Small joys

My cat Frizzy is old. Like me. I have wrinkles, he has an unkept fur; my bladder does not work so well and he also started missing a hit when he uses his toilet. We both have arthritis, and I suspect his hearing is now as bad as mine. The only difference is that I cannot lose a pound while he became very thin. I am the one to blame though, I think with sorrow.
“Frizzy, mealtime, come”. I bend my body and put my hands on the table to push myself up, and in slow motion I walk towards the kitchen. “I have a surprise for you,” I tell him, excited to see how it would work. Some time ago I moved his bowl to a higher counter, to ease my bending and all was well until he stopped eating a couple of days ago. After a costly visit to the veterinary who could only observe the usual, well know problems, I realized my little kitty could not jump anymore.
I take the brand new cat feeder with a handle, fill in the bowl and then I use a long ladle to lower it to the floor, taking are of not bending beyond my possibility. Frizzy eagerly eats, splashing half of the food around, the same way my mother used to do when she was old. I am grateful for my false teeth which still allows me to keep the food in my mouth. My heart content for the two small joys, I drag my feet to my favourite blue armchair to fall in a light and blissful sleep, the unrivalled means of forgetting my aching body.

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