When I brought April home from the SPCA, she had earmites and infections in her eyes and upper respiratory tract. A knobby scar under her left front leg bore witness to some mishap during her past life, just as her poor teeth pointed to neglect. All I knew was that she was eight years old, she had been picked up in Mountain View, California, and that despite everything—sickness, neglect, prison trauma—she had let me know that I could adopt her.
In the interest of matching cats to people, the SPCA rated cat personalities from 1 to 5; a ‘3’ indicated your basic standard kitty, a feral cat ranked as a ‘5’, and a ‘1’ indicated a boneless throw-pillow type. Applied to people, ‘1’ would be a cloistered monk and ‘5’ would be Attila the Hun. The SPCA had declared April to be a ‘2’—the rating I would also give myself. Thus the chemistry was perfect, a pair of twos finding each other amidst the madding throng of threes.
That was sixteen years ago. I’m in my mid-fifties now and April is about 110 in people years, i.e., almost 24. She’s one seriously elderly kitty, but such lifespans are becoming increasingly common for indoor cats, given advancements in medical care and improved sanitation and diet. April stays inside, eats a sensible but high-quality diet, has never been fat, stays clean and rested and warm. Fleas carry worms and diseases, but there are none in our house—thanks to Advantage, Fleabusters, and an ironclad rule about never wearing street shoes into the house. Six years ago, April’s vet detected a thyroid tumor early enough for successful radiation therapy. Her health has been robust otherwise. Her digestion is a bit more delicate than other cats, and she is given to the occasional urinary tract infection, but that’s it. Barring a freak accident, April has every chance of living as long as her genetic inheritance will allow.
But her body is wearing out. She’s rake-thin now, prone to stiffness and aches. Going to the bathroom is clearly unpleasant on occasion, and she needs to pass a lot more fluids in and out than in the past—as do I. Just sitting upright has become a challenge, as her formerly picture-perfect posture, paws immaculately aligned behind an elegantly-curled tail, has given way gradually to a stooped spraddle, paws spread apart and turned a bit inwards to provide a bit more support, head drooping noticeably between her shoulders, just like an old lady with osteoporosis. She still runs around the house a bit after a good poop, but only briefly. She has moments of slight dizziness and needs to anchor herself carefully when getting up after a nap. Her appetite is excellent, and it’s a good thing that she’s always preferred soft canned food to dry, because her teeth can’t handle chewing any more.
She gets the heebie-jeebies and starts yelling at me as though her heart is breaking, but fortunately a good cuddle melts away the jitters. April doesn’t care for being held with her spine downwards; she prefers an upright, crosswise burp-the-baby arrangement, supported by my folded arms (my right hand holds her feet while my left cups her shoulders) with her paws draped over my right shoulder and her head pressed against my right ear. Usually I lean backwards a bit in order to give her more support, and with that we’re good for quite a while as she purrs softly and massages my right shoulder with her paws, occasionally adding a razzle-dazzle of tickly whiskers and moist nose to my right cheek and ear. I treasure these sessions all the more, knowing as I do that our time together is rapidly drawing to a close. I suspect she knows it, too, judging from those panicky entreaties.
Even if once in a while she plays Alice Kramden to my Ralph, we’re as comfortable as old shoes, keyed in and tuned to each other at a near-symbiotic level. Over the years she has developed a rich vocabulary of sounds and body language that I respond to almost instinctively. A few nights ago I awoke abruptly as I heard a particular low miaow; almost without thinking I had April in the bathroom where she could puke on the tile instead of staining the bedroom carpet. That precise I’m going to puke miaow has saved me a bundle on carpet-cleaning bills. Her various chirps, peeps, and murmurs tend to be specific to the occasion, and may well reflect long habit born out of caution—letting me know where she is, and doing what. Expect a cat on the couch in the next few seconds is the unmistakable message of one particularly throaty chirp. Her body language has become expert as well, making it clear when she wants to be up, down, held, not held, etc. I’ve developed my own body language with her that tells her what I’m about to do—standing up, rolling over, moving a leg or arm, etc. We’re both past masters at looking out for each other so nobody gets stepped on or tripped.
I’m dreading what’s to come, but there’s nothing I can do about it. All meeting ends in separation. But maybe, just maybe….not for a while yet.