god only knows

After all these years, I am delighted to still be writing about Simon.  (Also, after all these years, I am delighted to finally have embraced the split infinitive. For those whose grammatical training in English stemmed from the Victorian era and cannot read "to boldly go" without cringing, I refer you to John McWhorter's Our Magnificent Bastard Tongue, in which he lays out so sound an argument in favor of the split infinitive that I converted to its acceptance on the spot.)  My lovely kittyboy approaches his sixteenth birthday sometime early next year (hm, I should probably appoint one. Lol I'm a terrible kittymama - no birthday celebrations in fifteen years; I might as well be a Dursley.  I'm leaning toward January 4th; for some reason that feels right), and our fourteenth anniversary of meeting at Easter, and our twelfth year of companionship this Christmas.  At fifteen, he remains full of sass and sweetness, still pert and bright-eyed, and only bushy-tailed when a loud noise scares him.

He's the most adaptable cat I've ever heard of; he acclimated to being hauled out to South Bend, Indiana, twelve years ago, then being hauled back to Erie, Pennsylvania, three years later; he survived a move into my grandmother's mobile home with me, then back into my parents' house for three years, then to my apartment that I dubbed The Eyrie for three more; then the trip back to Michigan to a cramped, cheap little condo for two more years while I spent far too much time at my ex's place; and then the enormous upheaval of the move to the current homestead.  With each change, he has remained his faithful, affectionate, playful self; and with this last change in particular, now that it's just the two of us again, in a large old apartment resplendent with 1920s arched doorways, hardwood flooring and stucco walls, he is relaxed and happy, and I can't look at him without hearing him break into the soft, rhythmic purr that snags a little in his nose - my favorite sound in all the world.

My Simon has seen me through a lot.  I've always had my pet songs for him (har) - "You Made Me So Very Happy," "You are My Sunshine" (or, "You are My Simon"), "Sweet Caroline" ("Sweet Kitty Simon"); lately I've been singing a lot of "God Only Knows."  Because without this cat, this adorable, sweet, loyal, devoted companion, who has literally stood at my shoulder staring down into my face all through my darkest nights, I don't know that I'd be here today writing this.  Every day I look forward to going home to him; every morning I love waking up to his FEED ME yowls; I laugh when he trips me up in the hallways, or trips himself up because he's too busy staring backwards into my face as he walks to pay attention to where he's going; I smile when he settles down into a catloaf next to me on the couch in the evenings.

I know our time is short.  At the moment he is in perfect health (I had full bloodwork done up on him a month ago, and, uncharacteristically for fifteen-year-old cats, he has no renal or liver issues; his hips are only arthritic enough to have necessitated my converting a plastic storage bin into a custom litter box that he can easily step into and easily crouch at full height in, but which certainly don't impede his countertop foraging anytime I step out of the kitchen); but fifteen is old, and though I cherish hopes of him reaching his twenties, there's no guarantee.  My breath catches when I think of losing him (god, what I wouldn't give to have the ability to reverse aging; I would go into extravagant debt to have Simon with me forever); I can envision no greater personal loss or anguish, and I know I'll have to feel it at some point, much sooner than I'll ever be ready for.  But that only underscores the incalculable preciousness of the present that I have with him - a present in which we have each other all to ourselves, and in which I can give him an easy old age full of mommy-love and support and creature comforts and a stress-free environment without roommates or other animals.

Even now as I type this from my lovely balcony on a perfect autumnal-summer afternoon, I know that when I walk back into the house, a fuzzy little black face with vibrant yellow owl-eyes will be running to greet me and demand his dinner (which he will have to wait another 90 minutes to receive).

This precious little nine-pound bundle of sinew and old hips and silky-soft fur and dexterous monkey-paws is my pride and joy, my perfect companion, my favorite person, and I am so glad to still be writing about him, after all these years.  God only knows what I'd be without him.  And here we are.