An old cat’s eyes have seen so much, and know more than we think. They know life is good and so are humans, for the most part.
These cat eyes remember when they first saw my house ten years ago, after being plucked off death row and plopped into a no-kill shelter, where they looked around for months waiting to be chosen until until a grieving red-haired woman who was not afraid of jet-black cats took this beautiful cat home. These eyes saw other cats come and go, but could see that he was king, head lion of the pride, and so special he didn’t need to even try to be loved. He just was.
These eyes can see I’m doing the best I can, when I turn on the fluids too soon and liquid life squirts out the end of the sharp irrigation needle. They know when I keep pushing treats it’s to save this old cat from starving to death because he just. Doesn’t. Want. Food. He knows that this “day at a time” routine is getting old for us both.
Claude’s eyes show the wisdom I lack, the patience I crave, and a serenity to meet his end that I so admire. And when I cry and fuss over him, Claude sees only the silly human who loves him and can’t let him go and he understands, and purrs his forgiveness.