Shaq

There’s a special old guy that has been doing a lot of staring into the ether lately and it reminds me of how old we’ve both gotten. I probably do the same thing without even realizing it. I used to be different. I would jump out of bed, now I slither, put on my clothes, now I fall into them haphazardly and smiling at my mate, and drink the tea he made for me. Although I don’t exactly growl in the morning it’s certainly not like that now. Instead I mix potions of this and that to boost my health and worse I drink them in my tea, which is far too complicated for John to make for me. Even I can hardly handle it, but eventually I feed the cats that show up and wait for Shaq to arise, which might happen in the afternoon. He doesn’t have far to go, but he gets his best sleep on our bed in the morning. When he does come into the kitchen where I’m preparing food for lunch or dinner, he slowly looks at me without even a meow and I know what he wants to eat and give it to him. Then he walks towards the nearest door and waits for me to let him out instead of going out the cat door on the other side of the cottage.  In time he lays down on the grass where the sun radiates heat onto the silver birch trees, until one of us appears to sit on. This goes on for a few hours, sometimes into the night but when he arrives for his dinner meal, I ply him with a pill pulling his head back gently and popping a tiny pink thing into the back of his throat. Then still speaking quietly to him and smiling and laughing as I chatter away to get his mind off the fact I’m going to shove a syringe into the side of his mouth for his arthritis, I can finally relax myself. Then I know that despite bringing in wee mice for a late snack that he mostly releases inside the house, that he will be able to eat all of that stuff and regular food too and his thyroid will still be working well and he’ll still be able to leap up without pain.

Then I can concentrate on my pills after dinner (so I too can leap up without pain but not to eat wee mice) and then I really can relax or not depending on how long it takes me to clean up the dishes and the messes I make in the kitchen. I used to be quite efficient and now sometimes have a brief spell of that, but mostly I’ve turned from the hare into the tortoise. That is not particularly pleasing. I like to sprint. Especially when it comes to house maintenance. I have other pleasurable activities that I prefer so I whiz through the maintaining of the abode as fast as possible, which is not very fast anymore.

So Shaq and I have a lot in common lately and have spent many meaningful moments together staring at the walls. He is the cat who could always find me in the garden and would jump up and sit on a narrow fencepost to get me to pick him up and put him over my shoulder for a cuddle (like a baby). He still prefers to be carried that way but unfortunately my back doesn’t usually hold up for long doing that.

My poor darling pussycat is definitely still such a wonder to me. He almost died after a sudden attack a year ago. He left at night and returned all bloodied in the early morning. I could hardly recognize him. He had so many bites and lacerations we had to rush him in to see the vet and it was touch and go if he’d make it. But his wounds went even deeper. His whole personality was altered from the trauma. How he survived such a vicious attack is miraculous. Only now, a year later has some of his spunkiness returned along with some longer fur again. Although we’re both slowpokes now in comparison to the old days, we’ve survived the worst of it, or so I hope.

The sweetest thing he still does though is to touch foreheads with me. I’ve never had another cat do this and it’s so endearing. It’s as if we’re communing and I know that he knows that too. Shaq’s such an affectionate little fellow. I really hope that he stays around for many  more golden years with me. For all I know I’ll be the one leaning on his little shoulder.