for most of her long life,
miso's had free outdoor access, but since we got
back from philly she's chosen to stay mostly
inside, which is good because she's too frail
and addled to wander about unsupervised. now she
wants out again and has been keeping us up all
night meowing in the hall or scratching at
locked catdoor. our usually tightlipped kitty is
suddenly vocal and demanding. so this is what
it's like to have a baby, i guess--sleep
depriving wails all through the night. i'm
reminded of my mother on her deathbed, who,
drugged and limp, suddenly leapt up and said,
eyes glazed and unseeing, "i've to get out of
here!" it took all my strength to ease her back
down, whispering, "yes, yes, you can go now."
and she did. miso, too, seems ready for her
final exit. she still has some spark but she's
in late stage kidney disease and we don't want
her to get to a point where things get ugly. we
wish she would tell us in no uncertain terms,
but we're left to guess how she's feeling. we're
halfway hoping to wake up one morning to find
her on the couch no longer breathing, wishing
she would just let go so we don't have to make
the decision for her. her decline has been so
gradual we keep readjusting to the new normal,
lowering the bar fractionally, deluding
ourselves that it can't be that bad because
she's still doing the baseline things--eating,
pooping, getting excited for treats; she's a
little stiff and gimpy but ignores the booster
step we set by the couch; can still jump from
chair to table and then straight back to floor.
but she's become withdrawn, and more telling
than her broader motions is the difficulty with
which she lies down, the awkward postures she
settles for. we keep begging her to speak, to
give us a sign, and maybe she's thinking: what
the hell do you think all this meowing's about?
it's so hard to say goodbye, to have to decide,
but it looks like we're going to have to make
that dreaded call any day now.
|
|