My Buddy, Part I 4/29/21

       I am reintroducing an old post.  

       It has been seven plus years since I've dusted off this story and shared it here.  It is about a friend-ship that reaches a tender part my heart and nurtures it beyond mea-sure. 

      I found it in the dusty bins in the library of this inn of gratitude.  It is among my favorites, awakening emo-tions each time I revisit the series posted above as "Buddy of Mine."  

      I cry good tears.   Every time.   

I'm glad I do.  

      The cockles of my heart are nurtured and encouraged when remi-niscing about one of the best friendships I have known.   Here it is, part one.  You can read the rest of the series by pressing the "My Buddy" button at the top of this page. 

     

    Alexander the Grey(t)             April 2011

         You want to know about me, you say?  Okay, I'll share about the friendship I have with a furry, curmudgeonly crepuscular critter.  Pull up a seat.

       Alexander and I hang out.  He's, a dying, fifteen-and-a-half-year-old cat.  I'm a positive guy who fell in love with a sassy feline.  He has gone from heavy to thin: he is but seven pounds. [He got down to five pounds, in June.] When our love relationship first started, five-and-a-half years ago, he weighed 22.5 lbs. (10.2 kg).  Yes, my!

       When we first met, he acted like a Fat Cat.  He would push through the crowd when strolling among mere humans.  People seeing him would declare, "Look at his size!!"   My initial thoughts were, "He'd at least make twenty tamales.  If I could only get him alone, in a back alley."

         No, he isn't mine.  But, he took a shining to me.  It started with a special massage I give him. My friends with cats know me and my unique massage. 

         I pull on the loose skin where his ear attaches along the side of his head.  He loves it.  I would have to do it for hours if he had his way.  His serious mug as we go through this ritual belies Alex's pleasure when we connect this way. 

          His breed is a loyal-to-one-person type.  His owner isn't happy with the fact that he's chosen to put in his lot with me, but, that's life. Now, whenever I drop by his place----that he shares with his feeder----he jumps up, sort of, eventually laying by my side, pressed up against me.  

          There is something precious about Alex's efforts when he greets me.  When I am not around, he doesn't budge from his perch on his cat-pillow that's topped with an electrically heated blanket. (Did I tell you, he was spoiled?)  He just lays on his side, one paw dangling over the side of his cushion. 

         Alex can't walk much; four or five steps he'll take, then lay on his side.  The muscles of his hind legs are giving out; they are not nourished.  Nowa-days, Mr. Grey is unable to eat much.  In January, the vet gave him three months to live.  He's not ready to go----yet. Something tells me he's sticking around for my birthday that takes place at the end of May. 

Alexander the Grey(t) on a good day. 

      He gets shots of famotidine and Pepcid for indigestion, clindamycin for a cryptococ-cal fungus infection that has traveled to his nose, making it difficult for Alexander to breathe.  He takes Baytril for herpes.  Intravenously, twice, daily, for more than two years,  he's received fluids, due to renal failure.

       Yet, he's a regal-looking cat that gives looks that can still kill.  Even in his enfeebled condition, Alex stares down at other cats.  They slink away, even though they weigh three times more than him.  

       It was startling discovering that Russians once hunted them, at Archangel Island, their original homeland, one hundred and fifty miles from the Arctic Circle.  They were prized for their double insulated, seal-like fur.

Alexander's ancestral home: that red island.

      When I drop by, this Russian Blue rises from his death bed.  We have a routine. Slowly, delib-erately----with each step, there's the possibility he may fall---Mr. Grey walks towards me.  His ef-forts are labored.  

       Alexander the Grey(t)  is unsuccessful when he tries jumping up on the living room couch.  He wants to sit by me.  His rear legs lack the strength to jump. He ends up stuck on the edge of the couch, his head, two paws, and his upper body rest on it.

      By his bottom, I pull up Mr. Grey.  He snuggles his sickness-ravaged body against my right thigh. Against me, this pure grey silvery-tipped feline rests his now-boney butt.  

      It tugs at my heart seeing this cat pouring out his last full measures of affection.  His breed is not vocal.  But he certainly communicates that he owns me.  He does---he's won my heart.

      I'm thankful for simple pleasures. And, I'm humbled by the connection Alexander and I share, as well as the kindness he demonstrates towards me.