“Just enjoy her while she’s here,” my husband says. "It's all we can do." He’s talking about our cat eighteen-year-old cat Becky, who is sleeping at the other end of the couch. Comfortable now, it appears. No twitching and tossing and turning. No frequent change of position. Just what looks like a normal cat nap. She’s napped for most of the day, but that’s par for the course for an old cat. Becky’s my baby. We got her when my youngest, was three. He’s twenty-one now, and Becky is… old. And so loved by us all. Early on, she chose me as her objet d’amour, and she became mine. The kids always said, “You love Becky more than us, Mom.” Of course I didn’t, and they know that, but damn, she ran a close second! And now she’s on borrowed time. “If a cat lives beyond fifteen,” the vet said, “that’s something!” Something, but not enough, really. Just enjoy her while she’s here. Bittersweet love. She’s had a healthy life until recently when old-age issues le
Life is a series of snapshots meant to be recorded in words. A writer and photographer shares hers.