Momento Mori

Today I watch Tawny trace lazy spirals through the house. She starts big: my bedroom, living room, kitchen, Keira's room, bathroom, living room, my room, living room, my room, living room, living room, living room. She winds in ever-tightening drunken spirals until she is spinning like a top and then she falls, gasping. Then she sleeps.

Then, like Charlotte Perkins Gilman, she's off on her spiral again. Charlotte's smooch replaced by an angry wound and her scootch replaced by the drunken gait of late stage feline saddle thrombus.

Sometimes I find her napping in irrational positions, her head tilted back at 90% or folded over a water bottle as if it's a body pillow, but as I sit death watch with her something occurs to me. Each of us greets Death differently.

Whatever impetus drives her, be it a search for relief or merely dementia, she has a freedom that she never had in health. Quiet, shy, and partially blind, she preferred the dark peaceful corners under beds and in closets. Nervous, she overgroomed until her hind end was bald. She never left my room and when she did it was to spat with the other cat. 

Lost in the fog of dementia she leaves the confines of the bedroom and explores every inch of the house (even getting stuck several times). Her hair is growing back and she greets Two-Face with friendly curiosity. Tawny still staggers into the litterbox and blindly finds the waterbowl (sometimes with her feet). She still tolerates a bit of tuna or a tiny treat. 

Daisy, our 17 yo Lab/Boxer mix that passed of a stroke in January, waited patiently. Laying still, blind eyes attentive to the sounds of the room when she was able. She didn't walk, she didn't drink, she didn't eat. 

My mom slipped into a Snow White slumber and greeted Death like her Prince Charming.

I think I will greet Death as an old friend. We have spent many quiet hours together watching my loved ones fight against pain and illness. I think she has a warm embrace and carries a lantern to light her way through the thick grief of loved ones. 

I imagine myself a writer and a photographer but I don't think I could ever illustrate the strange rabbit-ness of Tawny's back legs. Even when she drinks she doesn't sit but perches like a jack rabbit ready to bolt. Her nose and jowls are the perfect miniature of an american cougar and her left ear is cropped because she is a street rescue. Despite her wildness, she is not a hunter but prefers to sit on your chest, purring and drooling her content, all the while kneading like a kitten. She is "mon petite puma concolor".

I tried for a really long time to find a new home for Tawny and maybe it's selfish of me but I'm glad I never found them. ❤