Ducks

Our 14 year old cat has been sick, so I brought him to the vet yesterday. I wasn't sure how serious it was, but at that age, I braced myself for the worst.

I adopted my orange tiger guy when I started graduate school. He and his sister were dumped on a farm and eventually captured. She was sweet and affectionate, albeit shy. But he wanted nothing to do with people, ducking whenever a gentle hand came near him. He became "Duckie" and she became "Samantha Eagle" for her flopsy front legs that spread wide like wings when held on her back like a baby.

After 14 years, I've never been able to de-feral D, but he's had the best life possible. He loves snuggling the other cats in our home. Sometimes, late at night, I hear him yowling in delight. I wish I could pet him and enjoy more than a glance as he runs past. But the trauma he endured before he came into our house was just too much to overcome.

It was stressful, capturing Duckie and getting him to the vet. Once there, he needed to be sedated to be examined thoroughly. While he was under, the techs worked quickly to get blood as well as groom him and clip his nails. They scraped his teeth, administered meds for an infection and gave him pain killers.

I was relieved to receive the blood work back today: nothing seriously wrong. We'll keep a close eye on him and hopefully he can heal.

Jonah spotted the cat carrier today, out in the hallway, and inquired about it. I hadn't told him Duckie was sick, but when I did, he replied with, "Oh no! Did he die?"

Which broke my heart.

Yes, I want my boy to grow up. But it's so hard, going from a world where sick can be fixed by medicine and doctors to sick equalling death.

I explained, gently, that the vet did lots of things to help Duckie feel better. And that like all living things, eventually he would die. Hopefully not soon, but yes, someday.

He nodded solemnly. And then asked for a snack.