Vagabond Soul

The sun was warm on his fur and the air was crisp and cool as he lay enjoying his last day. He did not know it was his last day, only that he hadn’t felt good for a while now.

When the door opened he came inside and with his usual “mao”, jumped on the  counter to grab a bite. It seemed like he was always hungry these days no matter how much he was given.

Then a leap over to the table top for a rub and some love. But this time it seemed different, there were tears, and he paused for a moment to wonder why. Among the tears he could hear the familiar voice telling him she loved him and was sorry, followed by more tears. She picked him up and held him close as she cried saying how sorry she was and how she wished he would get better.

But he hadn’t gotten better only worse no matter what she tried to do. He had endured pills and that nasty tasting liquid for months now and still he got thinner. His once tall lanky body had been reduced to a boney body that no longer held warmth. She had tried, he had endured and still nothing had made a difference. He was old and sick it was just that simple.

So she padded the carrier and placed him inside, he didn’t fight, and away in that noisy thing they went. She was crying again as they drove and telling him how much she loved him and how sorry she was, for what he did not know. She had loved him for so long, let him sleep on her bed and when he was cold made a warm place for him with a heating pad and a fuzzy blanket.

For as long as he could remember there had always been good food, clean fresh water, and kind words for him. He remembered that place where it was always warm and he could laze in the sun for hours. He remembered catching mice and birds when the  notion took him. Life was good!

When they arrived at that placed that smelled of other cats and dogs, he turned his back on her, until she stroked his ear in that way that made him purr with  contentment. As he lay on the cold metal table, she continued to stroke him and tell him of love and sorrow. Many tears were falling now, as the man took his arm and poked him. He felt tired, more tired than he had in a long time. He slowly drifted off, quietly hearing that familiar voice saying over and over how she loved him, that same hand stroking his ear in that same old way, as he left this world.

They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. Edgar Allan Poe