Miss Newt
Little Black Newt continues to drift around the house like a ghost, growing thinner with each passing day. She has thrown up her food a couple of times this week but she doesn't seem to have any discomfort. She crawls up beside me in the evening and purrs--is she saying good-bye?
After the long ordeal with Rosie, I am reluctant to drag her to the vet for heroic measures. What can they do? As Denny says, she is fifteen years old, been hyperthyroid for two years, and she's had a good run. She just seems to be wearing out. She looks at me with tired eyes. I look back, trying to read her state of mind, hoping she will let me know when she is ready to let go. As long as she is enjoying sitting in the window or cuddling with me at night, I will let her be.
She went to the backdoor this morning while I was cleaning litterboxes, so I let her outside for fifteen minutes or so. It hurts my heart to think it may be her last time outside. For fifteen years she has been the busy little soul of our home.
She and Johnny were kittens when we built this place--our first Homer cats. They used to climb up on top of the wall plates and sleep, or dig through the heavy plastic sheeting that during our first winter was all that divided the living area from the shop. Behind the sheetrock of the walls are studs etched with the faint marks of their young claws and errant tufts of fur. Johnny and Newt, more than any of our cats, are a part of this house.
After the long ordeal with Rosie, I am reluctant to drag her to the vet for heroic measures. What can they do? As Denny says, she is fifteen years old, been hyperthyroid for two years, and she's had a good run. She just seems to be wearing out. She looks at me with tired eyes. I look back, trying to read her state of mind, hoping she will let me know when she is ready to let go. As long as she is enjoying sitting in the window or cuddling with me at night, I will let her be.
She went to the backdoor this morning while I was cleaning litterboxes, so I let her outside for fifteen minutes or so. It hurts my heart to think it may be her last time outside. For fifteen years she has been the busy little soul of our home.
She and Johnny were kittens when we built this place--our first Homer cats. They used to climb up on top of the wall plates and sleep, or dig through the heavy plastic sheeting that during our first winter was all that divided the living area from the shop. Behind the sheetrock of the walls are studs etched with the faint marks of their young claws and errant tufts of fur. Johnny and Newt, more than any of our cats, are a part of this house.
