A strange encounter and a dying cat

Wednesday evenings are rehearsal evenings for the Corran Singers, our local choral society in which I rumble along in the basses. After this week’s rehearsal, we went to the pub for a quick drink before dispersing. The conversation turned to the fresh wounds on my hands from Nish, my cat, made when she panicked about being able to unhook her claws from my jumper. At the next table was a chap, sitting on his own and drinking. He told us that his 15-year-old cat had been diagnosed that day as being terminally ill, and this was clearly something he was having trouble coming to terms with. He lived alone, 20 miles from town, but had taken his cat home from the vet’s and returned to the pub to get drunk. Personally, if my cat was dying, I’d be with her, and, if I needed the chemicals, buy a decent bottle of malt whisky to ease my pain. But I would be with her.

By coincidence, Jerry Coyne posted this cartoon on his website today, and it reminded me of the pain and fright of that man, and his inability to be with the cat that gave him so much love and affection for fifteen short years, and probably needed him with her far more than he needed a beer …

3-12-14-my-poozy

Thanks to The Far Left Side, by Mike Stanfill.

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