Having a Drink at the Sink

black cat drinking from faucet

Mr. Sunshine works hard for his drink.

Drinking from the faucet each day in the mint green sink, each of the Fantastic Four has a different style. I turn the faucet on to barely more than a drip, so it takes a little ingenuity to catch the water. I managed to catch two of them in the act, in part because they conveniently stand so that the light from the window angles onto them, unlike the other two who face the opposite direction and don’t have as much light on their faces.

Here, Mr. Sunshine laps at the water as it falls from the faucet. Lap, lap, lap, he wrinkles up his nose and usually ends up with his ears folded back and water all over his face. Well, they all end up with water all over their faces.

Below, Giuseppe discovered that if he just opened his mouth a little and held it under the faucet, the water would simply run in. How convenient!

black cat drinking from faucet

Giuseppe takes the easy way out.


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Remembering Peaches: One Year Later

cat with grass in planter

Peaches enjoys her snack in the sun © B.E. Kazmarski

One year ago today Peaches transitioned to the next stage of her existence. I don’t really need an anniversary to remember Peaches —I think about her all the time and remember all the sweet things I associate with her: those lovely dilute calico spots like a map of big continents, her petite size, her absolute self-possession and confidence, her bathing on my lap, how she loved me completely with every look and every move. There is something wonderful in the act of choosing an animal to share your life, there is something else when you suddenly discover that an animal in need who you’ve taken in has simply stolen your heart.

I wrote this article a week after Peaches passed as a summation of her battle with chronic renal failure, and those last days through her euthanasia. This might mean a “tissue alert” for those who don’t feel strong enough to read an article where a pet dies, completely understandable if the time is not right for you.


Today is one week that I said goodbye to Peaches, at about 11:50 a.m., so I am posting this final article in the series chronicling her battle with renal failure and about caring for a chronically ill pet. This article is rather long because it was intended to be three separate articles spread out over time, but we never really know how much time we have. Peaches’ final time was very quick and I know this was partly her decision; I didn’t want to let her go until she was ready, but I also didn’t want to watch her suffer for any length of time.

After Peaches’ last temporary decline she didn’t recover as quickly as she had in the past; usually I could get her to where she felt better in a day, and back to eating regular cat food in two. The most recent recovery took nearly a week, and though she came all the way back in diet and activity she was weaker than before and I knew there wouldn’t be many more little recoveries. We had had a good year, but I seriously had to start preparing myself for what I knew would come.

Peaches let me know on a Saturday she’d arrived at the final stage and her passing was imminent and I had begun this article about that experience, about “knowing when” and giving support at the very end of an animal’s life while not giving in to your own fears. But things move quickly for a kitty the size and age of Peaches, and I truly believe they can direct a certain amount of the process of what happens with their body. Peaches had everything organized, so I had only to be there and follow along, however unwillingly. I had no time for an article, only for Peaches. This article includes that revelation, her transition and the aftermath but it is not full of sadness; Peaches would have none of sadness.

In retrospect, it’s hard to believe Peaches was only with me for five years, and came to me at age 15—it seems as if she’s always been with me. We packed a lifetime into those years, beginning on that day as a senior foster when she decided to start a new life as part of my household.

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