Unlucky 13

What more is there to say? He’s 13 ½ years old, today’s my 13th blog in my 4th year on another Christmas eve before another new year. Unlucky is the name of the game. Phoenix, the cat from Hell, red as the fire from which his namesake arose - is dying. The coat of a lifetime, long, lush, clean and flea-free has retreated to a dull, listless condition, evidence of an emaciated cat. When the beast who would eat anything, whether vegetative, milky or carnal shuns food, I know a fever feeds his lack of appetite. His gums are inflamed and his breath reeks. New to the equation, his ears bleed. Have the eardrums burst or is his brain feeding upon itself? Antibiotic infusions have not done the trick. Numerous lives that have been allotted to him have been used up over the years by his hair’s breath escapes. Now it come down to this - the sad fadeout. Without a meow, Phoenix just grunts his disapproval. What more is there to say? Emotions rule.