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eaten since Dad’s passing in November,
after a bout of pneumonia. My mom and
the six of us kids tried to carry on, but
our grief lingered. A palpable thing.
Punkin’s too. He left Dad’s chair only
to use the litter box or jump onto the
kitchen table, where he would sit and
stare at that chair—as if willing his
best friend to appear.
“Punkin can’t go without eating,”
Mom said. “He’s not young anymore.”
“Surely he’s had some food,” I said.
Mom shook her head.
We were both worried. Mom about
Punkin. Me about Mom. Punkin had
been Mom’s comforter
during Dad’s illness, and
she relied on him now
that Dad was gone. Mom
wouldn’t be able to cope
if something happened
to him. None of us would.
Punkin loved my mom.
He used to perch on her shoulders,
nuzzling her head, while she was read-
ing. But he was Dad’s best friend. Dad
had discovered the tiny orange kitten
in the barn 17 years ago, abandoned by
his mother.
There must have been something
special about Punkin even then. My
dad wasn’t usually a cat person. He had
livestock to take care of and a farm to
run. Fields to plant and harvest. Hay to
bale. Cats were just what killed mice in
the barn.
Yet Dad fed the kitten even before
he fed the cattle. Punkin returned his
devotion, following Dad to the barn for
chores. He trailed behind Dad to the
machine shed and waited for him to
come back out after lunch. When Dad
rolled down the road on his tractor,
Punkin held court on the front porch
with the other cats, watching for his
buddy’s return.
“When he purrs, I feel myself relax,”
Mom had once said to Dad.
Dad had nodded. Punkin’s ability to
sense their need for comfort and com-
pany—especially as they grew older—
was his best gift. Mom needed that now
more than ever.
I found myself praying as I did the
dishes. Please, God, let Punkin knowhow much we need him to be okay. Let
him eat.
I drained the sink and turned to wipe
down the table. Dad’s chair was emp-
ty. I looked under the table. No cat. I
stared at his bowl. Some of the food was
gone. He’d eaten. Finally.
I peeked into the living room. There
was Punkin on Mom’s shoulder. It was
the first time he’d curled up with her
since Dad died. She reached up to
stroke him, and he stretched out a paw
to pat her cheek.
“It’s all right,” she said to him.
“We’re all going to be okay.”
I smiled. If Punkin could go on with-
out Dad, so could we.Punkin’s ability to sense their need
for comfort and company—especially
as they grew older—was his best gi.See these pets in action in this charming video. guideposts.org/caregivingpetsCAREGIVERS