Yesterday, Izzy passed away in his sleep - a winter afternoon nap from which he never awoke.
Impermanence is swift.
He was an affectionate cat - it seemed he couldn't get enough belly rubs and head scratches. He lived with me and my other cat, Eliot, and both were not only tolerant of another cat in the house, they frequently groomed each other with licks. On cold days, they would sleep snuggled against each other for warmth. They were best friends.
He was a courageous cat - I'll never forget the time I went up into the attic after racoons found a way up into there, and Izzy came bounding up the ladder staircase and chased the two wild animals, each at least twice his size, out through the little hole they managed to find in a corner eave.
His courage was almost his undoing. On two separate occasions, he got bit by copperhead snakes, returning home each time swollen and in pain. On two separate occasions, he had to be driven to the all-night pet hospital for overnight stays with meds, IV drips, and professional care. He and his brother both became full-time indoor cats after the second episode.
We was a good companion, which is all we really want or need from a cat. He didn't generate a lot of drama (other than those two ER episodes) and liked to have about one hour a day - no more, no less - snuggled on my lap, but if that wasn't convenient, that was okay. There was always tomorrow.
He was a fat cat, especially in the last few years of his life. I suspect his weight may have led to his demise. Whether his arteries restricted to the point where blood finally stopped flowing to a vital organ, or his breathing became constricted (he used to make the most adorable snoring sounds while sleeping), or his metabolism just couldn't keep up with his body's demands any more, I don't know.
I do know that yesterday afternoon, he and Eliot both decided to nap on my bed in the mid afternoon, when direct sun lands directly on the blankets for an hour or so. I went in there once to get a book from my bed stand and an hour or so later to return the book, and both times they were both laying there unmoving on the bed. Around dinner time, Eliot was waiting to be fed, but Izzy was nowhere to be seen. That was unusual, because Izzy was never late for dinner. I became concerned when Izzy didn't come when I called - if there were any human words he seemed to understand, it was "C'mon, let's go eat."
I went into the bedroom, and he was still laying there curled up in the same spot in which he had been sleeping. I could tell almost right away that he was no longer living. "No, Izzy . . . ," I cried, "No!," but it was true - he had left his body.
There was no sign of struggle, no indication that he panicked or spasmed or thrashed in his last moments. He hadn't even relieved himself. I think he died comfortably and at peace, and can only hope for such an easy and painless death for myself.
I buried him today in the backyard garden, the only place I was sure that the soil was thick enough for a burial before it graded down to the tough partially-weathered bedrock of the north Georgia piedmont. For some reason, there were two heart-shaped stone slabs back there - been there since I moved in 20 years ago but I never had a use for them until now. I placed one by his burial site and it makes a nice monument and a proper grave for my old friend.
I try not to think what I'm going to have to do someday with the other heart-shaped slab.
No comments:
Post a Comment