Aristotle was wrong. Tragedy doesn't have to concern a large matter. It could be played out on the very small stage of an 11-pound Havana Brown 16-year-old cat named Carlotta.
Last week, I felt the lump on her side. I thought the decision would be diagnosis and treatment versus no treatment, aided with pain patches. I knew the effectiveness of the latter when my 13-year-old cat Sarah had cancer of the jaw.
Then darkness fell quickly. Last evening as I was making notes about "The Good Wife" and "Downton Abbey" in order to report to readers of my two blogs http://lawandmore.typepad.com and http://janegenova.com I couldn't find Carlotta. Obviously she was hiding: the sure-fire sign of a dying animal. Finally I found her behind a bookcase I hadn't moved since I relocated from Seymour, Connecticut to New Haven, Connecticut 5 years ago. This morning she hadn't eaten. She hid in a closet in the bedroom, then returned to her refuge behind the bookcase.
I called the vet to reschedule the appointment from tomorrow at 11 A.M. to this afternoon. My decision, at least now before noon, is to allow her to pass over. The growth is pressing against her skin, making the hair stand up. Jason, her 16-year-old buddy, is holding vigil in the living room. I don't think it's fair for him to not to be able to move on with the actual grief.
I wonder: did all the loss we Baby Boomers have already suffered, particularly during The Great Recession, tame our denial and help us become more accepting of life as it is?
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