A year ago I noticed an old black cat was hanging around. It looked thin. Starved. I suspected it’d been abandoned.
I gave it a bowl of food, and the desperation with which it ate struck a chord with me. It took three full cereal bowls before it finally walked away. I resolved to feed it. One additional cat would hardly break the bank.
It took months before it stopped forcing down absolutely every scrap it was offered. Months before it started looking a bit less gaunt. It did improve though, and the frequency with which we saw it convinced me it really didn’t have a home.
We set up a few insulated pet houses outside, to keep the wind and rain off. Old black was joined by old grey, and the two of them would spend hours sleeping on the furniture outside, or wandering the yard.
Old black would come over anytime I came outside and loudly demand attention, usually in the form of scratches. Needle sharp claws presented if he was ignored for too long.
A few days ago I noticed old black wasn’t coming by for food. He was spending a lot of time sleeping, but I didn’t see him eating anything. Yesterday I didn’t see him at all — and that was weird, since this was essentially home base.
This morning I found him. Half out of one of the houses, and face down. Gone.
It’s obviously been a few hours, he’s cold. I’ve wrapped him in a soft towel, and again in plastic, and in a few hours I’ll take him to the vet for cremation.
It’s not the least I could do, but it is all I can offer. One final bit of dignity.