Our animal lives are rich and complex. We have pets; we have farm animals; we have domestic working animals; we have feral animals and barn cats. We live on the line between pets and animals, between the way of the city and the ways of the country.

We’ve had to kill sheep, a donkey, and a pony, and our vet has killed several dogs and cats for us. We don’t have the heart to kill them.

My philosophy of animal care is simple. I am not their God; they are not my children.

My role is to be a steward, to care for them, help them be healthy, feed and shelter them, and, where appropriate, love and bring them into our home.

Above all, my job as a steward is to see that they do not ever suffer pain unnecessarily, for long, or for the selfish reasons of loving or wanting them to stay.

Minnie is a test of that stewardship. She is dying slowly, at her own pace, and in her own way. Every day, I’ve wondered if we shouldn’t call our vet and let them leave the world quickly and painlessly, if not without fear and confusion.

We respect the difference between animals and people; they are different nation. I love animals because they are not like us, not because they are.

The trick of animal love is that it isn’t always easy to draw the line between what is best for them and what is best for us. Maria loves spending time with Minnie these last days; that is important to her and me.

Are we letting her live for us or her? I can’t say for sure that I know.

I believe she is not in pain, and since she has not eaten for days, I imagine her time with us is short. My idea of stewardship here is to respect the life of this once-feral barn cat. The spirit of the barn cat is deep within her. Maria and I are the only humans she will even get close to.

Animals like Minnie are not pets, and they are not livestock; they fit somewhere in between.

They live outdoors, live off of what they kill mostly, come and go as they please, eat what they want and when they want, sleep where they want and when they want.

That is the life Minnie is living in her last days, the energy that, as a steward, I want her to have. These things are never as black and white or straightforward as the righteous think. They are grey at best.

As she ends her life, she returns to her natural self, leaving us behind and beginning the journey to her other world. She will not be waiting for me or Maria, on any rainbow bridge.  She’ll be living her own life, not ours.

Barn cats don’t commit themselves to us for all eternity. They come, they go.

Minnie is setting her agenda.

She sleeps in the heated cat house on the porch at night, crawls to see Maria and get her neck scratched, sips water, refuses food in daylight, crawls down to the garden in front of the porch, and is barely visible to us.

In the late afternoon, she goes with the late sun on the porch steps.

We are amazed that she can crawl up and down the porch steps but does this how she wants to, faithful to the barn cat code. Maria is grateful to have some more time with her. Minnie likes the company – for a while.

As she always did, I hear her singing the “Minnie Song” to Minnie on the porch. Life goes on until it doesn’t.

She has everything a barn cat wants – freedom, a life outdoors, fresh water, and food if she wants it. Most importantly, she is free to die the way she wishes. We will not be ordering ashes for the mantel.

We both believe we are doing this for her, not for us. That is my idea of what stewardship is.

No change in her behavior today.