Camden’s 10-year-old voice was desperate.
“Luciano pisses on Mackie’s bed and her dirty clothes. Mom and Dad say he has to go to the Humane Society. Please, Grandpa, please, won’t you take him?”
I had told his parents I wouldn’t. I was adamant. Not a third aging feline in 900 square feet.
“PLEASE?”
Thus my Luciano.
Some cats are distant, others gregarious, and some few are unaccepting. But like all domestic animals, they paw their way in. They become your familiars.
Luciano, like three other cats who went before him, was old. I only adopt seniors. I’m afraid they won’t find homes.
So my expense is greater, and time passes sedately in our household.
A year ago, Katie and Mr. Tig died in horrific pain just five weeks apart. This month, I found Luciano on the carpet, teeth gnarled in death.
Pirate, their tuxedoed, 13-year-old replacement, is three-quarters blind with glaucoma. I’ll stay with him until he, too, decamps.
Our lifespans differ. As the longer-lived, we try to accept that. We give them our hearts.
And bitter are their departures.
Cats, cats and more cats
Cat ladies are dethroned by … dudes?
Timeshares. Until they leave us
A wifi litter box for Mr. Boots
