What Remains

What remains of Neville in this world is back home. There is so very little of him left, but such a presence he continues to be.

Lions in Samarra

“Neville? Neville… Wake up, my boy. It’s time.”

Dr Bellen gently shook Neville, as the latter lie sleeping in his heated bed. The old cat’s room at the Cosy Cabin Feline Sanitarium was dark, though it was the middle of the day. The blinds were closed against the thin winter’s noon-time light, and the door had been shut to lessen noise that may have come from the corridor outside. The doctor had disliked disturbing the sleeper, but there was no choice.

“Time?” mumbled the oldster. “Oh, yes… Time. There isn’t much of that left, is there?”

“I’m sorry to wake you…”

“That’s all right, Doctor. There’ll be time enough for sleeping soon.” Neville stirred himself with difficulty. “I was dreaming. I was young again, and running, running through green fields…”

Dr Bellen smiled, and responded, “There will be time enough for that, too, soon. Are you all right to walk, or would you prefer me to carry you?”

“Carry me?…” Neville muttered. He didn’t like being carried, but as he stood, unsteadily, and took a few steps out of his bed, it was clear that he would not be able to make it all the way to the front lobby of the residence building. “Hmmm…” The oldster grumbled.

Dr Bellen turned and gestured. Moxy, the new Director of Resident Relations, hurried forward, bringing with him a hospital trolley from the infirmary, wheeled in by two attendants.

“Here you go, Mr Neville,” Moxy said eagerly. “We’ll take you to the taxi on this. It’s very comfy.”

Though Neville regarded the trolley with its padded cot with some doubt, he allowed himself to be lifted on to it. He was covered with a warm blanket, and sank down in the cushions with what might have been pleasant surprise.

“All right, all right…”

Dr Bellen put next to Neville the little bundle of items that the cat would be taking with him. Moxy nodded to the attendants and the trolley was slowly pushed down the corridor outside. Neville appeared rather to be enjoying the ride, though it lasted only until the front door of the building. There, the attendants carefully lifted him, and carried him to the back of a waiting taxi, where he was installed in the back seat.

“Good-bye, Mr Neville. It was an honour meeting you,” Moxy said, standing outside the door of the taxi.

“Yes, all right…”

Dr Bellen smiled, thanked Moxy and the attendants and slipped into the taxi next to Neville. In a minute, they were off down the drive to the sanitarium’s main gate. The air outside was cold, the landscape covered with dusty snow, and the sky white and luminous. Inside the automobile, though, it was warm, and Neville was content under his blanket.

“You know, Doctor, I don’t think I am sorry to be going to Samarra now. I feel very tired and achy all the time. I keep drifting off to sleep, and half the time when I am awake, I don’t know where I am or what I am doing.” Neville struggled a bit to open his eyes wider. “But I always made it to the litter-box when I had to, didn’t I? Right to the end.”

“You did, indeed. I admire you greatly for that.” Dr Bellen forebore to mention that, while some of Neville had made it to the litter-box, not all of him had, and there was some cleaning that was required now and then. He glanced at the old cat, who appeared to be moving back and forth from consciousness to unconsciousness. “I am sorry about all the medicine, the needles, the visits to the infirmary through the years. I wish things had been different.”

“Oh…” Neville roused himself a little. “I don’t think I was ever in very good health. Diabetic, you know. And then there were my teeth. And I became hyperthy… hyper… I needed medicine in my ears.” He sighed. “The trouble is, doctor, one never knows when one is going to leave for Samarra, so one has to try to be as well here in Idylland as possible for as long as possible. One can’t spend a lifetime in discomfort. And when everything is uncomfortable… Well, then you know it’s time…”

“You’ve learned a lot in your years, Neville.”

“Yes, well…”

The taxi arrived at the station a few minutes later. The train was ready to depart, but had of course waited for  Neville. The stationmaster greeted him and Dr Bellen, and walked ahead to hold open the compartment’s door. This time, the doctor did carry Neville.

“Just not too far, please. You know I get twisty after a minute…” mumbled the old cat.

As soon as the compartment door closed, and the stationmaster gave a short, smart salute, the train began moving away from the platform, accelerating as it left the station. The compartment was warmer than the others in the carriage, and Neville seemed to float into sleep again. But he spoke some more.

“You’re coming to Samarra with me, Doctor?” He was surprised.

“Just to the border. I’ll get out at the customs shed and board the train again home.”

“That’s very kind of you… I did enjoy myself, Doctor, much of the time. The food was very good. I did appreciate that, especially having it delivered to my room.”

The human chuckled, saying, “I will always remember how you greeted most meals, and how you sometimes bubbled and gurgled while you ate.”

“That’s when it was particularly good. And the chin-rubs… Yes, just like this…” He leaned into the fingers that scritched his furry chin. “I’m sorry I keep falling asleep, Doctor.”

“It won’t be long now until you are feeling much more alert.”

One of the oldster’s eyes opened, and he stared at the human dubiously.

“It’s true, Neville. You’ll run and leap in those green fields of your dreams - though they won’t be dreams any more - and the food will be so good and tasty, you’ll be gurgling at every meal. You will feel fit and strong and mighty.”

A strange sound tumbled out of Neville’s throat: his closest approximation to laughter.

“Like a lion.”

“Exactly like a lion. You are all lions in Samarra.”

The rest of the journey was made in silence, Dr Bellen continuing to rub Neville’s chin. He could feel the cat purring in response. But at last, after a few hours, the train slowed, and then stopped. There was music coming from outside. Two of Idylland’s Customs guards opened the door of the compartment and saluted, while two more uniformed men - of Samarra’s Civil Welcome Organisation, waited respectfully, holding a padded stretcher horizontal between them. Dr Bellen brought Neville out, and placed him softly on the stretcher. One of the Customs guards retrieved the blanket from the seat in the compartment and spread it over Neville, as a nurse might in a hospital. The grey cat made an effort to raise his head.

“Goodbye, Doctor. Thank you for all you’ve done. I was happy, you know. Well, except for all those other cats… Oh, Lord…”

The men from Samarra carried their precious burden toward their country. There was of course no barrier between Samarra and any other land, and Neville was simply taken across the platform to the train waiting on the other set of tracks. A string quartet played soft, melodious music from inside the station. Even as he was taken across the platform, Neville found new strength, enough to look back and wave a paw at the doctor.

The journey back to the Sanitarium was a rather lonely one for Dr Bellen. When he arrived at the institution’s own little station, he saw Moxy waiting for him on the platform, and the two of them walked back to the Sanitarium together, but in silence. Once there, they parted, Moxy to have a nap before dinner, and the human to do some work in his office. So the rest of the day passed in routine.

Dr Bellen woke late in the night. Something had disturbed his sleep, and for a moment he could not determine what it had been. But then he heard it. It was a sound coming out of the west. He stepped from bed, pulled a robe over his pyjamas and walked swiftly to the window. He threw up the sash and felt the cold air against his face. The lamps that lit the pathways between the buildings of the Sanitarium burned brightly, and a few windows glowed yellow, a sign of the night staff on duty.

What arrested the human’s attention, however, was not the sights, but the sounds - or, rather, one sound: a rumble, low and quiet, yet distinct. It grew in power and clarity, and soon tore across the black sky, like a fearsome yet friendly hurricane. Dr Bellen smiled, for he now knew it for what it was. It was a roar, the roar of a lion - his lion. His lion in Samarra.

The New Furniture

The Cosy Cabin has a new cat-tree. It is second-hand, which I don’t usually bring in, unless it will be used by the cat who had used it previously. I worry about the beasts deciding they need to eradicate the smell of other cats by spraying their own, but it is well-kept and in good condition, and so far, the only interest has been the kind that has my approval.

I was surprised that Imogen was the first to climb to the top. So far as I know, she has not before looked out the basement windows. Now she can, and Moxy, who would jump first on to the shelves perpendicular to the window and then to the window well, can spare himself that tricky ascent, and the heavy landing when he dropped down again.

We’ll see who uses it and how much, but for now, the cats are enjoying the novelty.

How It Sometimes Goes

Indigo had her veterinary appointment today. There is good news and bad news.

The good news is that, while Indie probably suffered another attack of pancreatitis - as she has previously - she is on the mend. When I came home, I found her still under the bed, but her posture was not so limp and apathetic as it had been; she appeared more alert. And when the food bowls were passed out for dinner, she came out to meet hers. She ate everything on her dish - though I did give her a smaller portion than usual. The doctor said that this was how pancreatitis sometimes went: causing the typical symptoms for a few days, then resolving itself. Other times, it may be worse, or it may be barely noticed. I do think the Cerenia helped with suppressing the nausea that Indigo had been feeling. I have ordered more of that drug, and have a new supply of needles and syringes for its application.

The bad news is that the veterinary is afraid Indigo has cancer. I had noticed a some lump under the skin of Indie’s abdomen recently, and have wanted to have it examined for a couple of weeks. The doctor found that there were two lumps, with perhaps a third forming. They are close to the nipples - one nipple even had a tiny bit of discoloured seepage - and mammary cancer is suspected. The rescue-group has scheduled an ultrasound for a week from Wednesday; this will help determine what the lumps comprise and if it has spread. There is no hurry, for Indigo - now thought to be fourteen, rather than twelve - would likely be too old and in too mediocre health for what the doctor called the ’aggressive surgery’ required to deal with it. The ultrasound will merely show us with what we are dealing.

For now, we can hope only for what we had before the pancreatitis: a good appetite, undisturbed naps and some petting and purrs.

Indigo, the Next Day

Indigo continues to feel poorly. I was able to pull her out from under the bed last night, and inject her with some Cerenia. She fortunately lie against the wall of the room at the head of the bed. Though the bed-frame with the mattress on it is too heavy to pull straight back, even though it is on wheels, I was able to pull the mattress itself back, sliding on its frame. Then I reached down and pulled Indie upward.

As a result of the injection, I believe, Indigo did not throw up during the night, and this morning, though she is very lethargic, she drank some water and, eventually, ate a small portion of food. I hope that the Cerenia allows her to keep this consumption down. I have found that Cerenia usually does not need a repeat injection when one of my cats requires it. That of course depends on the illness that necessitates the drug in the first place, of course, and whatever is afflicting Indigo probably will outlast the twenty-four hours of a Cerenia dose.

Indigo has suffered from pancreatitis in the past, and that may be the problem once more. She goes to the doctor tomorrow afternoon, after which I hope she will have an effective treatment, and I will have some answers.

Over to You, Indie

It’s not a long weekend, but evidently tradition feels it’s close enough. Indigo is sick.

She had been behaving differently than usual the last few days. Thursday, she stayed under the bed most of the time, and didn’t really care to eat anything. Friday evening, she felt better and ate her soft-food meals. Last night, however, she spent mostly under the bed again, and this morning, though she ate a little, threw it up later. She has vomited since then, though there is nothing in her stomach, so most of what came up was bile.

I will have an impossible time injecting her with insulin if she stays where she is, and she is not like the other cats: she will not be forced out from under the bed with a broom or the threat of a vacuum cleaner. If I can put my hands on her, I will give her a shot of Cerenia, but that’s a big ‘if’ right now.

Indie has an appointment with the doctor Monday afternoon, but again, it may not be possible to bring her out from under the bed for that.

I’m not sure who is organising the shifts of illness among my cats, but I think they’ve earned some time off.

Thoughts and Prayers

Neville died a week ago today. Every death of one of my cats lessens me, but this one is harder than most others, and I think what bothers me about his death most is that he was on the verge of feeling better. That’s different than when Renn passed away, or Cammie, or Tucker. They were not going to improve, even in the short-term.

Nev wouldn’t have lasted long, I believe, in any case. Another year? That was unlikely. But another few months, perhaps; another few months of greeting his soft-food meals with delight; another few months of warm naps in his heated bed, another few months of struggling onto my lap for chin-rubs. The Solensia he was being given was helping him, and though his blood-glucose numbers were fluctuating again, the right policy had been found to deal with his diabetes. Then a sudden bodily event killed him.

Therefore, I want to write about how much it means to have so many people express their sorrow at his passing. Some other may scoff at receiving ‘thoughts and prayers’, dismissing them as meaningless and insubstantial. Certainly, when there is material loss, the catastrophic destruction of a home or belongings, the victim wants something to help repair or replace the damage. But knowing that others feel a loss, or sympathise with one’s own loss, is, for me, comforting. Condolence cards, words of kindness; these show that they who have died are remembered.

Last November, I wrote this, as though the words were my oldster’s: “Some day...I will die. But I will not cease to exist… I will have touched the world, and been touched in turn. And all those I will have touched, and all those they will touch, will carry a piece of me with them… I will exist in a million lives because I will have lived one, and I will be a part of eternity.”

The thoughts and prayers of those who have been generous enough to send them to me prove that Neville will go on, if only in a subconscious impulse, an unidentifiable feeling, a half-recalled smile. That’s why the words of others matter.

Ann and Ingrid, respectively, of Zoolatry and of Meezer’s Mews and Terrieristical Woofs, created these wonderful badges, each showing an aspect of my old lion. I thank them for their generosity, and will display their gifts on my blog’s sidebar.