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A little more than a month ago, when I wanted to sit on the kitchen sofa by the fire, I noticed that Rose was right there in the middle of it-again. This had been happening alot, and after my slight annoyance faded, it slowly dawned upon me that she had been there almost ’round the clock for a few days. Then I realized that I couldn’t remember her eating her food or asking to be let out, either.
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She seemed to not be in any pain or discomfort, and she would drink water when offered, but she refused all offerings of food, even the most delectable bit of our supper salmon. And so we entered a blur of days, wondering and watching, holding and tending. It felt sadly familiar in some ways and sweetly familiar in others. At times over the next two weeks, sixteen-year old Rose seemed so close to the end of her life-her breath sometimes hitching, sometimes barely perceptible. I spent many nights on the kitchen sofa, while she slept on her pallet by the woodstove. Then I thought to make her a nest in our bedroom, with heating pad to stay warm, so I could sleep in my own pleasant bed.
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One sunny mild day a week or so on this journey, Rose asked to be let out, and after she tottered to a sunny spot in the grass and rested for awhile, she began to head to the woods in a terribly frail but determined manner. Some twenty years ago, our first kitty walked off to woods one day in her elder years and never returned, and I wasn’t willing to let that happen again. So I scooped her close and brought her back inside and the vigil continued…with me keeping a little more emotional distance, in respect to her-perhaps-really wanting to go.
Then ten days later, after two and half weeks of only water, we heard the surprising sound of crunching from her food perch in the kitchen one evening. Just a few bites, but then it happened again…and again…and we added a little dish of milk…and then some soft cat food…and tiny meal after tiny meal became the norm.
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One day, she again asked to go outside, and tho’ she didn’t seem on the threshold of death’s door anymore, I decided to companion her (at a respectful distance, again). I spent a lovely hour slowly following…sitting and looking around when she did…climbing fences when she slipped under them…enjoying the sun and fresh air, just as she did. Every time she turned towards the woods, I held my breath…but no, she seemed to simply be taking an accustomed route through the pastures…with many contemplative pauses. So I relaxed, and when she finally turned towards barn and home, looking very weary, I caught her up close and carried her the rest of the way.
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Since then, she has gone from strength to strength and is again seeking out laps at every opportunity…
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…and continuing to ruin the front door with her manner of expressing her wish to come in…
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…and waking us up in the night, for reasons which are never clear…
And we welcome it all…mostly.
Rose’s recent journey took me on one, too….of trust and patience and acceptance. I hope I never forget that all through her most remote hours, when I had to keep putting my hand on her dear little body to see if she still breathed, I was always quietly amazed to feel the little rumble of her purring. She literally purred her way through those weeks.
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