Patchez

I have a cat named Patchez, and she has been sick for a few years now.  Kidney disease can present itself in all kinds of ways, but for Patchez, her stomach is always messed up. She doesn’t eat well.  Sometimes she will be persuaded, and sometimes she will not. She is 17 years old, but she found me as a barely weaned kitten.

She was hanging around my friend’s backyard, meowing incessantly and apparently homeless.  She had a bloated belly full of worms and was obviously hungry.  She gobbled up the food we gave her.  She had ears full of mites, though I did not know that at the time. She needed a friend. 

She was such a sweet and talkative little girl that as I was leaving, I told my friend, “If she jumps in my car when I open the door, I am taking her.” She jumped in my car as soon as I opened the door, and we went home together.  We have been buddies ever since.

I took her to the vet and got her all the medicine she needed. I cleaned her up and bought her all that she would need.  I committed to care for her, and her for me.    

Other than my husband, Patchez has been the most consistent and loving relationship of my adult life. Shortly after I first took her in, I underwent a complete identity overhaul.  I was in a crisis, and she saw me through many tears and bewildered moments.  She slept on my heart, her warm body purring against my chest, every night. She was a Comfort and a Constant. She saw me through such joy, too.  She preceded the meeting, dating, and marrying of my husband, my new life in Christ and the wonders of redemption, and beyond. She took the role of confidant, comforter, and daughter.

She sleeps in my open guitar cases as I play and especially loves when I play metal.  She meows me awake for no reason at all at 4 am and very vocally demands I open the back door for her, even if she doesn’t go out. She sits next to me at the kitchen table and waits patiently for small nibbles of people food, because I am so much of a sucker and it makes me happy to see her eat anything…

She was as spry as ever up until recently. She still has moments of chasing her tail or racing to her scratching pad to sharpen up her claws, but she sleeps a lot more. Arthritis has made her more of an old lady, and I notice that she goes up and down the stairs a bit more gingerly. 

She bellows and howls sometimes and the only thing I can understand is that she is in pain. Kidney disease gives her trouble filtering out the toxic waste from her system, so it gives her an “acid stomach” type of pain. The vet said constant nausea contributes to her lack of appetite. She drinks a lot of water and pees a whole lot, sometimes not getting it entirely inside her box. She is very skinny.

I hope and pray it is not her time to leave this world right now. I know she could go at any time, I hope not yet.  I also know she is not afraid of dying. Animals cope with pain, but not the anxiety surrounding death. Not catastrophic thinking or vanity or self preoccupation of any sort. That's why they are so much better at love than people.

I dread the likelihood of making a difficult decision to end her suffering. How my soul will ache and writhe and miss her like crazy. How I will wonder if it was the right time.  For now, I know it is not the time. I trust that she will let me know.  Others tell me she will.

I choose not to dread the end; I choose not to fear the impending loss. Instead, I will let her curl up on my chest with her soft black fur and her rancid breath. I will listen lovingly to her constant, pointless meows and not scold her, even at 4 am. I will cherish her sitting and begging right next to me at the table, politely waiting for whatever nibble she won't eat.  I will revel in the gift of her and all that is her.  I want her to know, as best she can, the overwhelming love I have for her. Up until her time is up. For now, I will love her as best I know how.