Hard Times

Right now in our household we're dealing with the fact that our beloved cat, Jetta, is quickly fading. She is, in fact, 19 1/2 years old. Pretty spectacular for a cat. It's the equivalent of being about 95 if you're a person.

She walks, or rather hobbles, from one rug in the kitchen to a bed under the buffet. And that's about it. I fear it's time to make a judgment call, but it hurts me to do so.

This post isn't about eulogizing Jetta. That'll be for another day. But for now, I'm trying to keep some perspective about how she must be feeling.

The picture above is about 3 years old, and was taken not too long after Jetta scampered out the front door--only to have it close on her tail. This resulting in sewing her tail back together, thus the shaved tail with a pompom at the end of it. She was still quite active as a 16-year-old cat. And really remained so until about the last year or so, when she's gradually grown frail before our eyes. She looks so...plump in the picture, it's hard to believe she was ever that big. She's probably 9 lbs (actually pretty petite for a cat) in that one. If she weighs 4 lbs now I'd be surprised.

My niece has remarked that she can't believe Jetta's not a kitten because she's so tiny. And indeed sometimes I think of her that way too. It's the same way that old people become like babies in the end of their lives too. Yet instead of having that robust quality that kittens keep underneath their baby facades, Jetta is truly delicate. I feel I need to protect her all the time.

My friend Dorothy said she knew it was time for her cat in the end because she stopped purring, but Jetta hasn't reached that point yet. But I'm afraid it will come. I hold my hand to her ribs to feel her heartbeat, and my finger to her throat to feel her purr. They're still there. But the energy that used to emanate from her grows fainter daily.