Tonight, the skinny little Siamese with giant black ears crouches in a cage at the veterinarian’s office.

I see his long face bowed, as if in prayer, and I smell his kitty food breath, his head by my cheek as he softly breathes, his squinted eyes closed.

For a short-time tenant, he has left a strong impression on me.

He has been my hobby for the last month, a living problem I have tried to solve, until after this last weekend passed.

During those days, he continued to avoid eating, when medications were applied, when hydration was given.

Warmed-up wet food near his face, he would whip his head away from the smell, and scrunch back on his hind legs, repulsed by the scent.

I removed the food, and he would resume his low crouch near me. Or on my chest.

For just a month he has been my guest, but part of the problem I now face is that I have affection for this cat.

He is what we have left from my aunt’s house, an intimate living character from her world, from her life.

He was a vital part of my aunt’s existence, of her daily routine, an object of affection in her hands, and a daily ear to her voice.

And he was also the last one to see her alive, no doubt.

And now, by not eating, in his avoidance of nutrients, in his body’s rejection of food, he is dying.

It is cruel, because for three long weeks he found a way to survive in that shut up home, after her voice fled, after her hands quit responding to his nudges, after the smell developed, after the flies teemed from out of nowhere.

Long after the food bowl had been emptied, and the house had descended into silence and odor and heat, he had strived to survive.

And he did.

In time, as family accessed the home to clear it out and to clean it up, this declaredly shy cat crept out from under my aunt’s bed, mowing lowly, seeking a hand against his face, the sound of speech, a morsel of something for his dormant stomach, his body utterly stripped of fats.

My sister knelt to greet him and gently pet him, and he responded to her with his low moan, asking for help, asking for sound, asking for food.

He received warm words and strokes down his back and kitty treats and water.

He ate well that afternoon, so so hungry. He mowed at us, in pain, and in relief.

And he wasn’t shy.

But shortly after he came home with me and was set up in his little upstairs bathroom apartment, his enthusiasm quelled. His appetite stalled. His energy dwindled.

He quieted.

He sat still.

But he was always up for a good petting.

Tonight, the skinny little Siamese with giant black ears crouches in a cage at the veterinarian’s office.

I see his long face bowed, as if in prayer, and I smell his kitty food breath, his head by my cheek as he softly breathes, his squinted eyes closed.

I pray that God rewards his valiant persistence to survive with a hunger that awakens, with organs that filter food, with a body that seeks strength.

So that my aunt can be nearby us a little longer, in the dark face of that shy Siamese that loves being loved.

I am actually not sure if he will be back with me again or not, while the vets try hard to point him towards life. But I am hoping.

And today, tonight, I am waiting for Po.