Chuck has been at war with me ever since we adopted three, no four, no five shelter cats about five months ago. He likes the cats and finds life far more stimulating with their shenanigans, but he’s been rigidly peeved at me. No touching. No caressing, although we were intimate friends before, and he slept tucked in close to me at night. But after the new household members, nothing but growls and hisses. How is that fair?
During these five months, he nearly died from a stomach condition. We kept him between us on the bed, watching his every breath and inflection. At one point he stopped breathing and moving. Totally non-responsive. We burst into tears and were discussing his cat funeral when he lifted his head, looking curious about all the drama.
Since then his age of eighteen years is showing poignantly. His form has shrunk, his back legs are stiff, although he is still strong and, especially, skilled at moving. When ballsy young Harpo tries to dominate him, Chuck calmly lays him on his back like a ninja master. Seven or eight times. Harpo is a slow learner.
With muscular shrinkage, Chuck’s beautiful bone structure is his defining presence. His cinnamon coat is dry, and though clean, no longer sleek. It makes me painfully aware that his time is short.
A couple of days ago, Chuck got in bed with me and laid his head in my hand. As I stroked him, deep purrs rolled through his body into mine. I got pretty choked up.
Chuck knows too that his time is short. And is acknowledging that we need to share what precious time we have.
My furry son.
My cats are my muses. I am a lucky woman.
Chuck with our beloved Ebby. When Ebby was alive, they used to lie on mats in sunny spots together. As the sun progressed across the floor, we pulled them into the sun on their mats like small rajahs.
Sorry , Chuck. I was off by a year. You're nineteen!