In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “A Moment in Time.”

oreo

It’s a picture of my cat. Well, not my cat, exactly. My daughter’s cat. But my daughter hasn’t lived here for quite a while now. She’s 26, in medical school in another state, and has a big rambunctious cat of her own. My grand-kitty, if you will. Max. Maximus. Huge and bouncy and adorable and not at all brilliant.

But I digress.

Oreo. The cat’s name is Oreo. That’s what you get when you allow your eleven-year-old to pick a name for the new kitten that is black and white. (Her brown/orange/white sister was named Snickers. True story.) So, by now, you can do the math and figure out that this is an old lady cat. Elderly. One might say set in her ways. Or, one might just go with blatant honesty and say ornery. Crotchety. Stubborn.

Old.

When she climbs up on my lap now, she seems to weigh nothing. All fur, bright eyes, and a scraggly tail. Her bones are just beneath the skin and when I run my hand over her fur I wonder if I’m hurting her. Petting her is not an option, however, more of a royal decree. And I can’t help myself. Softly. Gently. She purrs. She lifts her head to make it clear to the dumb human that I’m to rub her chin. She scruffs her cheeks against my hand. The table. My laptop. My laptop is warm and must feel good to those old bones. Measuring the *poof* of cat fur that greets me each time I open it, it must feel very good indeed.

A cat’s internal clock is unquenchable. I’ve always thought so, anyway. Every evening, about 9:20, she begins to pace, to stalk my husband, to chirp at him, reminding him that feeding time is coming right up. Ten o’clock. On the dot. Not one minute later. But, lately, she is sleeping so soundly at ten o’clock that we must rouse her. Pick her up. Give her a snuggle. Carefully. And as soon as that tummy-alarm kicks in she’s away to her food dish, ready for action.

She’s been a friend, a monarch, a companion for a very long time. The proof is there, in the pictures, the scrapbooks, the memories. Playing. Sleeping. Allowing my daughter to dress her in doll clothes. Suffering the cuddles and clutches of young hands, or the benign negligence of impatient adults.

Ahead, the days stretch out. Days of not enough sunshine to warm her, fewer laps to cushion her, no sister to lick her face or curl up in a pile of vibrating fur to sleep away the day.

We’re not going to even mention that behemoth (Max), annoying (playful), giant (well, he is large), thing (grand-kitty) that invades her home (comes to visit) far too often (once in a while).

It’s far too late to guard my heart against her leaving, even though I know that day draws closer every hour. But I will resolve to make more laps. Free up more hands for careful petting. And relish the need for a lint roller in every room.

Stay a while, Oreo. Another summer is coming, I promise. With sunlight. And warmth. And that favorite lap of yours visiting.

Please, stay a while.

Stay Awhile

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10 thoughts on “Stay Awhile

  1. Eilene says:

    Awe. I had an old girl cat who passed recently. She got lovier and grumpier as she aged. Interesting combo.

    • marzipan77 says:

      “Lovier and grumpier” is the perfect way to describe Oreo. Unfortunately, she decided she could not stay awhile. She’s running through the fields now, even lovier and grumpier, I’m sure.

  2. kinfolit says:

    Dear little Oreo . . . I love this picture, and the story behind it makes a lovely tribute to your elderly feline friend.

  3. jestimous says:

    They so become a part of our family. Whether you intend them to or not. This was such a lovely tribute. I can feel your ache at the idea of her not being around. I had a cat named Precious (I was ten when I named her), that was just like that. There was no option in petting her. 🙂

  4. peggyricewi says:

    Thanks for this post about the affection and love to and from a cat. My Archie lived a wonderful 16 years before he died in November. He was such a love, and yes, he told me when it was time to feed or pet him!

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