My lovely cat is a senior citizen. She doesn’t really like to play with her toys or chase things as much these days (she’s on anti-seizure meds that make her a little unsteady which I think have made her play less enjoyable for her) so she spends a lot of her time looking out/sleeping in front of windows. But, whenever she realizes I’m about to nap, she gets super excited, jumps on the bed, yowls until everything is juuuuuuuust right (her soft blanket on top of mine but perfectly flat etc) but once we’re both lying down, she starts purring the with the fury of a thousand rusty chainsaws, regardless of whether she’s getting skritched. More so if she can get one of my arms working as a pillow.
So, even while her former favourite activities are falling off, we’re both finding weird moments of happy while I try to avoid thinking about the inevitable. And there’s something just so wonderful about hearing how aggressively happy she is just to hang out nearby for an extended period of time.
Don’t really have a point but we woke up from a nap and I wanted to share.
Pets help us understand our own mortality in ways that continue to surprise me. When I was young, the first pet I lost was a young cat, just a few years old. I raised her from a kitten that was probably too young to ween so we had a close bond. She was indoor/outdoor and was attacked by a neighbor’s dog during the day when I was gone. Holding her and watching her die broke me, like she waited all day to die in my arms. She was mine and I felt like I let her down. Woof, it hurt. Still does.
But while I was holding her, our family dog (Allison) was next to me. She was older than I was, a feisty Lhasa Apso that had lost her ability to hold her bladder. We diapered her: we’d cut a hole in human diapers to pull her tail through to keep the hardwoods from getting ruined. She died a year later, after living a full life.
I buried both of them in the front yard, under a couple of pines that bordered our neighbor’s pet cemetery. Both times, digging those holes gave me the time I needed to be able to return them to the earth and say goodbye. I learned so much from their passing. It is the last gift our pets give us, their final act of love.
Now, older, with kids of my own, we have Sadie, who I am looking at as I write this. She’s a rescue, probably a golden mixed with some border collie, at least 16 years old. Her sister died last year and it was the first close death my kids experienced. Her passing taught my kids the alchemy of aging gracefully, the privilege of old age. Now, they find charm in Sadie’s rickety hips and excuse her incontinence. Getting old is okay; we are lucky to be able to do it. Watching your loved ones get old is a privilege we should cherish.
Edit: I wanted to thank OP for posting this. Reading your observations of your aging cat brought It all forward.