in five to 10 minutes.
I scooched Jack to the side and eased myself up. Jack jumped to the floor and turned his back on me. He can’t hear, so he didn’t know the phone had rung or that I had to get the eggs, or that I had been telling him that I would miss him terribly when he was gone.
In the last few weeks, the 16- or 17- or 18-year-old cat has declined noticeably. I pick him up and can feel his ribs and his spine; his little hips poke out. He went for about three days without eating but otherwise acted the same, moving from couch to porch to food bowl and back again. I upped his food choices from Friskies to people tuna to sardines to Fancy Feast and some high protein vitamins. The vitamins said cats love the taste. Jack does not love the taste and spits them out under the table. He does like the Fancy Feast, about which, Sam said it was all a ploy to get Fancy Feast.
I googled “18-year-old cat not eating but otherwise normal.”
Several cat owners replied, “Get the cat to an emergency clinic quickly.”
Then a veterinarian posted, “Your cat is not sick, it is dying … ”
I think the vet is right. Jack’s not hurt or sick. He likes watching birds from the porch but doesn’t move an inch toward them. Sam grinned when I pointed out, “Jack’s like a little old man. He just likes to look.”
Sam found an indigo bunting last week and brought it home. The bird appeared to be fine but couldn’t fly, and though it opened its mouth, it made no sound. We fed the bird and watched it hop, but it never flew. This was about the most excited we had seen Jack in months. He thought we had our very own bird.
Five days later we had a funeral for the little bird. Even still, he looked perfectly fine. I asked Kathy McCoy about his demise. She said, “Often mother birds know there is something wrong with the bird and will push it out of the nest.”
Sam said, “We had some good moments with Indie Blue (his name). We gave him a good five days, and he died peacefully.”
That line of thinking consoles me for about a minute. I understand it and I appreciate the moments, but they are hard.
I walked down the driveway to meet Rachel with the eggs. I sat on the wooden bench by the mailbox to wait. The trees were every color of green imaginable. The earth smelled fresh.
I thanked Rachel for the eggs and said, “It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is” she said. “We’re blessed, aren’t we?”
I had to agree.
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