Reflections on the Last Week of Fall – Holding Him Close

George Knightley Wells     January 16, 2003 - December 20,2018

Wednesday afternoon, George, one of our long-haired cats, lay on his black fleece blanket in front of the wood stove fire. Once so heavy that vets put him on diets for years, he’d lost so many pounds in the last three months that he weighed about as much as he had on his first birthday. Kidney failure wore him down to black and white fur covering bones.

Writing Christmas cards in the Adirondack chair, I kept an eye on him. He rotated on the blanket getting warm on each side. Then he crept toward the fire box.

Dropping my pen, cards, and lap desk to the floor, I leapt over the clutter and grabbed him. “You’re too close, big boy. You’ll set your fur on fire.”

When I laid George on his blanket, he rose to sphinx pose. I wrote two more Christmas cards before he broke the pose. He looked at the firebox, at me, then the firebox. Was George wondering how to get closer to the warmth while I watched from the chair?

He didn’t resolve the problem before my husband returned from stacking firewood on the porch. “Come on, Georgie. We’re gonna to take a nap.” Spence took off his outdoor gear, scooped George off the floor, and carried him to the sofa. Balancing George in one arm, Spence arranged pillows and lay down with his buddy.

George wiggled off Spence’s outdoor-chilled tummy.

Spence reached his arm around George. Holding him close, Spence closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Dashing for my camera, I wished for the thousandth time that I had the talent of falling asleep as soon as I got horizontal.

Spence Napping with George

Thursday morning around 5:00, the house had cooled. George jumped off the corner of the bed with a thud, thumped two steps, and whimpered.

Sitting bolt upright, I shouted, “Spence! Something’s wrong with George.”

But Spence already straddled the cat. “He’s frustrated because his legs gave out.” Spence reached down and scooped up George.

“Maybe he wanted to warm up by the fire.” Yawning I wondered if I could go back to sleep. “Or maybe he wanted to find Emma.”

Emma merrowed from the hall.

“I’ll make him a fire.” Spence scratched George under his chin then carried him away.

Laying down, I pulled the covers up to my ears. I closed my eyes and listened to the firebox door squeak open, logs thud into the box, and the wood stove clank with changing temperatures. Then the house quieted, but I didn’t sleep. My mind reviewed George’s week―greeting me at the door when I’d returned from an afternoon in Meadville, following his sister around the great room, darting outside when the door opened, and turning his head to watch what we did.

At breakfast our son Charlie put his fork down, shaped an imaginary box with one hand, and pinched the fingers of his other hand as if dangling an imaginary paper. “A young woman handed me a label and a box that wasn’t closed. Looking sheepish, she asked if the box was okay. I told her it was fine. I’d take care of it.”

Spence sipped his coffee. “Funny Christmas package story.”

“Wait.” Charlie shifted in his chair. “That’s not the point. A driver was standing nearby. After the woman left he said, ‘You thought you could do a better job fixing the package than she could.’” Charlie flicked his fingers as if shooing the young woman away. “He was right. I didn’t want to wait for her to fuss over the box then have to redo it anyway.”

While the fellas laughed, I glanced at George. His ears twitched, but he didn’t turn his head.

After breakfast, I led my personal UPS packing expert to the loft. I wanted his help packing presents for my daughter who’d canceled her visit because of kitty troubles―Trixie needed twice a day penicillin for a urinary infection followed by surgery to remove an infected eye. Over the phone I’d told her, “I understand kitty troubles. Take care of Trixie and yourself.”

Leaning over the cedar chest topped by Christmas packages, I grabbed a mailing carton, carried it to the sewing table, and fitted the packages inside. I turned to get filler material.

Charlie pulled the box to him, rearranged the packages, and tested that they were compact. He picked up scissors, cut the corners of the box down to package level, and folded in the sides.

No filler needed. I put it away.

Downstairs, Spence said, “Time to clean you up, George.”

George whimpered.

In his don’t-worry voice, Spence said, “This won’t hurt. I’m just washing your chin.”

Upstairs, Charlie creased the sides until they laid flat. He taped the box.

Now I’m going to comb you floated up the stairs.

I pulled the box back and attached the label.

Two plaintive cat wails came from the great room.

Leaving the box, I hustled downstairs. “Stop combing! You’re hurting him.”

Spence sat on his heels. “I’m not combing him. He tried to walk. His legs didn’t work.”

Laying between his blanket and the food bowl, George wailed, gagged and drooled clear stomach acid.

Spence lifted George and lay him on the blanket.

George wailed, gagged, and drooled again.

While I wiped up the sticky drool, the vet’s words circled through my head. “He’s not in pain. He’ll feel nauseous, like he has the flu.” No fun.

Spence stroked George’s back.

I held his front paws.

George wailed, gagged, and drooled a final time.

Tears clogged my throat and drenched my face.

Charlie, who’d come down so quietly I hadn’t heard him, stood vigil near Emma resting on the sofa.

Spence petted George’s head. “We’re losing him.”

With my sobs piercing the silence, George closed his eyes. His bony body relaxed, and his breathing shallowed. Within ten minutes from his first wail, George took his last breath.

Mid afternoon I wrapped him―legs stiff―in the black fleece blanket. Then I fetched my purse.

Spence zipped up his thermal vest. “Who’s driving?”

“You are.” I put on my coat.

Spence pulled on his stocking knit cap. “Which vehicle?”

Picking up the blanket-wrapped cat and holding him close, I said, “Yours.”

Spence stared at the bundle. “How are we going to―”

“I’m going to hold him.”

So in the pickup truck, Spence drove us to Greenville Veterinary Clinic―a thirty-minute funeral drive.

I held George every inch of the way. Though his legs remained stiff, his back softened as if melting into my arms.

At the vet’s we stood by the counter while a tech checked files, filled out forms for a private cremation, and ran Spence’s credit card. Finally, she said, “I’ll come around the counter and take him now.”

Turning to face the tech, I gently transferred George to her arms. My arms felt empty―a pain worse than nausea, worse than an arthritis flare up. I sobbed and dashed out the door.

Spence followed and put his hand on my shoulder. “George wasn’t there any more. He’s in your heart now.”

Spence is right. George is on our minds and in our hearts.

We’re holding him close.

George on the Gate