And just like that we have a sick kitty.  At twelve, we’d begun to see small signs that maybe a slow down was near, and although she crunched living mouse heads through the summer, audible crackings of skull and spine a daily patter at the top of the basement stairs, we could see that maybe something was just starting to be a bit off with our Coco. 

A petite tortoiseshell with golden patches on her toes, she came from a wild beginning, rescued with her tiny sibling kittens from a building that was about to be demolished.  Her hunting skills had a long line of refinement behind her, generations of wild urban kitty DNA and feral cat ancestry. Supremely comfortable in our home, she reigned like a princess, sniffing and swiping at the dog, stretching out for deep heat soakings in front of the woodstove.  In spring, summer, and fall, Coco heads out on regular, rhythmic rounds into the meadows with the eye of Artemis the celestial hunter, her tall ears tuned to the ground, reading the invisible highways, capturing the witless moles and crafty mice with alacrity. 

She trots back with her stunned dangling prey, to the porch if we are sitting there, or into the house if that’s where we are,  and performs the act of eating the still-living rodent, crunching into the skull like a piece of candy, a sound we can hear all too clearly.  From the underground tunnels and soft meadows straight into the jaws of death, it was a swift, precise transition between worlds.

Her hunting season slowed down in the winter and so did she. This winter was a little different though, it was subtle, but we all remarked that Coco was beginning to look old - a little thinner, a little more sleep. She spent more time at the water bowl, long sessions of a delicate paw-dipping routine, dip dip dip, lick.  We bought her a new kitty bed, a small rounded vessel of comfort, and were delighted when she took to it for long perfectly nestled naps. A few months ago, I bought a small can of wet food, her first, to hide in the cupboard, for when the time came.  

The time came quickly and all at once.  One day she is sitting like a  goddess in the sunbeam, fanned by houseplants, the next she’s too weak to move and gets accidentally stepped on in the mudroom, a dark tortoiseshell kitty hidden among the boots.  I thought I’d broken her, as she slept in her chair in my quiet office, nestled into an old sweater, and didn’t move for a long day.  She slept through my work sessions and phone calls, and by sundown, I finally tuned in and saw how unwell she was.  

Unable to stand, she adjusted herself bit by bit and slept some more.  I wrapped her in woolen layers, filled a dropper with water, and tried to get her to drink - not intereted, and so fatigued by my efforts, her head lay heavy on my arm with the stillness of finality. With growing concern, I found and opened the can of wet food,  a sound and smell never before known,  and no response. 

I stroked her and tucked her in, left a nightlight on in the room, and counted on insomnia to rouse me at 3 am for a check-in.   When I entered the midnight office, I expected to find a cold, stiff kitty.  Instead, her head was up, her eyes were bright, and she blinked with satisfaction that her nurse had arrived.  I offered a small bowl of water, and she drank.  I offered a tiny quarter teaspoon of wet food, and she licked.  

Revived and ready to stretch, she stood up, arched, and moved toward the wide arm of the chair.  She climbed up on it, sat like a queen, and while wrapping her tail neatly around her tiny twinkle toes, she swayed and fell sideways to the floor.  I caught her before she hit the ground. 

Once down on the ground, she drank some more water, had a few more licks of the wet food, and was soon out in the hall, listing to the side, but ready to go down the stairs.  Down she went, and then all the way down another flight into the basement, where she spent a long moment scratching around in her little box. 

Concerned she was stuck and couldn’t get out, I knickered at the top of the stairs, and she came bolting up like the fast kitty she’d always been.  It was a wet food miracle, the life-giving gravy charging her with new life.   

————————————-

An excerpt from a longer piece about Coco’s passing and the questions it awakened around dying, death, and beyond.