Eulogy for a Cat

How We Met – in the spring of 1991
A burly bo-hunk jock acquaintance (he actually was a right-wing Christian missionary assigned to the College to lure young girls into Church with his good looks so as to save their souls) told me of some friends of his that were in quite a predicament – they had this kitten – and because of it had been given an ultimatum. They had been told that the choice was theirs to make; it was either the cat or the apartment. Their response and plan was quite simple. The kitten would be sent to the pound. (apartments are much harder to come by than cats after all).

He had probably pegged me as a Crazy Cat Lady (as well as in need of soul-saving). After all, he had been to my house and knew I already had one cat.

Almost before he had completed his description of his friends’ problems, and with not one ounce of hesitation, I had agreed to take the cat. No, that's wrong - I didn't agree to take the cat, I decided to.

A couple of days later, Jock arranged for me to go to the girls' apartment to pick up the kitten. I would have never been invited to, nor willingly visited these girls or this apartment building under any other circumstance. But, I had been raised with the understanding that pets weren’t something to be ‘thrown away’ when it was inconvenient and accordingly, I was on a mission to do right by this cat. It wasn’t her fault that she had been adopted by people with limited foresight.

I cautiously walked into the apartment and see a sweet and rather demure cat sitting on one of the dining room chairs. I thought "poor kitty," asked her name, swooped her up into the cat carrier, and ran her home to Mr. K (my feral Grey Tuxedo Cat) as quickly as I could.

How We Lived
Mr. K and I had lived together alone for about a year when Maggie arrived on the scene. She made herself at home in no time, and within a few minutes of arriving in my apartment, had found herself a padded dining room chair and planted herself there as if there had been no real change in scenery. That evening, Mr. K and I were all cuddled up in the dark having a little snuggle fest, relaxing, and getting’ close to a full set of ‘ZZZ’s when all of a sudden out of nowhere that beast pounced on us – scaring the b’jeezus out of us. All three of us jumped about 3 feet off of the bed, pillows and comforter flying all over the place. Mr. K was gone – into the closet or under the bed – who knew where…or for how long… Oh, I was mad – and I let her know about my feelings too - it would take hours, maybe days for my feral friend to relax enough to show his face anywhere near me… or her. From that night forward, there was a battle for sleeping rights. You know who won. She would simply take what she wanted.

If you ever visited me, you met Maggie. Whether you were a cat person or not, upon your entrance to my home, she would introduce herself to you. And she did so very loudly. She was a talker like none other.

If you were an adult, she would find her way to your lap and scream until you gave her some love. And you would give your love. Because that’s what she wanted. If you liked cats, you'd give her a succession of firm pats on her haunches and while you did it she'd scream "mooorrrre, mooorrreee". Even after you had stopped. If you walked away, she’d follow, telling you what she wanted – over and over and over again. She was insatiable.

If you were a kid, she'd hiss at you. With ears pressed to her cheeks and her eyes almost closed, she’d try with all her might to remain invisible. But try as she may, it was not possible for her. She knew what she liked and what she didn’t like. She swatted at my 6 month old niece who was sleeping peacefully in her wicker bassinet on the living room floor. And even after being told that Maggie was a mean, nasty thing that didn't like kids and would scratch, Wood's niece touched Maggie on the paw (or some other equally non threatening part of her body) with her index finger, and in her unadulterated Maggie fashion slapped that girl upside her head – and left claw holes in her temple! She was not afraid to speak her mind and she would never retreat.

Because I lived mostly in apartments that didn't allow pets, Maggie and Mr. K were indoor cats. At first, the justification was property management companies and fear of getting caught. As time went on I was afraid of busy streets and things beyond my control (like the Radiator Fluid that had killed Miss Kitty a year earlier). Mr. K was afraid of his own shadow – he’d have died of fear had he been forced to be an outdoor cat (and I tried). Maggie would have transitioned well into being an outdoor cat but I kept her inside. It was wrong to do that. She made the best of it.

Maggie would play catch with any ball that was being bounced – sailing through the room, catching it in mid air and then flattening it – tennis balls, small basketballs, hand soccer balls twice her size. She would run from anywhere to hunt and eat when I said “Maggie, Spiiiiiddddeeeerrrrrr”. Once she stood up on her back legs, caught a fly between her paws, and then chowed-down (Obama was good but not that good). A Ping Pong Ball in the bathtub was one of her favorite games (that and beat the feral-frady-cat to a pulp or holler at your captors at the top of your lungs until they go insane). She drank only fresh water out of a coffee cup on the ledge of the bathtub. And at 10 years old she learned to use the toilet instead of a litter box. She pushed limits. She was fearless.

About two years ago, I gave in to her desires to be an outdoor cat. She’d been missing the litter box for years but when I found cat pee on Twig's bed … again … I kicked her out. You. Are. Now. An. Outdoor. Cat. She was resilient.

Even at 17, that old hag had the entire neighborhood of ghetto kitties under control. She managed for the most part to keep them off of her porch, out of her food and in respect of her. Only once did she get chased by (the crazy neighbor lady's) dog, or show up with a scratch on her nose. She was fierce.

But time, and time living outside, took its toll. She lost weight, struggled to walk on cold days, and was clearly confused on others. Her fur was matted, dirty, stinky and full of fleas. If it weren’t for the all-too-familiar-howl that was her meow, I probably wouldn’t have recognized her on some occasions. In her old age she liked children - she'd be smack dab in the middle of whatever mix took place in our court – talking everyone up and getting whatever love Twig and the other neighborhood kids would give along the way. She always got what she needed.

She came with the name and for some inexplicable reason it never seemed right to change it. She was also known as: Mistress, Mistress Maggie, YOU BITCH!, Mama, Sweet Mama, Sweet Maggie, Mama's Girl, The Beast, Miss Maggie Mae, Mags, Mag Pie, Old Lady, and Maggit. She was a piece of work.

Maggie was a monumental pain in the ass and one of my closest companions for almost half of my life. We were together almost twice as long as my husband and I have been and 4 times longer than my son has been around. We've lived together in 8 apartments, in 5 cities; witnessed countless marriages, births, deaths, losses and loves. Over a period of 18 years.

In The End
We gave her simple luxuries for the last years of her life: wet food (aka: kitty crack), pillows to sleep on, kitty hotels when we traveled, pets and less firm pats on her haunches – just to make her holler in delight every now and again. She was consistent.

She had become noticeably uncomfortable from what the doctor guessed was either rotting teeth or cancer of the mouth – untreatable on either account for a cat that was “at 19, she was at the end of her life-cycle”. She wasn’t looking good.

On Friday July 3rd, 2009, I let her in the house for a little bit of cat nip, drinks of water from a coffee cup on the edge of the tub, and a nap in the sun in the Boy's room. She couldn’t comfortably eat the nip, was noticeably afraid of every move the kid made, and huddled under the bed with a nasty look on her face. She was frail.

We cuddled for a while in the examination room. She nuzzled her face in my arm and rested her chin on her paws like she would do whenever I sat at the computer writing. But even though she purred her tail swatted me every now and again. This was not the girl I was used to. She was suffering.

I stayed with her until the very last moment of her life. After 18 years, that obnoxious, loud, dog like old-lady of a flea monger, simply because of time, proximity, and really soft fur, burrowed so deep into my heart and soul, that upon her death, I felt as if I’d died too. She was loved.