Saturday, September 19, 2015

I think Lukie is dying

Our cat, Luke, (Bern calls him 'our last cat' because we used to have four and are down to Luke, who was always my favorite.

He's one of those big yellow cats with an M on his forehead. Some measure of Maine Coon Cat, though not full bred.

He is, who knows how old. When we got him from Meow, a cat rescue group, he was almost a year old. And Mimi was 20 or so. Mimi's now 35, so Luke is at least 15 or more.

He's always been an indoor cat. Yellow cats, in my experience, are magnates for cars, so it is best to keep them inside.

Zoe, our next door neighbor teen, came over and fed him when we were away in North Carolina. When we got back, he seemed strange, but I credited it to him being angry that we left him for so long.

(He's laying on the table beside my desk where I am writing. He often does that, but much more since we came back from North Carolina, I rub him often.)

He hasn't eaten anything much since we got home--not tuna, not turkey from the Deli, certainly not stuff in cans or bags. He also drinks a lot of water and seems, from time to time, a tad confused. He still moves rapidly and can jump up on anything. But I'm worried.

It's been a week--that's long enough to be angry, even for a cat. He's really beautiful, laying on the desk beside me. And from time to time he seems fine.

But he won't eat and drinks water constantly.

I don't want to lose him. I will be a nail in my coffin as well since he is, according to Bern, "our last cat".

He's really very dear, comes when you call him like a dog, is affectionate to a fault.

Oh, Lukie, don't die. Please don't. I will mourn you and miss you so.

I'm going to pet him on my table now and try not to be sad.

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some ponderings by an aging white man who is an Episcopal priest in Connecticut. Now retired but still working and still wondering what it all means...all of it.