Money in the Bank

Parker is becoming more frail. Changes in his health seem to come at once, rather than gradually. I notice them, and realise that they had not been building; they simply arrive. Various chores, such as helping close down and pack away the PAW Society Garage Sale, will take up so much time today that I may not be able to take the orange-boy for a walk. But, strangely, and regrettably, he didn’t express a desire to go out when I changed clothes and went out myself earlier. He may be feeling his growing weakness.

But his time is not yet, and for this, I credit food. Food is physically and biologically necessary, but I believe good food is morally powerful. I’ve watched Parker closely over the last few months, and have seen food’s effect on him. What caused me to take him to the veterinary initially, and which led to his cancer being diagnosed, was a loss of appetite. Since then, his desire for food has soared. This may be in part due to the half-pill of Prednisolone I give him each day. But I think alternating the variety of nutrition offered has helped, too. And when he eats well, his spirits rise.

This morning, he demolished almost two thirds of a 5.5 ounce tin of Merrick turkey. When he at last declared himself sated, he started purring. He purred loudly enough to be heard throughout the apartment. I sat with him and we had a petting session; he continually bumped his fuzzy head against me. He had eaten well, and he felt very good.

A full belly is as needful to morale as is a good night’s sleep. Constant hunger, like fatigue, wears away at a body, whether human or animal; it wears away just as much at the spirit. I think it is one of the things people – at least those in charge – don’t understand about poverty. Just getting by isn’t enough. It’s like being given a room in a hostel or a homeless shelter; it helps, it maintains, but it doesn’t allow growth; it doesn’t permit progress. A certainty of food, of residence, of cleanliness in the future as much as in the present, is like money in the bank; it’s like a job instead of a hand-out.

A cat doesn’t think like a person. He assumes much: having eaten his fill, he doesn’t worry about the future’s meals. A full stomach is his money in the bank, it is his security. Therefore, when the bowl has been heaped so much that he can’t consume that last morsel, however much he wishes he could, a cat is happy. He purrs. He is safe, and well – at least for now, and for cats, there isn’t much beyond now.

So while Parker diminishes more and more, he has his moments of enjoyment and peace. He will have them for as long as I can provide them, and for as long as his cancer permits. When that is no longer the case, he will leave me. For now, however, he rests contentedly. For now, he has money in the bank.