Hannah
About a week ago, I “inherited” a very, very old cat.
An elderly lady in my town had died, and her adult children left behind “Hannah” in a shed, with instructions to a neighbour to feed her. When it occurred to the well-intentioned neighbour that the cat was not thriving, he offered it to me, or more accurately, asked for my help.
When Hannah was brought to me, she was almost comatose. We had three little girls visiting here at the time, and they thought the 21 year old cat was beautiful; they lavished her with kind words without handling her. I dribbled chicken broth in the cat’s mouth, and after a day, when Hannah looked like she was going to live, I sponged her filthy emaciated body gently and dried her. That seemed to perk her up further.
During the week, Hannah mostly slept but got up to eat and drink the “real” tuna that we had for her, canned cat food, milk and water. I thought perhaps that the old cat had a couple more years, or a couple more lives.
Despite our loving efforts, Hannah died this morning. She simply awoke, ate a little bit, and curled up to sleep again, this time for the last time.
Goodnight Hannah, dear old cat.
