Clara moaned as she bent over the bowl, scraping food from her plate into Scooter's dish. The old cat purred, delighted at the morsels of meat, a rare treat for both of them.

Straightening out her spine was almost as painful for Clara as the dedication it took to look after her cat's needs, but she dismissed the arthritic invasion of her bones, and hobbled back to the chair where she spent most of her waking hours.

Clara refused to acknowledge the old carcass she hauled around was her body. Her mind, still sharp at eighty-seven years of age, could not accept the decay. She would not allow her eyes to linger on her swollen knuckles or acknowledge the stench of death that permeated her life. The process of disassociating herself from her humanity had begun when Willy died two years ago, taking his touch, a reminder of a time when Clara knew how it felt to run, dance and make love when they were both young.

Willy died in the bed they'd shared for six decades. His last request was a kiss from his bride. She'd leaned over his emaciated body, riddled with cancer, and pressed her parched lips against the memory of who they had once been. When the coroner came to proclaim Willy's death official, he'd been so alarmed at Clara's appearance he'd called for an ambulance. Clara remembered that journey oh so well; Willy leading the motorcade in a hearse as they rolled into town together.

The doctors pumped her full of fluids, clucked their tongues, and tried to institutionalize Clara, claiming she no longer had the ability to look after herself. She'd fought their recommendations, scorned their patronizing protocols, and went back to the small cottage that was home.

But, it had become an empty shell, void of the lives that once flourished in the cozy retreat they'd built.

Still, Scooter needed her and Clara never abandoned those she loved. During the last days of Willy's life she'd tried to starve them all, hoping they would die together. Even Willy knew what she was doing, but he urged her to tend to Scooter.

"We can die, my darling, but Scooter does not need to join us in eternity."

Willy died without Clara, and she no longer felt connected to her life, her love or her past. She would not punish her cat for her despair. She fed him each day, watching as he lavished affection upon her, as if he was channelling Willy's love.

It wasn't enough to make Clara want to live, but she vowed she would tend to the cat until it was his time. Scooter was almost eighteen. How much longer, Clara thought? She counted the seconds and days until she could stop caring about anything. Already she had given up the container she housed; her body was useless. At times she willed her mind to shut it down, but her promise to Willy kept forcing her to rise from the chair and honour Scooter's life and devotion.