Boris is dying.
The vet talked today and his second set of blood tests his in. Despite medication and whatever else his kidney numbers are worse and the heart murmur has reached level five. Oh, there a couple things we can try, but if they work they won't work long.
Truth is my little buddy is a goner.
Boris is my oldest cat. I met him at my late stepfather's some 15 years ago. He'd shown up at their back door out of the blue. As they already had a number of cats and dogs, they really didn't need another. He spent much of my visit on my lap. At the end of the weekend he came home with me.
For the past fifteen years he's slept in my bed, curled up my shoulder when i read, sat on my lap when I watched T.V. He even used to stick his head into the bathtub to watch me shower. I can't tell you how many of my former girlfriends he's greeted, but it's darn near all of them. He shared our bed, and clung to me when I was hurt or sick. If I have ever known truer love, it came from my parents.
As I write this he's perched on my shoulder, watching me type, content just to be there. This is exactly the way I want to remember him.
I remember a recent survey among women that said that if their dogs were men, they'd marry them. I doubt if that's true, being a lover is a very complex position with many varied expectations. But no one offers more unconditional love, more steadfast patience than a pet.
For fifteen years he's been there for me, waiting at the door when I came home. I suspect he always will be there, even when I can no longer see him.