Waiting for Angels

She is painfully thin and has taken to sleeping in odd and out of the way places. There is a sadness in her eyes that brings tears to mine and her coat has lost it's shine and sleekness. She is old, tired, and I think she understands that her time is nearly over. I stroke her rough fur, feeling her shoulder bones and ribs easily and she nuzzles against me but struggles against being held. She is tender, fragile, slightly unsteady on her feet. She no longer shares my pillow and I find I miss her warmth and purring. I give her the new prescription food and she looks at me and protests softly then eats a small amount before retreating back to a corner of the counter. She withdraws and sleeps but her breathing is slightly ragged and her rest is an effort. Hours later she is still in the exact same place and I reach for her with shaking hands, terrified that she will have given up while praying that God will have taken her while I was away. I find no conflict in this - I am mostly angry at myself that I cannot find the courage quite yet to end her suffering. I gather her up in an old blanket and carry her to the sunroom, speaking softly and reassuring her with every step and she burrows under the folds of the fabric and closes her eyes, her head resting against my arm, her frail body curled into itself. I lean back in the old leather chair and watch the shafts of afternoon sunlight play over her. The other cats keep a respectful distance and even the dogs are content to watch from the threshold - curious but sensing that this is a time for quiet, they lie together, watching and waiting. She stirs, opens her eyes for a second or two then lays her head back down. I'm overwhelmed with a longing to hug her and my heart hurts that I can't without causing her pain. So we sit in the leather chair, this old cat and I, warmed by the sunshine and waiting for night, waiting for peace, waiting for deliverance and angels. The angels do not come this night and by morning, she is still with me and hungry. She stretches, wanting down, and I set her on the carpet gently. Although shaky and unsure, she walks slowly and carefully toward the kitchen and the other animals follow, unnaturally subdued and quiet for this time of day, letting her lead without protest or interference. I've seen this before and I know it's the kind of small miracle that only happens when one of them is dying - otherwise I'd be grateful for the silence.

I lift her onto the breakfast table, pour fresh water in her bowl and food in her dish. She sits and eats a spoonful or so

and I try and coax a little more but she refuses. She cleans her face and paws and settles herself, precariously I think, on top of the breadbox. In seconds her eyes are closed and she's asleep. We have another day. We are waiting for angels but dreading them as well.