Max at N-sized dry stream

I've tried to keep family matters out of this blog, but there are times when such intrusions are unavoidable. This is my old cat Max, who is at least 10, and more likely 12 to 14 but we can't be sure, because he arrived as a skin-and-bones adult stray in 2007 and our vet could offer only the vaguest of age possibilities. Unfortunately, like most strays—and we've adopted plenty over the years—he also arrived bearing the Feline Immunodeficiency Virus, the cat equivalent of AIDS. In our experience, FIV is a non-issue for most of a feline's life, save that it makes that life quite a bit shorter than would be typical of a non-infected cat. The virus starts getting the upper hand when the feline passes 10 or so, and then things go downhill steadily as opportunistic infections and the FIV itself take hold. So it has been with Max, who is losing weight, won't eat on his own—we've been syringe-feeding him—and, in the manner of wild animals, pulling away from us. But we're not yet ready to let go, so today, when he disappeared into his familiar woods, I eventually, after a high-anxiety search, found him perched calmly on a moss-covered stone in the middle of a dry seasonal stream we've named after my son Noah, who loved to play there. I don't think Max would have come home on his own, so I scooped him up and carried him back to the house. He wasn't exactly happy about it, but he didn't protest much. It's not time yet, I told him. We still have time.