The Five Senses: As I Write with Ollie

Late February, 2015

My beloved cat Ollie is dying.  In his younger days, he loved to swat at yarn, tear boxes to shreds, and carry his baby (a stuffed mouse toy) in his mouth.  For a treat, he would "sit," "stay," and "come here."  He knew the words "bird" and "squirrel" and when I asked him if he saw any, he would go to the kitchen door to look for them.  As he grew older, he would sleep on a dining room chair hidden under the tablecloth.  On sunny days, my lean cat would stretch out by the screen door.  At dinnertime, he would beg at the table, lifting his paw to my arm.

When he was healthy, he would hunt me out.  He would sit next to me on my chair as I read, or stretch out on the desk in front of the computer screen as I wrote, or snuggle on the bed as I napped.

Now, he is more stationary, saving his strength for potty and water breaks, resting on a soft blanket near my desk.  These days, I come to him.  I sit on the kitchen floor next to Ollie—this is where I write.

I see:
raindrops clinging to the deck door
sheets of drizzle rippled by the wind
birds winging across the pale gray sky

I hear:
the cat water fountain gurgling softly
the humming of the refrigerator
purring

I smell:
a light sweet scent of flowers on the kitchen table

I taste:
coffee sweetened with sugar

I feel:  
soft, silky fur
stiff whiskers
velvety ears

March 16, 2015.

Ollie is gone and I miss him terribly.

Rest in peace, my dear sweet cat.