As I write this, I’m sitting on the front porch so our cat can lay in the grass. He can’t see it anymore—not the dancing light through the trees, not the breeze rustling the leaves—but I believe he can still feel it. The warmth of the sun on his fur, the earth cool beneath his paws, the scent of familiar air. It’s one of the few comforts we can offer him now.
Over the last week, something changed. He began bumping into things—walls, table legs, our outstretched hands. And now, he can’t see at all. He doesn’t react when we wave our fingers in front of his face. He seems disoriented, unsure of where he is or where to go. Watching him try to make sense of the world without sight is heartbreaking!
He appears to be in the advanced stages of kidney failure. Something that happens as a life ends. His urine output is nearly gone now, and his energy has faded to a quiet, watchful stillness.
He’s very old, and we’ve long known his time was drawing near. Still, nothing really prepares you for the small heartbreaks—the moments when they stumble, when they don’t recognize their space, when their body slowly lets go.
We’ve had him for many, many years. He’s been part of our daily rhythm, part of the background hum of life—always nearby, always himself.
We’ll call the vet Monday morning. But tonight, he has the grass, the warm porch, and us beside him. We’re trying to just to be here, comfort him and let him know he’s safe and loved
