The Beedge

Well, it's sad - my cat BG (the Beedge) is dying. He's twenty frickin years old, which is quite ancient in cat years, and he's been healthy and happy until just recently. So that's a big blessing. And he's been my baby for a long time now. Standard joke: "I always wanted to live with a 20-year-old guy, and I do, but I shouldda been more specific." Bada bum.

BG isn't so sick that it's time for the visit to the vet, nome sang. He's just not eating, or I should say, not able to eat. About a month ago he had a stroke, and since then his mouth and tongue don't work like they used to, so he has trouble getting food into his mouth, and once there, swallowing it. I'm feeding him with a syringe now, water and feline Ensure. The highlight of his day is when I smear the back of my hand with this nutritious gunk made of corn syrup and cod liver oil and vitamins, and he slowly licks it clean. I guess it's the highlight of my day, too.

He's been through it along the way. I'm his second long-term partner. He was the happy, beloved pet of a couple who sadly miscarried, and their doctor told them to get rid of BG, so he went to the pound, and that's where I found him, about 10 years ago. I had my eye on a prettier female, but everyone at the pound kept saying, "Oh, he's special, he's the greatest, you'll love him." I'm a sucker for word of mouth, so home he went, and he quickly became my darling, my super lovey dovey boy. Okay, I'm getting icky poo sweet here, but that's really what he's like. He's very shy around other people (just ask Sheila - when she visited for a few days, I think BG let her see him for a total of ten seconds). But with me, it's snuggle snuggle snuggle. His current favorite position is to get on my chest when I'm leaning back on the sofa, and tuck his front paws in the flap between my chin and chest. He loves that spot. Nice and warm for his paws, I suppose.

I'm glad I have a yard now, because when the time comes, I can find a sweet spot under the mimosa tree. He might make it a little while more, but he's lost a lot of weight, and everything seems to be slowing down, so I'm not expecting too much.

My friend Ande has three dogs and five cats (and for awhile, a chicken and two turtles). She's a critter person, no doubt. And we have the same conversation: she says, "I don't know if it's worth it to have a pet, when in the end you lose them." And I always say, "Oh yes, it's definitely worth it."

Those of you who have read some of the pieces on this blog know that there's sort of a tradition in my family - people die in my arms. First mom, then grandpa, then grandma, then dad. About three years ago my Dad's dog Gypsy, who came to live with me after Dad passed on, tuckered out and I held her as she was euthanized. It was hardest with my Mom (I wasn't ready, although I've come to think that she was). It was easiest with Dad (I was ready, and so was he). And I've come to the conclusion that maybe it's the most special thing a person can do, to be there when their loved one dies, to provide comfort and solace at a moment when it may do no good, to express love deeply and sincerely with no future attached to it.

My little Beedge. The time will come soon, and I'm not really sad so much as I'm glad to be here for him.