Zoey: Those Precious Moments

Zoey rests peacefully in a sunny spot on the floor in the living room as I emerge from a night's rest. I head into the kitchen to start the tea kettle. She follows me into the room and patiently waits for me to open the patio door to the backyard. I open the door and watch as she leaps with an energetic bound over the threshold and into the outside, her very favorite place in the whole world.

She makes a beeline to the catnip patch, lingers there for a few moments, and then searches for the coziest sunny spot. She'll eventually move to the shade, but for now, her immediate future will be spent rolling around on the warm patio.

I can tell she's slowing down. She no longer unrolls all my yarn balls. Her toys remain tucked away in the box. But when she's invited outside, everything changes. That youthful spark returns and for a fleeting moment, I forget all about her illness. These moments make me the happiest.

Her interest in exploring the yard has greatly diminished and I no longer have to worry about her jumping the fence into the neighbor's yard. I don't really have to supervise her anymore. That means she gets hours long catnaps in the fresh air without interruption. I glance out the window a few times an hour and find her cozied up on the came patio chair cushion as the last time I looked. I try not to think about it, but if this is how she ends up spending her final days, that is okay with me.

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Yesterday, Zoey and I went to the vet for another round of lab work. The appointments are becoming less frequent now and it's mostly just a waiting game. I've come to detest visits to the vet as much as she has. Just as Zoey doesn't like being restrained and poked with needles, I don't like the pitying looks and platitudes the office staff send my way. They act as if the Grim Reaper follows me in the door whenever I visit.

It has taken a few months to adjust to the news that this disease will eventually take my sweet kitty away from me, but I'm trying to remain positive. I'm sad that Zoey's adventures will end here in California and that our little family unit will not be the same on our next move across the country. On the other hand, we all know our days are numbered. We could expire without a moments' notice. I'm learning to appreciate her prognosis as a gift. Every day, I'm reminded to love on my little kitty as if it were her last.

With the treatments she's on, the average life expectancy is two years, which means we have roughly eighteen months left.

Eighteen months of snuggles.
Eighteen months of fresh chicken and tuna treats.
Eighteen months of bending the rules when I see her sleeping on my coffee table.

Eighteen months of spoiling my darling kitty rotten.