Category Archives: cats

Holding on–letting go

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IMG_0226Early in the morning. I’m sitting on the couch. Raven, the cat, is prowling around, hoping for space in my lap. She’s an old girl—she was 10 when I adopted her from the shelter in January 2011. So far she’s been healthy but recent bloodwork indicates her kidneys are starting to deteriorate. She’s lost some weight, seems to be drinking more water. Other than that, she’s her usual self.

But I know what might be coming—I’ve been here before with other cats, most recently my cat Sam who died in 2009. When the vet called to tell me the results of Raven’s blood tests, I told her about my experience with Sam—the nine month passage from mildly elevated blood values to a very sick cat and euthanasia. She reassured me that not all cats go that route; some live comfortable lives with chronic disease. Perhaps.

This is the bargain we make when we adopt these animals—that we will love them, care for them—and usher them through their last days, leaving us with holes in our lives.

Raven has been sitting on the dining table, gazing out at the backyard, which is slowly getting light on this next-to-last day of daylight savings time. She now makes the leap from the table to the arm of the couch and bulldozes her way onto my lap—I’m typing now at a slant with the laptop off to one side. Ergonomics be damned when a cat wants to rent space in your lap.

Bringing animals into our lives, opening our hearts to them, forces us to confront the duality of loving well and letting go. We rehearse this over and over, with each furry death. I know I’ll have difficult decisions ahead—when to treat and to what extent, whether to administer sub Q fluids, when to end it. Cats are stoic creatures; by the time they let us see their pain, they’re usually suffering.

In 2009-2010 I had to make that decision for 3 cats. Albert was first—acute kidney failure and a trip to the emergency vet hospital that resulted in his euthanasia. Then a few months later, I had Sam put to sleep after his chronic kidney disease grew severe. Indigo, the oldest of the three, lived for another year of declining abilities, aching joints, and a wonky heart. Each death taught me something about what to look for, when to treat, when to let go, how to keep the animal’s needs foremost, put their welfare above my own need to hold on.

Raven has abandoned my lap—this is often the routine, she nestles in for a time and then leaves for more important feline business—a daily ritual of attachment and letting go. The sky is light now. and I need to start my day. 

Morning musing

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I’m not a morning person. I don’t leap out of bed greeting the glorious morn. I savor the warmth of duvet and pillows pulled close, the slow drift in and out of sleep, the edge of light sneaking past the window shades when I open my eyes and then darkness again, the strange half dreams that happen at dawn.

 My cat has other ideas. At my first stirring she tunes up her complaints about an empty bowl. Sometimes I open my eyes to see her sitting at the end of the bed silently staring—I close my eyes again and soon feel the mattress shift slightly as she pads up the side of the bed to stand over me sniffing my breath. “Is she still alive?” I imagine her wondering (if she could wonder such things).

 And I have a job with a mandated arrival time so between imploring cat and job I have to act like a morning person. I slowly sit up, stretch, stand, and shuffle down the hall to the bathroom and then invite the yowling and purring cat to go outside so that I can have peace while I cope with the kitchen.

 I get the coffee started, pop toast in toaster, spoon cat food into cat’s dish, and then let the cat back inside. She races to her dish, meowing, and starts to eat. I take my coffee and toast and sit at the dining table, which is placed in front of a picture window winter2with a view of the birdfeeders, gardens, and trees. Right now the view is snow, snow, and more snow.

 I’m not a morning person but I’ve come to relish these few moments when I can sit by this window and drink coffee, munch on toast, watch the birds peck and nibble and squirrels chase each other. Except for the bird and squirrel activity it’s a static world in winter. On occasion I’ve seen an owl in the branches of one of the trees–every morning I look but rarely spot it. I know if I ventured out and looked closely I’d see an array of tracks but from the warmth of the house, viewed through glass, nothing moves. This is a pause, a time to breathe slowly. I sit forward on the edge of the chair so the cat can jump up behind me, her warm body pressed against my back. I sit some more, mind still on pause, before standing to begin the get-ready-for-work routine.

 What do you look forward to in your mornings?