Her faded denim dress had heavy yellow stains on it.

She was, apparently, the first crazy cat lady I’ve ever met personally.

She caught my eye for a moment, and I think she knew I’d noticed the stains, and that “crazy cat lady” was in my mind. She looked resigned, maybe pleading, just a little: “But… I’m not really that bad. Please don’t write me off as a non-person.”

I’m trying not to, but I can’t help myself. I’m no neat freak, ask anybody who knows me; but I can’t remember ever once wearing clothing with multiple cat urine stains on it.

Still: there, but for the grace of the guy asleep at the switch….

That is all.

[Simmle] still lived, which I had not thought possible. I tended her wound again, but looking upon it I knew that life such as would be left to her would not be enough.

Then I took her head between my two hands as we had often sat. And I asked her the Question. For a long moment we sat so, and then she gave me the Answer. Around us the rest of the company whimpered and cried a little. For the little ones are not Thassa, and it takes great courage for them to make such an Answer, their belief not being ours.

Now I made memories for Simmle, all the best ones, and let her wander in them, while all the pain of her body was gone. And she was happy and content. When she was most happy and content I gave release according to the Answer. But in me a sword was thrust, for memory is sour as well as sweet, and this one added more to my burden.

I wrapped the husk of Simmle, the part which was no longer of any matter to us, certainly not to her who was free. And I put it among the rocks.

Tex’s passing was…not so nice. A long illness (rather than Simmle’s valiantly fought battle), ending with a long car ride stuffed in a carrier, to a place filled with dogs, bad smells, dogs, other cats, dogs, and strangers who always hurt him; never understanding why someone he thought he could trust (as much as a suspicious grumpy old cat can ever trust anybody) was doing that to him.

I’ve done this too many times, not always with my own. The hardest thing, the very hardest thing, is that they don’t know why.

The link to the Baen edition was very kindly provided by James Nicoll of More Words, Deeper Hole, who, if he knows me at all, knows me as a very occasional commenter with very contrary political views. Nevertheless, he answered my query promptly. Baen owes him a commission.

Never in my life have I met a more aggravating cat. Needier than any dog. Demanding. Manipulative. Passive-aggressive, even. Jealous–jealousy was at the core of his being.

Kitten-cute all his life, he had the longest whiskers I’ve ever seen on any cat.

He didn’t show up for supper night before last. He didn’t come home all day yesterday. He wasn’t there for breakfast this morning.

(Not, mind, that he ever eats much–mostly he showed up for meals because other kitties were getting stuff, and that meant he should get some too.)

But as I walked out to the garage to drive in to work, there he was on the patio. Weak and bedraggled, he went right back out when I brought him in.

I took him to the vet, who, basically, shook his head and said that there were just too many things going wrong. Expensive to diagnose, expensive to treat, and no guarantee that Johnny would ever get better.

I held him on my lap while Dr. Dayton prepared the euthanasia paperwork and took care of another patient. Johnny took no pleasure in being held and petted, but it seemed a comfort to him. Mostly, he was just dull and unresponsive; I was prepared for him to simply stop breathing right there.

Then it was time, and there was an injection, and now he’s gone.

===

Update:
Both of my other cats, including the semi-feral Razor Girl, aka Squeakers, are asking for and getting a lot more lap time already, only 24 hours later. It’s possible, I suppose, that they’ve noticed Johnny’s missing, and are seeking comfort or reassurance–but frankly, I think it’s simply because my lap is free. Johnny demanded way over half the available lap time. He was cute, and I loved him, but he was a greedy jerk.

Since he was adopted by staff members as a kitten, Oscar the Cat has had an uncanny ability to predict when residents are about to die. Thus far, he has presided over the deaths of more than 25 residents on the third floor of Steere House Nursing and Rehabilitation Center in Providence, Rhode Island. His mere presence at the bedside is viewed by physicians and nursing home staff as an almost absolute indicator of impending death, allowing staff members to adequately notify families. Oscar has also provided companionship to those who would otherwise have died alone. For his work, he is highly regarded by the physicians and staff at Steere House and by the families of the residents whom he serves.

It is so tempting to simply let one’s jaw drop, and marvel at those amazing animals, with their mystical senses that go beyond mere human understanding.

Hogwash.

There’s something real going on here, something that can be detected and measured. The New England Journal of Medicine is a research journal. Somebody should be doing some research.

Update:

This story is getting wide-spread buzz. The New Scientist takes a properly skeptical stance:

“There are events that are just prior to [death], and these can’t but have a biochemical level of reality,” comments James C Walker, the former director of Florida State University’s Sensory Research Institute. “Nothing about this requires that the signals be restricted to the olfactory pathway, since there may also be visual and perhaps even auditory clues.”

Alternatively, it may be a response to some observed change in the staff or patient’s behaviour, though [Dr. David] Dosa is sceptical of this. “It’s not about a whole bunch of activity that might go on at one point – there have been times when we haven’t expected a death and he comes in and somebody has died,” Dosa says.

And the fact that Oscar grew up in the nursing home does not explain how he may have acquired his apparent prescience of death, since the other cat who lives on the same unit shows no such abilities. “The other cat is a friendly cat, but he has absolutely no clue whatsoever about anything that goes on,” says Dosa. “That cat is exposed to exactly the same thing as Oscar. It’s not an environmental thing.”

Also, see the comments, several of which mention “confirmation bias”, always a hazard to research. The hazard is particularly strong in a case like this, where the subject is so appealing and the observed behavior so very satsifying.

I happen to believe that Oscar does have a special talent, but verifying it means trying to prove that he doesn’t, not uncritically accepting evidence that he does.

The onion got soil and water; we’ll see how it does. Johnny got lap time.

[Edit 22 Apr 2007]Months later. The onion rotted. Johnny’s pretty spoiled too.

(The picture is slightly gray and fuzzy because it was taken through the kitchen window. I’ve been trying for this shot all week, while I cleened the window, figured out that ISO 800, while fast, is too grainy, waited for good light, waited for a good pose (on a cat who could detect when I was watching and who came in to beg for food and attention), and finally learned to drape a black T-shirt over my head and the camera to kill the glare, and to set the camera on a solid base instead of just holding it up to the glass. )

The camera is my new 5.0 Megapixel Canon A530. The A530 is very nice, but lacks a few features I wanted: aperture/exposure priority (although full manual is available), remote settings and triggering via USB, and and provision for an outboard lens adapter, all available on other Canon models. A couple 0f blue-sky features: timelapse mode and hotshoe (external flash) adapter.

(The 6.0 Mpx A640 is also available, which also has some of the features I want. Unfortunately, the somewhat larger backscreen, is said to be not as bright and clear. And, of course, it’s a good deal more expensive.)