Lion and Magic Boy

There’s a situation here.

It’s more than the Ass Cork Cat: with the purchase of a bag of food costing approximately one rent payment, he’s fine now. Sure, he has to eat this crap for the rest of his life in order to avoid the formation of urinary crystals that apparently feel like peeing knives, but aside from his chagrin at eating The Same Food All The Time, he’s fine. Never better. Fluffy, playing at all hours of the night, fat and happy.

The problem is now his brother, who last month was the picture of sleekness and health while Ass Cork got all scruffy and ungroomed while peeing apparent knives. The brother, never a truly happy cat and always the one who would creep slowly up onto a lap as if he didn’t deserve to be there and would probably be kicked off in a minute anyway, is now doing quite poorly.

The once-sleek black fur is oily and matted. His backbone is painfully evident while his belly is distended. It’s not worms. It’s sadness, and that’s not something curable. Could be a tumor, too, who knows?

And this is the problem. I know that cats have a different view of life than people do. Hell, I know that I have a different view of life than most people. Cats don’t fear death, aren’t bothered by it. But part of me says I should be doing something more for this cat, this cat who has spent countless hours on my lap, who has dug countless holes in my legs with his claws that no one ever taught him were supposed to be sheathed, who has lived his life in fear and uncertainty, even when in a home of love and stability.

I can’t fix him, this traumatized cat. Love won’t fix him, hasn’t fixed him. The vet can do lots of expensive tests for all sorts of things but there is nothing apparent to test for other than a case of sadness. He won’t eat much (though enjoyed some chicken livers just now). He can’t seem to get warm enough, and possesses heat-seeking capabilities. But I no longer want him on my lap. It feels like he wants something, desperately wants something from me, something I can’t provide. It’s like he’s trying to suck my soul out through my lap and I don’t like how it feels. So I push him off, gently, and he looks even more defeated, more sad.

I wish he would die, this cat. He’s sad and I can’t fix him. I love him and it hurts me. I can’t fix him.