In March of 2007, I was picked up from the hospital by my folks and nephews. Unbeknownst to me, I had an allergic reaction to sulfa drugs that had been prescribed thus leaving one side of my head to swell to the size of a basketball. At any rate, I was a little loopy in the car and it was explained to me we would be making a stop at the American Humane Society.
My mom had dreamed of a little grey lap cat, and she took my nephews into the Humane Society where the little cat she dreamed up was six weeks old and ready for adoption (as was her black sister, who we adopted on behalf of my brother and his family).
Macey wasn’t exactly a docile lap cat. On the one hand, when mom brought her out to the car for me to see, I instantly fell in love; on the other, when she was in the backseat in her cardboard box, her entire arm was outside of the hole, looking for something or someone to scratch.
She was feisty, hated most other people except me, and I miss her terribly.
Last week, her health deteriorated quickly. I knew the last two winters were not good on her arthritis, but something else was wrong. We woke up twice in one week to her vomiting underneath mom’s bed and last Thursday, she wouldn’t move or eat. The most she could do was purr—and she did that ‘til the end. For a domestic shorthair, sixteen years is a long time, and I can honestly say, in return for trips outside and treats, she was my best friend in the whole world.
We woke up Friday morning in a completely different house. For the last several months, she had become increasingly verbal—perhaps she had some dementia. But she would still lay on my chest and purr her heart out. She loved her bubba, and I had nothing but love for her.
I know everyone thinks their pets are remarkable. Yet two memories from her young kitty-hood stand out. After she was taken to get de-clawed, I held her. She would look at her paw and then stretch it out to me as if asking, “What happened to my claws?” Also, one night, we were together, and Patton came on the television. I had never seen it, so I let it start. As soon George C. Scott appeared in front of that gigantic American flag—I don’t know what it was, the colors?—Macey stood straight up and watched him throughout his entire speech, as if she were standing for the Pledge of Allegiance.
Aside from the year and a half I spent in Montgomery, trying to resuscitate a dying career as a secondary school teacher—we were inseparable. She has left so many memories, even without the pictures and videos. She knew instinctively which Christmas stocking was hers and enjoyed getting Christmas presents from it. She would plaster her nose against mine as if she wanted to breathe the same air.
She was never intended to be an outdoor cat, but the pull was strong for her to roam our yards, which we let her do for quite some time. One day, she found herself on top of a fence, with dogs on both sides, taunting her. When we rescued her, and I was trying to pull the matting out of her fur, we discovered a hernia that had to be operated on. From then on, she was outside on a leash. Everybody would make fun of us, saying they had never seen a cat on a leash before, but we wanted to keep her safe and healthy. And we did. For sixteen years. I can be grateful for that at least.
Cats (and pets in general) have a way of enriching your life. I would say I’ve learned very few maxims in my forty years except one in particular—“Don’t trust anyone who doesn’t like children or pets.”
We marvel at the way they can relax. After all, April 15th means nothing to them. You have to admire them and envy them and do everything you can to ensure their little lives are happy and healthy. That makes you happy and healthy.
We still have a little yapping dog and my cat, Amos Moses, who loves to be petted, but doesn’t quite know how to accept it. Raised with a dog—and with very little of the gracefulness of cats—he hovers near you but won’t allow himself to be held or petted very long. I love him, but it’s a different experience. I love our dog, and dogs know how to exude a kind of everlasting love that some cats never exude—but it’s not the same experience. Though mom’s cat, Macey was really mine and I belonged to her.
From her time resting in bathroom sinks to sipping only from Dixie cups to sneaking into desk drawers and my armoire, I have laughed and loved for sixteen years and I should be (and am) grateful, but there is nothing like saying goodbye to that kind of undying love. When they brought her in for our last visit, she looked so sick. It was probably made worse by the (very kind) vet telling us her organs were ropey and nothing could really be done. I left her with as many kisses on her nose as I could. And she was still purring. By God, how can you let something still purring go? But it was the kind, humane thing to do. And I suppose one day I’ll get over it and past it. But who knows? When I love someone, it never really ends, though estranged we may become, whoever it is.
This writer would very much like to hear a scratch at his office door, her little voice which could almost yell my name, or even just that purring. Amos can purr, but it’s almost silent, with no tone. It’s not the same. But the other two animals know something around the house is different, so I must love them more, now more than ever.
Goodbye, Macey—you don’t know how tough that is to say and you never will. But I hope you knew I loved you ‘til the end. And after. And will, long after.
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