In the middle of all the chaos of moving, I reassured myself at times by thinking, "Well, at least Aleph is staying with us." And in the weeks before we left Strasbourg, several friends admired him, commenting on how slim and beautiful he was. Those who helped us move were happy with us for him, that he would finally be in a place where he could go outside and play. It was difficult to keep him in those two weeks the vet recommended, so that he could get his bearings in the new house. Then he went out. Once, on the front balcony, he caught a bird. I won't soon forget the way he looked outside the window asking to come in, up on his hind legs with that little bird in his mouth. He was surprised, I think, like I was, and happy. He left it on the floor, and when he saw it was dead--after batting it a couple of times with his paw--he left it there. For me?
Aleph was there purring each morning when I got up. He was there begging to drink when we took a shower (now we know why), and looking out the door when we arrived home from somewhere. "Hi, buddy pal," we'd say. I'm not sure when or why I started calling him that. That's the way nicknames are. There was "buddy pal," which sometimes morphed into "buddy shmuds," or just "shmuds." Or "Alepher-weffer." I also had little songs I would sing to him : " You're my favorite kitty, la dee da dee da dee da..."
Over the weekend he stopped eating and drinking, started having trouble getting around. We had no idea what was wrong. Maybe it was the fight with Suzy, the nieghbor's cat. Maybe he had gotten hurt worse than we thought. James took him to the vet thinking we'd get it fixed, whatever it was.
But there was no fixing it. "Il faut qu'on soit realiste," the vet said. And she offered, if he became too uncomfortable, meowing a lot, to put him to sleep for us. We could have him rehydrated in an animal hospital, but it would be costly, and do him no lasting good. His kidneys were shot.
So James brought him home again, on Monday, and we told the kids he was going to die. We petted him a lot, and the kids came and loved him every time they got up, went to bed, or left to go somewhere. We didn't know how long he'd hang on.
Last night, while we were up working on our computers, he started to mew pitifully. He sounded like he was very uncomfortable. We reassured him with our voices, with a pat, saying things like "Hang in there buddy pal," or "It's going to be okay. Just rest now." Then we looked again, and he seemed different. He had stopped breathing. He was gone.
I feel silly for making such a big deal out of this. After all, I say to myself, it's not a person. It's just a cat. But Aleph was a great cat, and a warm presence in our home. He was patient with the children, even when they were cruel to him. Now I feel all alone here without him.
Eric prayed several times for God to heal him. I prayed it too. I told God, "Either raise him up or take him." Because I didn't like to see him so sick.
I honestly don't know what God does with prayers like that. I don't know of a single instance where He miraculously healed an animal. I suspect that there's a lot I don't understand.
But I do know that death will one day be gone forever, and that God in His goodness can be trusted when one of His creatures dies this way.
It's raining. We want to bury Aleph this afternoon on some church property up the hill in the forest, where it won't bother anyone.
Comments (2)
Oh, Soul. I'm so sorry. I'm not sure what else to say. I'm sorry, and I wish I was there to do you an 'ug.
Hiya! :) I am back in the US. Getting settled in here for a few months, ... and processing a lot. Hope to be back to writing soon. Thanks for asking! --E.