Jeff is as you can imagine, (“Both my boys are gone,” he said last night), and I’m sad too but with nothing like the sadness of someone who lived with a cat from his hyperactive kittenhood into maturity as a sober minded and dignified cat. Who rescued the kitten on at least two occasions. I guess Margot isn’t the kitten anymore, unless we decide we want to break our hearts again and adopt a senior cat. We watched Pacific all day yesterday as it was the only show dark enough to match our mood when we took him to the hospital.
I feel lucky to have known him. He was a very handsome creature. I knew he was dying when he no longer left the room when I sang and played… he always hated the sound of either instrument or voice, and disliked loud tv. The bloodwork we learned of yesterday confirmed it. He had days at best, his mouth sores were making eating impossible and drinking painful. He had a good run, but dammit, too short; a year ago he was so sleek and energetic we had reasonable hopes he’d make twenty.
And now, we must site and dig a grave. He’ll be buried in the towel I set under him to keep him warm and comfortable in his last days, somewhere close to Zeek! and Gizmo, his adoptive brother, and Kira, and Bounce, who has rested here these last fifteen years or so, up against the south fence, shaded by a dogwood, close to the deck where he spent many hours in feline contemplation, lazing in the sun, waiting for Jeff to come home so he could run up and greet him.
