Wicca

My old cat died last night, just a couple of weeks short of her twentieth birthday.  She stopped eating, and for the latter half of the day she lay there glassy-eyed and unmoving and I knew it was time. She was so thin it was hard to see how her body could support life, her fur was dry and matted, and she felt so fragile I thought she might shatter with a touch.  Her time had come.

I wanted to hold vigil with her on her last night, so I wrapped her in a blanket and laid her on a cushion beside my bed.  At 12:50am she began to twitch wildly, then took her last few ragged breaths as I gently stroked her.  I think it was a good death, with a minimum of suffering, in a familiar place, wrapped in all the love I have to give.

The kittens gathered round, unsure what was happening, but somehow knowing to keep a respectful distance.  Later, I placed her body on a table in my office and Fingal extended a gentle paw to touch hers.  I was lucky enough to have my camera in my hand at the time.

Fingal and Wicca

A little while ago, I wrote this poem after Wicca had made a rare visit to me when I was lying sleepless in bed one night.  We have a three-storey house and she hadn’t been to the top floor of the house in months.

Old cat

You came to me tonight,

easing your arthritic body up several steep flights

just to see me,

and allow me to stroke your dulled fur

and murmur your name into deaf ears.

I was having dark thoughts till you came,

but you led me back to a safe place

and my heart unfurled,

and the soft purr of a loved old cat was all I needed

to let me feel what there is of peace in this world.

Goodbye, my friend.

 

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