Reflections on the First Week of Fall – Quality of Life

9-22-17George Welcomes Fall

    Four months ago, in the powder blue euthanasia room at Greenville Veterinary Clinic, I held our cat George to my chest and buried my face in his fur. Dr. Heather sat beside me on the love seat and interpreted the results of his blood test. “Kidney failure . . . no cure . . . owner decides quality of life.”

    One hundred and seventeen subcutaneous fluid treatments later, George’s quality of life is now kitten-charged.

    Monday morning when I spread the yoga mat outside on the deck, he pawed the inside of the sliding glass door. Even though he’d already been outside twice, I slid the door open for him.

    Nose twitching, he dashed to the pansy planters. He rustled through dried wisteria leaves while Rodney Yee’s DVD voice directed me into chair pose.

    I held the pose.

    George lurched and froze, lurched and froze his way around the three planters. Was he after a chipmunk or the sparrow that hops across the deck every morning? Maybe he found a cricket or thought a phantom-animal made the crunch-rustle sound.

    He scampered down the ramp, loped back, and circled the yoga mat. Then he hunkered under the plant table and stared toward the end of the deck. His tail switched until his sister Emma stepped to the bowl of crunchies on the other side of the sliding glass door.

    She munched.

    He straightened, walked to the door, and stared inside.

    After bow pose, I slid the door open. George turtle-stepped so I nudged him with my foot and said, “Hurry, George. Rodney wants me in camel pose.”

    Cooking breakfast in the kitchen, my husband Spence called a reminder of our goal for George. “Quality of life, dear.”

    Later in the week, while Spence napped on the sofa, George leapt onto Spence’s tummy.

    Spence snorted but kept his eyes closed.

    George stretched his paw with claws extended and raked Spence’s beard.

    Spence swiped his hand to move George’s paw and resettled on the pillows.

    George licked Spence’s arm from elbow to wrist then curled up and fell asleep.

    Wide awake, Spence said, “GEOOORGE.”

    “Quality of life, dear,” I called from the loft.

    George’s kitten-charging extended to little sister aggravation. One morning, George and Emma gravitated to the same food bowl with only a dozen or so remaining crunchies. George shouldered her to the side.

    She hissed and stood on her hind legs.

    He gobbled.

    She growled, head butted him away, and munched.

    George swung his paw in an arc, like LeBron James going for a dunk, to wallop his sister’s head.

    But her head didn’t catch the blow.

    His claw stuck in the crotch of my bathing suit drying on a hanger hooked to the metal frame of the Boston fern hanging basket. Puzzled, George tiptoed on his back paws and dangled from his fully extended front leg. When he grasped the situation, he yanked pulling the bathing suit and rocking the hanging planter.

    Spence rushed to grab George’s leg and free his claw.

    “Did he damage my suit?” I took it off the hanger.

    “I don’t think so.” Spence dropped George on the sofa. “I think I got there in time.”

    I inspected the fabric for rips. None.

    We looked into each other’s eyes, laughed, and said, “Quality of life, dear.”

9-22-17 Emma Napping in Yoga Twist Pose