He has been lying in my bed for three days. The first day he couldn’t walk. On the second day there were spots of blood on the two affected legs. The third day he licked one leg raw to the bone.
I prefer to call it feet. He has, like me, toenails that hook somewhere – as Cliff Buchler said: over the expensive socks you get for Christmas.
I don’t know what happened to him. I know he is hooked and stuck on it. I guess he hung on the tip of the hook, broke his front leg a little, fell wrong and broke his hip. He is 15. At the age we must fall in the right way, I want to say Snoekie.
I did it on Christmas Eve. Tripped over the wire; six are connected to the solar that illuminates our lives in the glass table that should not be there – but put it for “people” to visit “because the little wooden sculpture in it is perfect”.
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The wooden floor didn’t thunder for Snoekie like it did for me when she hit the ground. He did not have a child pour out of the room with “are you okay” and immediately check the phone password cracked screen. “Your screen guard is gone. I will not bring a new one tomorrow.”
I sported a couple of bruises and “boobs are a bit sore” the next day over breakfast. My mercy, I tell them? I fell like a drunkard after a night of debauchery: limp; hips intact.
Not so Snoekie, that’s a teetotaller. He hangs wrong; he paid the price. We know him; we know he has a strange hook in life and got stuck… But I keep on remembering Christmas Eve morning when he was just too “in my face” and I threw him off a warm spot behind my back.
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He’s hooked… But he still loves me, unconditionally. She purrs. He waited for a shallow bowl of water; scraps of meat he rarely got, pushed in his nose. He likes to sleep in a pool of pee (I can’t get rid of him now) under my feet as long as my toes are away from him.
I want to keep sleeping in the smell of cat pee because I can’t let go. But I saw his tongue hanging out yesterday. It’s time to get sick…