Utter blindness took its time to arrive. Pirate, my 17-year-old cat, was sightless in his left eye when I rescued him three years ago, while glaucoma clouded his right. Now, however, both eyes glow empty as if brushed by headlights.
Anthropologists agree cats haven’t evolved much from their earliest ancestors. They retain remarkable hearing, strong sense of smell and piercing vision. All in all, the perfect carnivore.
Yet Pirate’s gait is slowed, every soft step is tentative. Despite unmoved furniture, he head-bumps doors, chair legs and walls. Incontinence occurs from poor positioning. His need for quiet reassurance and verbal cues grows.
A disability like Pirate’s demands patience and responsible action. His vet suggested removing his eyes altogether. I’m unwilling, at Pirate’s age, to put him through that. I had promised, after all, to see him through haze and murk into the light.
And once done, I’ll be left empty to address my own blurred shadows. Carl Sandburg was right:
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
I’m so sorry about your furbaby Piarate.
Wonderful prose!