After I last wrote, our nearly nineteen year old kitty, Zoomie, had a couple of stokes, one after the other, at the beginning of February. We didn’t think he would pull through, but he miraculously rebounded, even though he had some mobility issues and needed help with his basic needs. We did our best for him, and he got surprisingly better, only with less energy and unable to jump up on counters. He was also very thin. The photo above was taken then. He was looking like his old self.
In mid-March, he had another stroke, which left him weaker. We hoped for another recovery, but, in spite of his great determination, it wasn’t to be. Before I went to bed one night, he insisted on getting into the biggest cat bed in the house, the one with the highest walls. I helped get him comfortably situated, cleaned his face, kissed him on the forehead, and went to bed. In the morning, on the 23rd, he was in the exactly the same spot, as I had left him. I believe he went peacefully in his sleep, which is the best we could have hoped for.
I brought him in, and he really never wanted to go outside again, except for the occasional times he stepped out the door while we brought groceries inside, and the one time the back door accidentally blew open, and we found him, with Henrietta, sitting under the bush by the back door.
They competed for his attention. Every time they heard him giving himself a bath, they would run to him and ask for a bath for themselves, pushing their heads under his chin. He patiently obliged. He took good care of them too.