This Old Man
Monday. Another really nice morning, the air clear, the sky clear, the sun out, the temperatures cool. Shirt sleeve weather, t-shirt weather coming later this morning as the sun rises higher. They're saying in the high sixties today and I hope they're right. A sunny high sixties day is what you get when you're allowed to choose your own weather in that fantasy place. My thought, anyway. Many like it warmer. Not I. Not me. Deedle-dee-dee.
The vet opens at nine and I'll be standing at their door then when they arrive. Emmy slept (again) on the bed last night in her usual place, she encouraged me to come into the kitchen for the first time in four days when I awoke, but drank only water. I tried two different, usually liked kinds of cat food, but to no effect. She seems marginally better, encouraging me to go into the kitchen, but that could be an illusion. Your cat can't not eat for very long before she isn't a cat anymore and, yes, I'm worried. Nine in the morning is thirty minutes away, we'll see if we're lucky. Usually, when your cat stops eating, you find yourself in a not very happy place. But I could be wrong. Nice to be wrong. Hope I'm wrong, little cat.
Later. She'd lost well over a pound, well over ten percent of her body weight, a tumor in her stomach. Emmy died this morning around ten as I scratched her neck, her eyes staring at the examining room wall. Not much happiness in telling your veterinarian to kill your cat. Be happy wherever you are, Ms. Emmy You spent the last years of your life cooped up here in this apartment without complaint; you were good company for this old man.