AROO, A NEW ARC (PART 1)

My sister says,

 "when a cat purrs, it's not only an expression of contentment, but a method for self-healing".

Aroo, the cat (plucked from the streets of New York), 

Aroo, my charge (the only pet I've had as an adult), 

Aroo, my roommate (the darling of all who enter apartment 916), lies beneath my bed, dying.

Sometimes he purrs, a few times he moans, 

(moans I've never heard him make before, moans apparently reserved for just these final moments) 

but mostly Aroo is stoic, silent. 

I sit on my scooter, stuck at the entrance to my bedroom, helpless and cutoff from the cat. I can't get down to him and he won't come up for me. 

"Aroo" I call emphatically

. "A- ROO!"

But he won't be lured. It's like he's in heat and doesn't want to be bothered.

"Cats die not unlike the way they give birth, it's private and exclusive...  dictated by a mysterious calling privy only to them" my sister (also) later tells me.

And so I stare at the black under the bed, trying to comprehend my cat giving birth to his death.
The cat, seemingly preprogrammed for his death, is simply following preset orders, orders that don't include me. Stuck on my scooter, lonely and abandoned, I'm a little mad.