Over the past few weeks we have been keeping a brave face on a rather sad story at home. Simpson, our many adventured cat, has run out of lives. What we thought was a cold didn’t get better - and taking him to the vet turned into a week’s stay in hospital.
He has a tumor in his head - causing breathing difficulties - or rather in his case the ability to breath through his nose. No nose means no sense of smell, and no sense of smell means he won’t eat (it turns out cats need to smell what they are about to eat). You might think hunger might defeat that base instinct, but no - he’s literally wasting away in front of our eyes.
The result of his hospital stay is a pipe stitched into his stomach to allow him to be force fed by syringe. Not exactly the quality of life you might wish for any animal - let alone one who was rescued fifteen years ago from an animal shelter.
While it’s easy for me to see this weekend as perhaps his last with us, it’s not my decision. He’s not my cat. He lets me know he’s not my cat (cats have staff, don’t they). As much as I might joke about wishing him away from time to time, in reality I can’t imagine what the house might be like without him.
He’s had a fantastic life with first W, then myself and W, and latterly being forcably adored by three little girls. Now we approach his final days, and need perhaps to all be brave, and know when the time has come.
I’m guessing there’s going to be rather a lot of hugs and tears in this house in the coming days.