lj idol season 8, topic 15 preoccupied, Alfalfa
I held him in my arms. Wrapped in a towel, he began to purr as the sedative kicked in. I held his body as close as possible, his slight weight resting in my lap. For a while he had done well on the hyperthyroid medication but now he had lost a considerable amount of weight, wasn’t eating or drinking, and had kidney failure. It was the end of a fourteen year life that had brought both of us so much joy.
I remembered when I first saw him. He was three weeks old, and as an only kitten, he was so fat he waddled. He looked like a little puff ball, his long hair making him irresistible. We took his mother and him home with us, rescuing them from a couple who were in trouble with their land lords for having pets. Living on a farm, we needed barn cats to keep down the mouse population, but being cat lovers we wanted cats that would come in the house also. His mother, Bess, proved to be very unfriendly, and started to raise her kitten as a wild cat. My job was to catch him and bring him in the house to get him tame. I named him Alfalfa because he always smelled like the fragrant hay bales he slept on. I introduced him to my first guide dog, Theo, and let them interact until Alfalfa was calm.
Falfy as we began to call him, would ride on my shoulder as I did barn chores. Bess got hit by a car and Falfy clung to the humans on the farm even more. One day I was sorting goats in and out of a pen, and I accidently stepped on him. He screamed and ran away. I thought nothing of it, I had my hands full of goats by their collars and was busy. The next day we found him lying by the barn. We took him to the vet to find out he had broken his hip. The vet was not sure if it would ever heal, but no surgery would help, it was simply crushed. I felt horribly guilty. We kept him in the milk room to keep him quiet, and nursed him on goats milk and quality cat food. Eventually his hip did heal, but from then on he walked with a limp.
Now he continued to purr. His chin dropped to my hand and rested there. His body stilled as I continued to remember.
He was always friendly with everyone. When he heard us come home he’d run in front of the car in the driveway, and start rolling around in greeting. At times like that he seemed like a dog. One cold winter I even taught him to sit with a hand signal and a verbal command. I used cheddar flavored goldfish crackers as a reward for his efforts. After my first guide dog, Theo, died Alfalfa bonded with my second guide dog, Ricky. Ricky would always greet Falfy when he came in from outside, inspecting him from head to tail while Falfy rubbed against him.
When I took a job in Massachusetts and packed my bags to move there from Colorado I took Alfalfa with me. I gave him a sedative and placed him in one of those soft sided animal shoulder bags. He rode on the airplane under my seat while Ricky sat at my feet. It was definitely a family affair. I was moving out on my own, and taking my small animal family with me. We arrived safely and Falfy was so stoned he couldn’t stop purring. He adjusted to life in town even better than I did. He would kill chipmunks and birds in the backyard and leave their body parts as evidence on the back porch. He moved in with Nancy and Bruno who live downstairs and spent a lot of time there, but still visited me often.
When Ricky died Falfy seemed genuinely sad, and for a while wouldn’t come into my apartment. He never developed a relationship with my current guide dog, Fargo. It seemed that Fargo was jealous of Falfy, but Falfy didn’t care and made his presence known where ever he wanted to go, regardless of what Fargo thought.
Slowly his health declined and it meant more trips to the vet. He became very stressed on those outings. The first eight years of his life the only times he had ridden in a car were to get neutered, and to deal with his broken leg. For his regular vaccines our vets came to our farm because they took care of all of the animals. So, every time I hauled Alfalfa to the vet I felt bad for him. He would either urinate or defecate in his kennel, sure signs he was scared.
As I held him now, my thoughts slipping from the moment, their images keeping me preoccupied from the present situation, I waited for the vet to come back. Finally she did, opening the door and bringing her assistant with her. We laid him out on the table and I stroked his head and his ears while she gave the final injection. Suddenly he was gone, slipped from this world in an instant of quiet peace. It was the best I knew how to give him. My last gift to him. As our souls brushed one another for the last time, I watched as his body was carried from the room.
I’ll get his ashes back in a few days. I couldn’t seem to part with them. They’ll go on the alter where the ashes of my two guide dogs are. It will bring me some more closure. After fourteen years I didn’t know how to feel. I had never spent a longer length of time with any animal. All last week I was preoccupied by my grief. I forgot to pay some of my bills, fell behind in my reading for school, and didn’t return phone calls. I know that slowly my grief will lessen. Maybe someday I’ll even get another cat, but somehow I doubt that.
I will always remember him resting there in my arms, his body purring like it always did. Both of us searching for peace in those last minutes of his life. Both of us finding that which we sought.
I remembered when I first saw him. He was three weeks old, and as an only kitten, he was so fat he waddled. He looked like a little puff ball, his long hair making him irresistible. We took his mother and him home with us, rescuing them from a couple who were in trouble with their land lords for having pets. Living on a farm, we needed barn cats to keep down the mouse population, but being cat lovers we wanted cats that would come in the house also. His mother, Bess, proved to be very unfriendly, and started to raise her kitten as a wild cat. My job was to catch him and bring him in the house to get him tame. I named him Alfalfa because he always smelled like the fragrant hay bales he slept on. I introduced him to my first guide dog, Theo, and let them interact until Alfalfa was calm.
Falfy as we began to call him, would ride on my shoulder as I did barn chores. Bess got hit by a car and Falfy clung to the humans on the farm even more. One day I was sorting goats in and out of a pen, and I accidently stepped on him. He screamed and ran away. I thought nothing of it, I had my hands full of goats by their collars and was busy. The next day we found him lying by the barn. We took him to the vet to find out he had broken his hip. The vet was not sure if it would ever heal, but no surgery would help, it was simply crushed. I felt horribly guilty. We kept him in the milk room to keep him quiet, and nursed him on goats milk and quality cat food. Eventually his hip did heal, but from then on he walked with a limp.
Now he continued to purr. His chin dropped to my hand and rested there. His body stilled as I continued to remember.
He was always friendly with everyone. When he heard us come home he’d run in front of the car in the driveway, and start rolling around in greeting. At times like that he seemed like a dog. One cold winter I even taught him to sit with a hand signal and a verbal command. I used cheddar flavored goldfish crackers as a reward for his efforts. After my first guide dog, Theo, died Alfalfa bonded with my second guide dog, Ricky. Ricky would always greet Falfy when he came in from outside, inspecting him from head to tail while Falfy rubbed against him.
When I took a job in Massachusetts and packed my bags to move there from Colorado I took Alfalfa with me. I gave him a sedative and placed him in one of those soft sided animal shoulder bags. He rode on the airplane under my seat while Ricky sat at my feet. It was definitely a family affair. I was moving out on my own, and taking my small animal family with me. We arrived safely and Falfy was so stoned he couldn’t stop purring. He adjusted to life in town even better than I did. He would kill chipmunks and birds in the backyard and leave their body parts as evidence on the back porch. He moved in with Nancy and Bruno who live downstairs and spent a lot of time there, but still visited me often.
When Ricky died Falfy seemed genuinely sad, and for a while wouldn’t come into my apartment. He never developed a relationship with my current guide dog, Fargo. It seemed that Fargo was jealous of Falfy, but Falfy didn’t care and made his presence known where ever he wanted to go, regardless of what Fargo thought.
Slowly his health declined and it meant more trips to the vet. He became very stressed on those outings. The first eight years of his life the only times he had ridden in a car were to get neutered, and to deal with his broken leg. For his regular vaccines our vets came to our farm because they took care of all of the animals. So, every time I hauled Alfalfa to the vet I felt bad for him. He would either urinate or defecate in his kennel, sure signs he was scared.
As I held him now, my thoughts slipping from the moment, their images keeping me preoccupied from the present situation, I waited for the vet to come back. Finally she did, opening the door and bringing her assistant with her. We laid him out on the table and I stroked his head and his ears while she gave the final injection. Suddenly he was gone, slipped from this world in an instant of quiet peace. It was the best I knew how to give him. My last gift to him. As our souls brushed one another for the last time, I watched as his body was carried from the room.
I’ll get his ashes back in a few days. I couldn’t seem to part with them. They’ll go on the alter where the ashes of my two guide dogs are. It will bring me some more closure. After fourteen years I didn’t know how to feel. I had never spent a longer length of time with any animal. All last week I was preoccupied by my grief. I forgot to pay some of my bills, fell behind in my reading for school, and didn’t return phone calls. I know that slowly my grief will lessen. Maybe someday I’ll even get another cat, but somehow I doubt that.
I will always remember him resting there in my arms, his body purring like it always did. Both of us searching for peace in those last minutes of his life. Both of us finding that which we sought.