in the morning oswald says "moi"!

I crack my eyes open and he's standing there, tail up, in silhouette and morning shadow. "Moi!", he says. And again. Then again. His surgically altered maw doesn't meow anymore. He is a uni-lingual French kitty...

"Moi!" Translation: feed me, mofo. Or good morning, feed me.

Oswald is approaching three months post cancer diagnosis. We have shared some great great moments with him and we've made the mistake, because it's impossible not to, of thinking these times will last forever. Irrational. Human. Human and furry companion dynamics.

Lynda reported blood coming from his mouth last night. She thinks he bit his lop-sided tongue. I hope she's right. He's going to the vet on Monday for his regular examination. In the meantime a co-worker has lost a beloved pet and now this means something to me. So, I won't be complaining when I write about this experience with Oswald. It's been a blessing and that's the way it's going to continue...

not dark yet (but it's getting there)

Not dark yet; but it's getting there. A hard line drawn by Bob Dylan. Right now, this morning, I am thinking about hope. Not feeling it. Thinking about it. Hope is wonderful. Imagining springtimes just the way we would like them. Enjoying that imagination...

We've talked about having our companion being with us here, still, in the springtime. This is what we've hoped for. But Oswald can no longer feed himself. Just a little over a month and the bastard cancer appears to be doing it's work. Strangling this innocent creature, this good old guy.

So Lynda and I sit on the couch and discuss the decision. Her face is wet with tears. My eyes are dry, now, but my heart is suspended somewhere between heavy and empty. I have a hollow sense in the pit of my gut. Ironically (and I've admitted this before) I was never as close to Oswald as I've been in this last six weeks. So I have to thank Oswald for that.

We put little portions of food, all his favourite things, on a plate and like children hoping for Santa Claus we hope for that food to disappear. But it doesn't. There is, instead, just a mess. A pool of drool; on the floor by the plate, droplets leading away and some hanging off of his sad and frustrated face. Watching this feels like love. Getting down on the floor beside him to chop the bits into smaller bits so that he can swallow feels like love. It's love.

Love and loss. Inseparable. Buddha warned against attachment. But I have not spent my life under a Banyan tree. I'll take the sorrow, because these moments have been precious. It's not dark yet, but the springtime is suddenly a long long way away...

the oswald series:his special spittle bothers me a bittle!

"When the student is ready the teacher will appear with drool dripping off his chin..."

Morris the Cat

The surgery to deal with Oswald's oral cancer has created a seeping leaking furry maw and I am hard-pressed to maintain a saintly demeanor in the presence of the gelatinous strings that appear on the old guy's whiskered face when he's finished sucking up a plate of mashed tuna...

The vet took off a significant piece of the right side of his tongue and tissue from the back of his throat. His mouth ain't what it was. The good news is that he's eating like a pig now. That's also the bad news. He eats exactly like a pig. He grunts and snorts. He gets it in him the best way he can.

God bless and love him. We do, that's for sure.

Added to his daily close care conditions is a face wipe after every meal lest he drag one of his post-meal mouth boogers into the bedroom. We wash his little face and we wipe his little paws. He has stained his once snow-white face fur a beige-brown with a kind of tuna melt paint. He tries to groom with his mutilated licker, but to little effect.

This is his life now, and ours. Sometimes he sleeps by himself. Sometimes he curls up with us, and we are gifted with head bunts and a running cat motor lullaby. When I find myself less than charitable with Oswald and his dribbles I make a good act of confession to Lynda and she smiles. She's glad to know he is taking his food. So am I, and so we carry on...