As my faithful readers may or may not remember, I have a dear old cat who goes by the name of Hazle and is essentially eighteen years old. As his limbs have gotten less springy and more rheumatic and his balance has slowly diminished and his senses have dimmed, I've wondered just how much longer he's going to last.
Well, the cat with a charmed life (or nine charmed lives) seems to have finally hit the end of his leash. Bless his little heart, he stepped in front of a car moving into a garage yesterday evening and got his femur snapped. Because he's so very old and already in dubious health, we will be taking him in to be euthanized on Friday.
I guess I've known for a long time that this moment would have to come sooner or later. When I was in elementary school, I would try to mentally prepare myself sometimes for the death of the cat. Which is a little silly. I love animals in general, but I'm not a crazy animal person. It's more that I just get so incredibly attached to things and to people and to animals- and once I'm attached, I become fiercely loyal.
Thus it is with my cat. He's patiently survived three babies and only scratched them when severely provoked. And honestly, if someone were poking me in the eyes, I would probably lash out at them, too. He was my therapist when I was a moody teenager and my moral support when recovering from surgery and during those long, hard afternoons with chronic fatigue syndrome. For someone like that, how can you not be attached and loyal?
Tonight is my vigil. Tomorrow evening I need to back in Salt Lake, so tonight is my extended farewell to a good, good friend. Rest easy, little friend.