Habitually I check the front porch. Little noises, house creaks and the breeze, draw me to the back door, but our utility room remains empty. It's been more than a week, and I have finally washed his food dishes and put them away.
Westley, named in June of 2000 by our daughter after his acquisition at (yes) a garage sale, for the Princess Bride character who was dear and sweet but took on the role of the dread pirate Roberts, has disappeared. Not without saying goodbye.
Ten days or more ago he stopped eating and drinking. The expensive veterinary food that saved him in January had done all it could. Westley's been spending many hours per day out front, curled and snoozing beneath our crimson maple. When we left or arrived home he sometimes greeted us, and always after dark he asked to come inside. Towards dawn, his signature "Mrr-OW!" (Hel-LO!) would wake us, Tim letting him out again to wander and snooze.
We were booked for an overnight visit with some of Tim's extended family in Seaside on Thursday the 20th. Wednesday the 19th, Westley made no evening appearance. I had already sensed that his systems were shutting down. I checked around the house outside to no avail. His pet door was still accessible, and he had always continued to be able to use it to come in the back when necessary, but that night he didn't show there, either.
In bed I felt the tears build and spill. Crazy animal. He and I've had a tumultuous relationship. We were often akin to ever-bickering spouses who, when deprived of one another, are surprisingly at a loss.
I wished I had talked to him more that morning, petted his knobby, 18-year-old head. If only I'd scratched behind those notched ears and whispered goodbye. But I had just fed him food he regarded briefly then ignored, changed his water as always, though it remained untouched.
I was glad we had let him finish his course his way, while recognizing he might still show up again. He's come close to death two or three times before and pulled through. As his ears showed, he never stopped being a scrapper. But I knew we might find him tomorrow in really bad shape and need to take him to the veterinarian one final time. This has happened with our dog and another elderly kitty. We would have to see what the morning would bring.
Packing for our drive north occupied me early Thursday, until we were nearly ready to go. And then I heard him helloing on the front porch. He and I completed our morning ritual at his food dish; I crouched and petted him a long while; Tim came in and gave his greeting. Westley had already gone out again when we left town. We'd made sure all his supplies were available. But we didn't know if he would be around when we returned on Friday.
He wasn't.
Westley, named in June of 2000 by our daughter after his acquisition at (yes) a garage sale, for the Princess Bride character who was dear and sweet but took on the role of the dread pirate Roberts, has disappeared. Not without saying goodbye.
Ten days or more ago he stopped eating and drinking. The expensive veterinary food that saved him in January had done all it could. Westley's been spending many hours per day out front, curled and snoozing beneath our crimson maple. When we left or arrived home he sometimes greeted us, and always after dark he asked to come inside. Towards dawn, his signature "Mrr-OW!" (Hel-LO!) would wake us, Tim letting him out again to wander and snooze.
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| James's asters growing beneath the maple near the spot where Westley loved to nap. |
We were booked for an overnight visit with some of Tim's extended family in Seaside on Thursday the 20th. Wednesday the 19th, Westley made no evening appearance. I had already sensed that his systems were shutting down. I checked around the house outside to no avail. His pet door was still accessible, and he had always continued to be able to use it to come in the back when necessary, but that night he didn't show there, either.
In bed I felt the tears build and spill. Crazy animal. He and I've had a tumultuous relationship. We were often akin to ever-bickering spouses who, when deprived of one another, are surprisingly at a loss.
I wished I had talked to him more that morning, petted his knobby, 18-year-old head. If only I'd scratched behind those notched ears and whispered goodbye. But I had just fed him food he regarded briefly then ignored, changed his water as always, though it remained untouched.
I was glad we had let him finish his course his way, while recognizing he might still show up again. He's come close to death two or three times before and pulled through. As his ears showed, he never stopped being a scrapper. But I knew we might find him tomorrow in really bad shape and need to take him to the veterinarian one final time. This has happened with our dog and another elderly kitty. We would have to see what the morning would bring.
Packing for our drive north occupied me early Thursday, until we were nearly ready to go. And then I heard him helloing on the front porch. He and I completed our morning ritual at his food dish; I crouched and petted him a long while; Tim came in and gave his greeting. Westley had already gone out again when we left town. We'd made sure all his supplies were available. But we didn't know if he would be around when we returned on Friday.
He wasn't.
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| Last picture of our sweet little pirate, "helping" Tim sort vintage reel-to-reel recordings. |
