He Is Old

He is old. He sleeps most of the time, perhaps dreaming of nimbler days. He moves slowly and he can’t walk properly anymore. He stumbles now and then. He is thin, very thin. When he lies on his side, he looks flat. His once powerful body is no more than two inches wide, without the fur, and his formerly large features have shrunk and grown gaunt. His spine is so prominent and unpadded, it could slice bread. He is constantly assailed by clogged nostrils and often wheezes, just to breath. He must visit the litter-box too frequently, and take medicine to keep from visiting more. He periodically brings up his food because of his ailments, and he has less appetite than in years gone by; he doesn’t eat much even of what he likes. He is old.

But he sits up when meals are served, and enjoys the taste of a favourite dish. He walks, albeit slowly and cautiously, to the water-bowls, and doesn’t miss the litter-box, though now and then he brings bits of debris with him when he leaves. When his human sits near by, he rises from where he is lying and laboriously lumbers over to where he is nearer still. And at night, he assumes his preferred place on the bed, next to his person. The two of them talk about their day, and he purrs.

He is old, but he will grow a little older ere he leaves. He is old, and suffers discomfort but no pain. There is still satisfaction in his life, the delight of a soft blanket, the warmth of a gentle heating pad. There is something to be seen through the window, from the perch of his favourite vantage point; it almost frightens him to try climbing there now, but the view is worth it. And there is his friend, the human, who always has time for him.

He is old, but yet still too young to leave.