Loki agonistes

"I want everything to be like it was!"

Those were the heartbreaking words my mother spoke to me shortly after being persuaded to move from her apartment to an assisted care facility.  It was a beautiful facility, but it was not her home.  She understandably longed for her days of being independent and in control of her  own life.

I'm reminded of those words by my cat, Loki, who is dying from an incurable colon tumor.  According to the veterinarian, he has about two weeks to live; I suspect it may be less.

Loki boarded at the veterinary hospital while I was in the Southwest, and while he was there he received the ultrasound testing that confirmed the diagnosis.  When I picked him up Thursday morning, he was overjoyed to come home. He spent the rest of the day cuddling with me, expressing his gratitude for rescuing him.  He was all over me, and objected to even short periods of separation.  He was like his old self, but twice as affectionate.

Now, three days later, he is more quiet, more reserved, less outwardly affectionate.  He's still alert when awake, although he is napping for much longer periods.  He still likes to go outside and investigate the yard.  He's still curious.  He still sits next to me and stares at me.  He doesn't seem to be in pain, but I suspect he isn't entirely comfortable.  He doesn't feel like the cat he was in the past.  He's happy to be near me, but he isn't all that happy with life.

I know I'm being anthropomorphic. But when he stares at me, he seems to be saying, "I want everything to be like it was."

And that's one of the great human laments, isn't it -- why do things have to change?  Even when we're young and the changes are exciting and evidence of growth, part of us resists.  Moving from one house to another made me nostalgic for the old house.  Going to college made me nostalgic for life back home.  And it only gets worse, much worse, later -- when the changes are for the worse.  When you wish you could still climb a mountain, literally or figuratively.  When you wish your joints weren't stiff when you jumped out of bed in the morning.  When you wish you didn't have to take medication to avoid unfortunate health problems.

And even later, recalling when taking medication was still enough to avoid unfortunate health problems.

Helping your pet die peacefully leads -- as you can see -- to morbid thoughts about your own life.  At least a cat lives -- so far as we know -- only in the present.  He doesn't brood over the loss of past happiness; he doesn't fear the future.  He only knows that at this moment he is not feeling as well as he feels he should. 

It will be enough for Loki that I can keep him from experiencing pain, even if some discomfort may be unavoidable.  I can do that.