Towards the End
One of our cats look as if she is slowly dying, as she is hardly eating, is wasting away and spends time on a seat in the garden, doing nothing, not moving to protect herself from the drizzle, not watching the pigeons when they land upon the lawn in front of her. She is skinny and scabby, and looks twice her age.
Kate Clanchy (in her Slattern volume) says it best:
Kate Clanchy (in her Slattern volume) says it best:
Towards the End.
A wrecked street-cat got up
and shadowed us, came home
and sat an hour on your lap
in the laundry cupboard.
You counted the lice
that massed on her shoulders,
dispassionate, calm
as a man from the census.
We made her live for a while,
had her sprayed and injected,
swaddled her stiff in a towel
as a mummy;
forced milky drugs
through her shut wax mouth.
You stroked her vellum throat
with one finger, put her shaking
and small in my arms as a bird.
She pushed out a paw
as if promising something.
We smiled when she purred.
And woke in the night
to modest hoarse snorings,
fine scratchings in corners,
her peppery smell; to an itch
on our hands that matched,
palm to palm, that reddened
and spread, opened, bled.
Ringworm, they said. Then worse,
quickly worse; a shriek like brakes
skidding, wet sick on the carpet,
queer lucid red, one bony worm
that uncoiled to a comma.
You shrugged when I screamed,
cleared it bent-shouldered,
laid her flat on the floor
as a joke-cat, steam-rollered,
but her breath kept coming,
kept lifting her skin worn loose
as a dust-rag. She was light,
she was just greasy bones in a bag.
I called to her, called baby, love,
reached for your hand. She made
a rusty choking sound, squeezed out
a last tiny shit like a stone, then
you turned away I think,
I know I cried.
There was not enough between us
to keep a cat alive.
And, prompted by an unpleasant email exchange with Kaa last week, this also reminds me of my visit to Nancy a a year ago, of some kittens which she insisted upon rescuing from a canal bank where they had been dumped to fend for themselves. Her goodness and emotion contrasted with my older, more cynical attitude of wanting to leave them. Who was right? I don't know what happened in the end, but two of the three were quickly farmed out to friends, and the other shat in the living room. My disapproval, no doubt, contributed to our subsequent spat and split.
Coincidentally, the kittens were all black, triple bad luck, and found close to a hamlet called Les Moses.
A wrecked street-cat got up
and shadowed us, came home
and sat an hour on your lap
in the laundry cupboard.
You counted the lice
that massed on her shoulders,
dispassionate, calm
as a man from the census.
We made her live for a while,
had her sprayed and injected,
swaddled her stiff in a towel
as a mummy;
forced milky drugs
through her shut wax mouth.
You stroked her vellum throat
with one finger, put her shaking
and small in my arms as a bird.
She pushed out a paw
as if promising something.
We smiled when she purred.
And woke in the night
to modest hoarse snorings,
fine scratchings in corners,
her peppery smell; to an itch
on our hands that matched,
palm to palm, that reddened
and spread, opened, bled.
Ringworm, they said. Then worse,
quickly worse; a shriek like brakes
skidding, wet sick on the carpet,
queer lucid red, one bony worm
that uncoiled to a comma.
You shrugged when I screamed,
cleared it bent-shouldered,
laid her flat on the floor
as a joke-cat, steam-rollered,
but her breath kept coming,
kept lifting her skin worn loose
as a dust-rag. She was light,
she was just greasy bones in a bag.
I called to her, called baby, love,
reached for your hand. She made
a rusty choking sound, squeezed out
a last tiny shit like a stone, then
you turned away I think,
I know I cried.
There was not enough between us
to keep a cat alive.
And, prompted by an unpleasant email exchange with Kaa last week, this also reminds me of my visit to Nancy a a year ago, of some kittens which she insisted upon rescuing from a canal bank where they had been dumped to fend for themselves. Her goodness and emotion contrasted with my older, more cynical attitude of wanting to leave them. Who was right? I don't know what happened in the end, but two of the three were quickly farmed out to friends, and the other shat in the living room. My disapproval, no doubt, contributed to our subsequent spat and split.
Coincidentally, the kittens were all black, triple bad luck, and found close to a hamlet called Les Moses.
:-]
posted by Moses at
7:44 pm
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