Tuesday, December 13, 2016
I knew Simon was unwell. I didn't realize how much of our lives were Simon-focused this year.
The house is quiet, but it is a peaceful quiet (except when Skamper is flexing his new Chief Noodlehead muscles). No vulturing. No crying for food that won't be eaten. No open door escape attempts. No multiple nightly feedings. No straining to hear the warning growls that presage a dangerous cat fight. No charting of food that stays down and food that doesn't.
We had a good last day. I'm grateful we gave him anesthetic before the last shot. While we waited for the anesthetic to take effect, the vet asked, "isn't this the one you always have a story about?" Yes. Yes, he is. Even his last visit was a story. His nerves kept firing for a while, and my vet said he could have been the one in a thousand cats that has a seizure had he not been asleep. It would have been just like him to cause trouble, so I'm glad we didn't have to go through that.
It occurred to me that Simon and I are much like Reepicheep and Lucy. I've always wanted to cuddle with him, but his natural dignity and independence simply wouldn't allow it. He's a warrior who protects the weak and puts the bully in his place. Perhaps his exploration of every opening was a lifelong search for the door to Aslan's country.
I see him there, vulturing at the gate, inspecting the newcomers and pointing the way inward and upward. Chatting up the ladies and sizing up the gentlemen as he waits for his friends to arrive.
Good journey, Little Brother. See you on the other side.