As the Years Show

Renn continues to show signs of aging. Signs may be seen in my other cats, too, but as a cat, like a person, grows older, the indications of it become plainer. As well, I know my big boy’s age, so, unlike other beasts I’ve had, these signs appear as if on schedule, the way one might expect a tax notice or other unwelcome news.

Renn was born sixteen years ago, in the dry grasses of the coulees (the hills and cliffs along the river here, easily riven and eroded because they comprise only dirt.) His mother was socialised but abandoned, perhaps already pregnant, certainly unspayed – a familiar story – and gave birth to five kittens, all boys. They were rescued, and all, including the mum, eventually adopted. First, though, Renn spent some time in foster-care, where he bit his guardian. (She had tried to trim his bum-hair, something which still provokes warnings from Renn; I heed them, and take my time with him.) Banished to the basement, he was no longer wanted. He came to stay with me, and I soon after adopted him.

I recall one of his favourite places was the ‘roofless cave’, a lidless box with an entrance cut away, heavily taped in place on top of my kitchen cupboards. Hardly as fearsome as his size suggested, he was, in fact, anxious over many things – the roofers working on the neighbouring building, for instance – and liked to have his refuge. He sprang up to a counter, then to the top of the refrigerator, and from there to his ‘cave’ with the ease and vigour of youth.

This week, while watching a movie, I observed him having difficulty jumping onto the library couch to sit next to me. I insisted he use Tucker’s Tuffet as a step. He did and all was well. Or, rather, the required result was achieved. All would have been well had Renn been able to jump up in one movement. Alas, that is no longer possible.

He also enjoys the corner of the library behind a bookcase. It is a little resort, a hiding spot, like his ‘cave’ had been, though he doesn’t need it for fear; he simply likes to have his own place, away from others. Now, he must share it with Dabney, who also likes it, though this doesn’t seem to annoy either of them. But yesterday, I saw Renn walk along the ledge that runs on the wall under the window. He had intended to drop to the floor behind the bookcase, but Dabs was already there. He tried to turn and go back, but I saw that he couldn’t turn on the relative narrowness of the ledge, though it was enough for walking on. This had not been a problem even a few months ago. Now, he was perplexed. But his intelligence has not deserted him, as has his strength and agility. He put a paw on the back of some books on their shelf and used this point as a pivot, to give himself space to turn.

I have found few compensations for the disadvantages of age. It brings physical pain and the debility to do what one once could. The world itself grows indifferent, and one feels one has less significance than previously. But the most melancholy of the characteristics of growing old is, I think, that friends, maybe less healthy than oneself, or just less lucky, depart. Watching my big boy grow smaller, grow weaker, is a sad study, and will become only sadder.

But Renn is in relatively good health. His kidney failure advances, of course, and he suffers from a chronic respiratory trouble that is sometimes worse, sometimes better. I have hopes that he will live years more. He is the last of the First Four, and he carries on for the other three. One day, he will join them. But not just yet. For now, my big boy ages, but remains.