Feline or human, in the
end we all seek nothing more than a dark quiet place.
For Carmel, my sweetest
20 pounds of housecat, the narrow space between the clothes dryer and the wall
is that quiet place. For the last two
days, he has emerged only once in the morning and once in the evening at our
normal feeding times. He does not really
eat. Mostly, he nudges his food around
the bowl. He is not very interested in
water.
Last night, I rubbed the
top of his head and gently brushed him for a few seconds before he slowly
ambled away to hide.
Make no mistake, this is heartbreaking
minute by minute.
For my whole life I have
strove to push hate from my vocabulary, but this I hate from side
to side, from beginning to end
This morning, I found Carmel
alongside Splash, seemingly ready for something to eat. He merely licked at his food a couple times
once I presented it to him. Before he
ambled off to hide, I scooped him up and rubbed at his skull. I felt his ribs against my skin. I felt each small, precious breath. I
told him he was a damned good boy. I told
him I loved him. I gingerly placed him
on the floor and watched him amble off to the narrow opening between the dryer
and the wall and then wiped away a stray teardrop that found my cheek instead of
the floor.
Dylan Thomas came to me: Do not go gentle into that good night…rage,
rage against the dying of the light…
--Mitchell
Hegman
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Thanks.
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