A mere life for Burgundy

My poor cat Burgundy seems on the verge of death. A wonderful calico cat, she has always been friendlier than any dog. She receives her name from my dad's favorite wine, her name being a condition of her initial acceptance. Over the last few years, however, her condition has deteriorated significantly. Already growing more slender from her always tiny size, she is now literally skin and bones. Her vision seems to be mostly gone, and her hearing is far off. In the last few days, she has started to stagger and stumble occasionally while walking. She is so senile now that she approaches and sniffs the dog without even realizing her danger. She is always moving about, restlessly following people around. The other animals leave her alone, so vulnerable that one would think they would jump at the chance to take out a competitor. But this avoidance might lend credence to my dad's belief that other animals stay clear of a death-bound beast seeking a quiet place to die (it was too early to argue so I didn't mention hyenas, cheetahs, etc. of the omnitheatre videos on the African savannah from my childhood visits to the science museum). The poor wretched kitty now has even stopped drinking and eating. She hasn't touched her food for days and now she appears too debilitated to even lap up water. Maybe dehydration has been making her crazy, but she has lost in the last week or so whatever of a mind she once had. She takes no pleasure in being pet or scratched around the ears or throat. Once a cat who had never meowed, now she utters a high-pitched pitiful cry that I best describe as a soprano's voice cracking even higher. My only lament upon the inevitable is that I have in the last few years so sorely neglected her. If anything could make me believe in an afterlife, in a supernatural, in a perfect and supreme God, it would be Burgundy and Bastiat.