Just like the song, sweet as the poetry. Our short term relationship felt like a decade of long journey.
A bedraggled purebred cat, used to be white, fallen from grace, cast away from love. Walking on his hurtful feet, just enough so he can squat to beg under a gawker stall that sell cheap food for the poor, away from his glorious days.
If I could, I would; fly to his side and hold him on my bossom; but I can only run, then, lifting his bones and skin, and nothing more.
Perhaps a little, or a lot. There were countless wounds all over him; the smell of pus was sickening, his fur matted and sticky. Remains of blood, remains of dirt, remains of disease, remains of what he used to be.
I thought it was mange or some sort, but he was not well with normal procedure after a month so the vet sought comprehensive measure and return with a thunder that storm our heart and mind and sunk it asunder.
It was malignant sarcoma; skin cancer, and he was condemned to die.
But whether it would be tomorrow, or whether it will be next year, no one can tell the future.
So ask and we’ll be answered, seek and we shall found. From Europe to States to Asia, we tried it all, and he was nothing but slowly was gone.
And one woman wrote her comment about Bumpy as I tell his journey, that I was holding him hostage and that I should have killed him and free him of his suffering long time ago. She said she would never have the heart to see his “boy” suffer. I was despicable.
She probably met her demise under the wrath of Bumpy’s loyal supporters, my friends, my family, Whiskers’ Syndicate. A woman with pea sized brain like her probably has bean sized heart and wouldn’t even bother to read the other side of the story.
In that darkest before dawn there was that little whisper, that someone’s cat has cancer and was restored by Traditional Chinese medicine.
I was already despicable, I was already an abuser, I was a bad mother. I was bound for hell for taking my boy hostage and let him suffer.
So I took the bottle offered and gave one to Bumpy.
One week, two weeks; all his scabs starts to dry. Third week his wounds start to heal, fourth week he was almost clean.
There were time when he was being stubborn. He stopped taking his medicine and get everything back. I made him swallow all his concoction and he is well. One other time he ran away and we had to chase around the cattery three laps a day, but I summon my help and made him ate his concoction and he is well again.
When Bumpy slept one last time last night, he was clean. His fur white and long, his skin pink. No pus, no smell, no sticky fur, no bloody wounds. Just cat and all his cat-ness.
Now, he is home free.
He walked through the valley of darkness, he ate more than he can chew, he stood head to head with death, and walk in all his glory, in his perfect white fur coat toward the door of heaven.
Now he is home free
He is purring at the bosom of his Creator, flicking his tail at stupid cupid and cherubs and all. His head patted by saints, and he will be cradled by all the angels there are.
What left with me was an old Scot poem,
Should Old Acquaintance be forgot,
and never thought upon;
The flames of Love extinguished,
and fully past and gone:
Is thy sweet Heart now grown so cold,
that loving Breast of thine;
That thou canst never once reflect
On old long syne.
On old long syne my Jo,
On old long syne,
That thou canst never once reflect,
On old long syne.
We two have paddled in the stream,
from morning sun till dine;[b]
But seas between us broad have roared
since auld lang syne.
And there’s a hand my trusty friend!
And give me a hand o’ thine!
And we’ll take a right good-will draught,
for auld lang syne.
For old time sake, my friend. A life well lived, a game well played.
You are home free.