Squeaky

Squeaky is my cat.

She is old.  She is very old.

Every so often, throughout the day, I check on her to make sure she is still breathing.

Last night, she was asleep on the love seat.  I checked on her one last time before going to bed.  I looked carefully, but didn't see her sides rising and falling in the rhythmic pattern that would indicate breathing.

"Noooo," I thought.

I stroked her head a couple of times to see if that would rouse her, but she didn't move.

"Noooo," I thought.

On impulse, I reached down and took her paw, whereupon she started awake.  I chided her for scaring me so,  "You scared me!  I though you were dead!"

My relief was tempered by the knowledge that sooner rather than later, that story will have a different outcome.  One day, I'll check to see if she is breathing, and she won't be.

One day, I'll stroke her head and she won't feel it.

One day, I'll take her paw, but she won't startle awake.

One day... but not yet.  

Squeaky is my cat. 

She is old.  She is very old. 

And I'm not ready to let her go.  Not yet.