“He’ll tell you when it’s time,” the vet had said.
After scrubbing so many sticky sprays of vomit out of the carpet and bedsheets, I kneel down and whisper into the old cat’s ear…
“Is it time?”
He gives no response. He doesn’t look up, ears back, eyes closed tighter, and I wait…
Slowly, he struggles to his feet.
Looking up, he meows. Twice.
Tail crookedly lifted high, he stumbles to the food bowl again.
Past the bottles of carpet stain remover.
The spat-out pills hidden in half-chewed treats.
I’m exhausted, and I feel guilty for wishing he’d say:
“Now.”
3 thoughts on “Whisper”
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This is the only thing I don’t like about having cats. I dread the day I have to make that decision.
Or not making it, and when they go on their own, wondering if you should have helped them go before then.
-ls/cm
Cats can be such stoics. Especially when they’re up one day and down the next. It’s so hard to know when. Nardo had a great life with people who loved him.