He was smart, for a cat – something people tirelessly admire in their pets. And in terms of being a cat, there was little his eyes didn’t see. Now he’s a crippled old man, no longer a threat to mice, chipmunks or birds. Now he himself is hunted by time and gravity, threatened by the failure of his own body.
He will not last the winter, sitting to look out the window only a few times more, but mostly resting in a warm dark nook with nose buried in tail. The world was here and he came into it and was part of it. The world was here for him to look at through the windows in his head – passing scenery of all that is earthbound.
Nocturnal traveler beneath star-fall. Celebrator of sun, worshiper of sleep and feasting. Like the ancient Egyptians, I seem to be obsessed with death and cats. I suppose, had I lived back then, I would have him mummified.
But in this present time, winter has come empty-handed and the cat will be one of many things it takes. Little heart-motor slowed to stillness, as perfectly natural as feeling you can’t go on and reaching out to grab hold of something. Death is the loudest silence you’ll ever hear: expected by all, and nothing to be done about it.