Not-so-fun fact: It’s estimated that cognitive decline — referred to as feline cognitive dysfunction — affects more than 55% of cats over age eleven and more than 80% of cats over age sixteen.
The old yellow Tomcat limped along behind me on our daily walk to the second raised flowerbed. It wasn’t far but our pace was slow. Upon reaching our destination, Bam Bam attempted to jump up on the old red bricks where I now sat. Sometimes the effort was too much and I would carefully lift him up and settle him beside me, scratching his ears before letting him go. This time he was able make the jump on his third attempt.
Bam Bam — sometimes called Bambi — stretched out and rolled back and forth on each side before settling down for a quick nap. After a few minutes passed, the cat roused himself, jumped down off the flowerbed and started the slow journey home. I, too, left my seat and walked alongside him.
We had just started this ritual about three months before. It took a few months after my husband’s death to understand what the cat wanted. He would follow me to the community mailbox positioned just outside my gate and cry repeatedly as he walked down the sidewalk beyond my gate. When I turned in the yard, he would sit outside the gate and continue to wail.
Sixteen years earlier, I had convinced my husband, Ralph, that he needed companionship for the long days while I was at work. I made a trip to the local SPCA and spotted a small yellow kitten about six months old in a cage. As I passed, he reached out his front paw and let out a pitiful howl. When I returned home, he came with me.
Ralph liked dogs. Cats were animals that lived in a barn and rid it of mice. And while he tried to ignore the little cat, he did allow it to sit in his chair with him and watch game shows and cooking shows on television — all the while voicing his dislike for cats.
When Ralph’s health began to fail, he would take two walks a day almost the length of our gated community’s common area, using his cane for stability. There were three round raised flowerbeds along the way, one by our house, one in the middle of the area and the third at the opposite end from our house. The yellow cat would trot along with him, sometimes running ahead to hide and pouncing out when Ralph got close.
As time went by and Ralph’s health continued to decline, he traded the cane for a walker, and the walks stopped at the second raised flowerbed. There he would sit and visit with the mailman or the gardeners or a passing neighbor. Although Bam Bam had become very thin with age and his pace had slowed, too, he continued to accompany Ralph.
The walks dwindled to once a day and cat and human both came back ready for a long nap.
When Ralph lapsed into a coma one winter day, the cat was allowed in the house to sit on his bed. The faithful cat stayed all day, leaving only for a quick trip to the sand box. He refused to eat. When my husband took his last breath, the old cat howled and had to be put outside where he continued to howl.
Now we walk every day. Down to the second flowerbed and back. The cat limps behind me, and I reach our gate long before he does, but I hold it open for him even though he could easily step between the rails. I go in the house and he shuffles to his favorite napping place. Bam Bam is seventeen years old now and deserves a good rest.
~Ruth Acers-Smith
