I lie in my bed, too tired to move. I’m exhausted, weary of the pain, this illness, this disease.
I roll over and try to get comfortable but it’s been such a long time since ‘comfortable’ has been achievable and I’ve forgotten what it even means now.
Dozing, half awake, ‘Tumble’ my cat hops up onto the bed, lies in the hollow made by my arm and starts to purr.
The feeling of peace emanating from his fluffy, slightly overweight body rumbles through the bedclothes and swathes me in its depths.
‘Tumble’ was named after I found out how he came to the rescue shelter. He’d tumbled from an upper window in his home and ended up with three broken legs. His owner didn’t find him for a long time and she seemed disappointed that he was no longer her perfect cat.
By all accounts – and I have no reason to doubt the source – poor Tumble was put in a cat-carrier and taken, not to the vet for treatment, but to the door of the rescue shelter which was closed.
He spent a distressing night out in the open and was so very fortunate that no predator came and found him.
His owner had put a note on his carrier but until the staff of the shelter checked the video for clues to his abandonment, they didn’t realise it had blown away. They found the note a day or so later, after he’d been admitted, checked over and had his three broken legs sorted out by the vet.
Despite his mistreatment at such a young age, Tumble had the sweetest nature and the loudest purr. It was because of that purr that I found him.
Over the next few years, Tumble helped me as my illness took stronger hold on me and I became bed-ridden for a lot of the time.
Tumble helped me in my darkest hours, his purr vibrating my cares and pain away, lulling me into a sleep that I’m sure would not be so deep had he not been there at the side of me.
When I wake up in pain, he realises and he starts his engine and it never fails. I fall asleep to his purr and dream I’m driving again. Tumble and I on a road trip, no pain, no worries, just me and my cat.
So when Tumble became too old to hop up onto my bed, when arthritis took a hold of his old injuries and he cried when he woke up in the morning, just like I did, I knew it was time for Tumble to take a last ride to the vet that had sorted out his broken legs.
They knew we were struggling and asked if I needed help. I accepted the vet’s kind offer of a rare house-call.
Tumble was on my bed, nestled into my side as the vet injected him one last time. He looked up at the vet as though he knew.
Then he looked up at me and he purred until there was no more purr left.
When Tumble hopped up by my side just now, I knew it meant one thing. He was grateful that I had stayed with him at the end of his life and he was returning that favour, coming to fetch me at the end of mine.
Purr away all my pain, Tumble.
Image from Pixabay