Sammy likes to lie on the bed in the sun. Is she daydreaming about her younger days, when she was a cat about town? She was once a street cat, and must have had many adventures. Now she is like an old lady, sitting in her wheelchair in the sun, thinking about her younger days, when she turned heads. Ah yes, all the tomcats must have perked up on their ledges as she sauntered by, with her shimmering, luxuriant coat, shifty hips, and sharp eyes. Oh for those glorious days of shimmering down from the second floor balcony, visiting the neighbors, checking out the action on the street, driving me crazy by hiding under cars while I was out looking for her, hiding in that shack next door with the other cats from our hood. Those days are gone, just like the sun that slowly filters away from the window. The sun will return; those days will not.

She used to dash out the door when I opened it; I would be irritated, having to chase after her. Now I celebrate any dash, any sign of life, any movement. Movement is life. Stillness is death.

Invent all the technology you like. Spend all your time hunched over your smart phone, or your lap top. Make porn 3D; it will never have the thrill of real sex. Connect with old friends on Facebook; it will never be like having a beer and laughing with them in your neighborhood pub. Listen to that song on your headphones as often as you like; it will never be like hearing it for the first time in a small club.

I write this book to try to tell you about this love – my love – for this small animal, but it will never work. You need to pick her up, and feel that soft fur, the light but solid weight in your arms and pressed against your chest, the cat smell which is sweet to me, the cat breath, the life in her eyes, feel her clinging to you. Only when you do that will you know how it feels when it all goes away.

Just got back from the vet; vet care may be getting as bad as human care; he kept me waiting 40 minutes. For myself, I would have stormed out in protest. But for Sammy I keep my cool, barely, because we need an expert opinion; I come prepared with a list of questions. Once again, like a month ago, Sammy got a better report than I was expecting. I asked the vet why her tail had shrunk down to almost nothing, and he had an interesting answer; the cancer takes the energy it needs; the rest of the energy goes to keeping the important parts of the body functioning. Since the tail serves no real purpose, it is starved of nutrients, and thus shrinks. The voluminous, voluptuous tail of old is now a mere whisp of its former self. The energy is saved for more critical, if less esthetic, body parts.

In the last month, Sammy has lost about 3 tenths of a pound. About what to be expected. The tumor has grown by about half again, but has moved to the front of the mouth, which actually makes getting food down her throat a little easier. About 60% of her throat passage that is not blocked by the tumor.

The vet has an interesting suggestion on how to make drinking easier; a hamster cage with a water tube that is suspended above, so the water flow can be down; this may help, as Sammy has been drinking everywhere but her dish lately; I think that’s because it’s hard for her to find a comfortable angle to get the water into her mouth, past the tumor, and down the gulley. I’ll buy one of those today and see if it helps. This sort of care is not about solutions so much, as experimentation. (It doesn’t work).

There is blood around her mouth most of the time now. It is dried blood; the vet says I should not worry about it too much. When she tries to eat or drink she often cuts herself, perhaps actually cutting the tumor. Not much blood comes out, but enough to make her look like a savage saber tooth tiger who has just been out hunting wild beasts. One of her front teeth has fallen out, and this has actually helped; much of the blood may have been from this tooth cutting into the tumor.

It’s amazing how she has aged in just a few months. Not long ago, she was a robust, voluptuous cat with a full mane of immaculately groomed hair, and a bushy tail. Now, no matter how hard I try to do it for her, her hair is matted and ungroomed; because she has to stick her head into the fountain, or the toilet, or the food bowl just to eat or drink there are often bits of dried food or water in her coat. Her tail is a whisper of its former self; the hair under her chin is much thinner; her cheeks are shrunken; her hair seems to have gotten a little darker, she weighs about half of what she weighed back in her prime. I think all this bothers me far more than it bothers her. She still jumps in my lap; although she is much more finicky as to what she will eat, she seems to want food; her eyes are still bright. If I asked her, are you ready to leave, I am sure she would say no.