Reflections on the Fourth Week of Spring – Part of Life

Emma Woodhouse Wells January 16, 2003 - April 16, 2019

 Emma, in her pouty-princess mood, lay limp on the exam table at the veterinary clinic Tuesday, April 9. Annoyed at the indignity of her caged transport? Frustrated that her hobble-wobble-flops returned? [See “Hobble, Wobble, Flop” March 3, 2019] Sapped from losing four pounds in two weeks?

“She would grab a cat crunchie in her teeth, but couldn’t move it back to chew or swallow.” I looked into Dr. Wolf’s face hoping for the grin from pierced to unpierced ear. “The food just fell out of her mouth.”

“That and the loss of mobility go with her neurological condition.” Dr. Wolf returned my look with her serious poker face. “When cats have neurological set backs, it’s not a good sign. I can't promise the medicine will give her five more years.” The vet stroked Emma’s back. “You need to be prepared."

Back home, Emma didn’t prepare. She adapted. Hobbling past the bowl of crunchies, she squatted in front of the water bowl. Lap, lap, lap.

My husband stuck an iced-tea spoon of chicken with gravy cat food under her nose.

She licked.

Chicken chunks flew.

Spence scooped the chunks back onto the spoon.

Emma licked.

Chunks flew.

Spence scooped chunks until Emma turned her head.

The next day, I loaded the spoon with baby food.

Emma licked the mashed chicken and swallowed. After a couple feedings, though, she met the spoon with fastened lips and half closed eyes. She hobbled away and squatted in front of the water bowl. Lap, lap, lap.

She processed her water diet efficiently.

After forcing herself off the blanket by the wood stove fire, she scrambled her feet in a half yard dash then plopped onto her butt. Staring at the floor as if waiting for her strength to return, she sat. Five minutes later, she made another scrambling dash on her journey to the litter box in the bathroom.

When her legs refused to make that journey, she did what any senior citizen in Mercer County would do. She called―merrow―for transport.

I picked her up, carried her to the litter box, and set her inside.

Her wobbly legs didn’t give much support. Making another adjustment, she rested her butt on the edge of the litter box. A stream of odorless, colorless pee trickled across the bathroom tile.

When her legs gave no support, she sank into the litter and lay on her stomach. Once the watery flow ended, she crossed her front feet and closed her eyes for a nap.

Four days after the vet exam, Emma made a wobbly trip to the water bowl. Lap, lap, lap. Pivoting on her butt, she turned to an empty paper grocery bag that I’d left to dry on the floor because a dish detergent bottle had leaked on the way home from the store. Emma stuck her nose into the bag.

Would she step in and explore? Maybe the increased prednisone had helped.

Emma After Plants

Emma hobbled-wobbled, hobble-wobbled, and flopped front half in, back half out of the bag. She lay still. “Spence, look!” I grabbed my cell phone to take her photo. “She’s playing! She’s in the bag.”

Spence, tending seedlings in the basement, climbed the stairs and leaned over the railing.

Emma backed out of the bag.

I set the phone down and scooped her into my arms. “Good girl. You played in a bag.”

Fur on her tail moistened my sleeve. I stared at the floor. A puddle spread six inches from the paper bag. Peeing―not playing. “Oh, Emma. I would’ve carried you to the litter box.” After setting her on the blanket by the wood stove fire, I fetched a rag and disinfectant.

Spence belly laughed. “She made a substitute litter box.”

On my knees, I failed to see the humor. After cleaning the odorless puddle, though, I snickered. “She’s the princess of adaptation.”

Monday she adapted by laying on her side. She moved her legs as if hobble-wobbling through the air, and she opened her mouth for soundless merrows.

I wet her lips with a syringe. “You’re precious.”

Spence shifted her blanket to tend the fire. “You’re loved.”

I eased Emma onto her other side and combed her hair. “You’re special.”

Emma kept her back to the warmth of the fire or to one of us. When Spence laid her beside him on the sofa, she wiggled until her back rested against his thigh. And when I carried her to bed that night, she whimpered until I pulled her back against my tummy. During the night, she woke and whimpered. I petted her. “I’m here, pretty princess.”

By Tuesday morning, after a week of watching Emma fade, we had prepared.

Spence gathered his gear for a day volunteering in Cleveland then knelt beside Emma. He scratched under her chin. “Do what you have to do.”

I packed for lap swim in Meadville then gathered Emma into my arms. “You’ve waged a valiant struggle. If you want to go find George, [See “Holding Him Close” December 23, 2018] I understand.”

Mid day I returned from swimming.

Emma didn’t raise her head off the blanket in front of the wood stove, but her side―once soccer-ball plump, now concave―rose and fell in a peaceful rhythm. The peaceful breathing reminded me of my friend Sister Loretta’s rising and falling chest.

Six and a half years earlier, I’d sat with Sister’s nephews and several nuns beside her convent bed. We chatted and included her in the conversation. She didn’t answer. We watched. Her breathing slowed until it stopped.

I crouched by Emma, petted her head, then sat in my log chair beside her. “Pretty girl . . . Special princess . . . Much loved kitty.” During the vigil, I checked email.

A writer in my Meadville group sent a message I’d watched for since the end of March. “Our little girl is two weeks old today!” My eyes devoured details―7 lbs. 8 oz. and 20 ½ inches long.

Squealing in delight at the photo of the baby girl’s cherubic face, I looked over the screen at my little girl cat.

Emma’s side didn’t move.

Beginnings and endings.

Birth and death.

Both are part of life.

Emma March 2003