Within the circle of grass, Georgy lay quite still. The long blades had been pressed down into a ring near her. At first, I thought maybe the fairies had visited her during the night making her bed bigger. But when I said her name and she didn’t stir. I knew something was wrong.

Although she was lying in the sun, napping was not her intention. Her eyes were open and staring and her breathing, frantic and irregular. At the time of this discovery, I was to little to understand about the importance of resperation, heart beat and vital signs in cats. All I knew was that my friend was in trouble and there was only one person I knew who could save her.

Georgy (her real name was Georgia) was a very large, orange and white cat when I was growing up in Southern California. She was one of many strays that seemed to find us, or that my Dad found on his way home. He worked for the postal service and walked to and from work every day.

I used to pick this cat up, (who was bigger than me) and lug her around like a doll. Holding her by her front legs, I would heave her up my chest. Her front legs would curl around my tiny arms. Her long lean body dangling down my chest and legs meant her back paws were scrapping the ground when I walked. She would lean into my chest when I walked and allow me to carry her in such an undignified fashion. She never complained, or bit or scratched. We were friends.

When I saw her lying there, I knew something was wrong. My bare feet slipped in the wet grass as I ran screaming into the house; “Daddy…Daddy… come quick! There’s something wrong with Georgy!”

Daddy captured me in the hallway and scooped me up into his strong arms and hugged me. The familar smell of aftershave and Old Spice calmed me down. I hugged his neck and whimpered “Something’s wrong with Georgy.” He said “Show me.” Lowering me to the ground he allowed me to take his hand and pull him impatiently out to the yard. I stopped and pointed “There, see there?”

He sat down next to her, picked her up carefully and laid her on his lap. His fingers began to gently explore, prodding and searching her whole body. This once energetic orange girl lay quite still under his fingers barely stirring. I sat nearby watching the two of them.
He didn’t feel anything out of the ordinary with his fingers, and as I watched, he placed the palms of his hands down into the grass and pressed his hands firmly in the ground. Then he took the palm of his hand and passed it slowly over her body right above her fur touching neither her skin nor her fur. He told me he was looking for a “hot spot” a place where heat would rise to his palm and then hopefully be able to find the “problem.” Georgy lay quite still letting him do his “cat scan.” When he got to her tail-head, he stopped. He had felt something. He located a bite that was just starting to fester. Picking her up, he carried her inside and I followed.

He cared for her for a week with me by his side. Back in those days vets weren’t a necessity. Spaying and Neutering were words barely heard. Daddy had been a Corpsman in the Navy for thirty years. His medical knowledge was admirable. He used all his tricks and soon Georgia got better romping in the grasses, chasing butterflies and stalking bees.

This memory came flooding back to me two days ago, when I laid Daddy’s latest rescued cat “Calico” near his side at the convalescent hospital. Daddy, admitted to the rehab center only a few days after a bad fall was unrecognizable to me. I had seen him a month prior. He was ambulatory at that visit, a bit frail looking but held no resemblance to the emaciated man reaching out now for this dilute calico kitty he dearly loved.

His once muscular arms that had scooped me up so many times in my life were now shriveled and dry, resembling toothpicks Although speaking is difficult for him now, he said her name, welcoming her.

Calico stopped mewing and pacing. She calmly walked out of the carrier and lay under his arm. Daddy’s smile spreading across his face as he stroked her soft fur was angelic. They laid together, both finding peace again. As I watched this unfold, I knew that when she returned back to where Calico calls home, she will no longer vanish from sight outside, meow constantly att the window or pace the house searching.

No more banging the blinds by the sunroom in the morning looking in vain for the man who rescued her long ago when neighbors would chase her with brooms or hoses out of their yard when she showed up looking for food.

Within the circle of stray cats that Dad has rescued over his lifetime, Calico’s life holds a special, bittersweet distinction; she is his last.