Where and When

So... matted Molly was shaved down to a sliver of her former self.  She refused to eat or drink and she looked ready to place a painful hex upon our heads.  She was not a happy cat.  Seriously, she was probably suffering from a bout of severe shock.  Finally, just as we phoned the dreaded vet, she gathered herself and:

     Molly recovered.  She continued to garden with me – supervising each shovelful of earth that I turned and inspecting each bulb that I planted.  She grew back her wonderful long-haired coat, delivered a live rat to me in my bedroom, attacked a raccoon and received only a tattered ear for her trouble, and decided, as she aged, that it was her absolute right to sun herself in the middle of our fortunately short and dead-end road. 

As a result of this latter eccentricity, we provided all the neighbours with water guns.  “Someone, who doesn’t know that she’ll refuse to move, may hit her.”  But still, none had the heart to use the water on her.

    Eventually, the black fur turned to grey. She would only eat if we fed her by hand and only drink if we dribbled water from the garden hose.  Her back legs and hips pained her and she seemed to have lost interest in her gardens.

    “It’s probably time,” we said. Tentatively, we explored the possibilities. “We’ll have the doctor visit Molly at home - she was never going there, again.”

    But, once more we dithered – knowing what was right but unable to act until, “She’s gone!”  We waited all day and all the next but, yes, Molly was truly gone.

     And then, “Come with me,” said my partner and she took me to the back garden.  There on her tummy with her head on her paws and snuggled against our very first Skyrocket Juniper tree was Molly the Gardening Cat. As always, she had decided for herself – where and when.  Where we had started and when it was time.