The Cat Died.

Yesterday, one of my family’s kittens died.  We’re not sure why, theories range from the fact that it was only four weeks old and if you separate it from its mother at that age you’re kind of asking for trouble (mine), the fact that my oldest host sister gave it concentrated canned milk without diluting it first (my host mom’s), and that it missed its mom (my host sister Nicoll’s). 

I couldn’t quite bear the thought of it dying alone outside, so I brought it into my room and proceeded to use other people’s internet to google what could be wrong. (Big thanks to Laurel Galaty and Ashley Wallis).  The general internet consensus seemed to be that it was probably having digestive problems and was unable to poop.  So I firmly rubbed his stomach and butt with warm washcloth to no avail.  I held him close and hoped my body heat would keep him warm.  His whole little body was limp and his mews were heartbreaking. 

  

He hung on through the afternoon, long enough that my host sister was able to take him to her grandmother’s where his mother still lives.  He drank a little milk, got to say goodbye, and came back to my room where he spent his last hours.  They were not very pleasant hours. He vomited up the milk and began to seize with increasing force as the night went on.  My youngest host sister came down and she and I had a very sad heart-to-heart, as hers was absolutely breaking.  But we talked about how he knew that he was loved and that the most important thing was for him to not be in pain—however that came about.  (He was one of the replacement cats for when her parents got rid of her other cat, Pelusa, because they thought she was eating the baby guinea pigs.  Turns out it was actually the neighbor’s cat, who they now plan to poison.  Life’s not easy for a cat in Perú, especially those in my family’s orbit).  Around ten o’clock, I decided to go to bed, and as a last goodbye to a very young kitten I read the only poem I have on hand, sent to me in a letter from Danielle Bernert.  It’s by e. e. cummings and goes like this,

You are tired 

(I think)

Of all the always puzzle of living and doing;

And so am I.

Come with me, then,

And we’ll leave it far and far away—

(Only you and I understand!)

You have played,

(I think)

And broke the toys you were fondest of,

And are a little tired now;

Tired of things that break, and—

Just tired.

So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,

And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate if your heart—

Open to me!

For I will show you the places Nobody knows,

And, if you like, the perfect places of Sleep,

Ah! come with me!

I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,

That floats forever and a day;

I’ll sing you the jacinth song

Of the probable stars;

I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream

Until I find the Only Flower

Which shall keep (I think) your little heart

While the moon comes out of the sea.

I padded the Toms box I had with washcloths and placed him as softly as I could inside, trying to give him as much space as I could above his head, as each of his contractions shot him forward.  A little after midnight I dreamed that he was recovering and I woke up.  I lay still for about fifteen minutes, not sure if I wanted to know what would come from checking on him.  His body was so hard and still warm.

Next morning I let everyone know, and they asked, since I am the town walker (along with typist), if I would take him up on my next walk.  I said of course and at 2 p.m. I walked up one of my favorite hikes.  It heads north along the mountain side and at the point where I stopped it opens onto one of the most breathtaking vistas of the Cordillera Blanca I’ve seen yet—though today it was blocked by distant rain clouds.  I set the box down, and being without a shovel, piled rocks around him.  His name given to him by my host sister was Delancy, named after a character in a Barbie movie.  I think it’s a terrible name, but I can’t think of anything better.  He wasn’t with us very long. But this is where he rests; he's under the smaller pile of rocks in the center.

I wasn’t very attached to him, I don’t think I’d even touched him before he was sick—it was a flea thing.  But he was small and he was dying and I like to think that when we have the chance to be kind we should be.  Even if all it does is make us feel better. 

Besos!