Eleven years ago, on the day before Thanksgiving, I was adopted by a grey and white Maine Coon, the most bedraggled, skin and bones cat I've ever seen. He had been rescued from a forest preserve on Long Island where he had been dumped by a family that did not want him. He had never learned to hunt and he was next to death by starvation when they found him. I brought him home and named him Mumford.
Mumford came to me with the most apologetic and polite demeanor possible, asking mutely if he could eat, but only when following me into the kitchen and then following me out again even if he had not really finished eating just then. He was terrified of rain, heading for the back of the closet whenever he heard the first rain drops on the window. He never quite got over that fear but in every other way he gained in confidence steadily until, after several years, he was the undisputed ruler of the household.
Now Mumford is gone. I had to have him put to sleep. He was eaten up with cancer. I felt like a murderer. Even though I knew I was saving him from torturous pain, I felt as if I were delivering him to the ovens at Auschwitz.
I had taken him to the animal hospital for a biopsy since he was having digestive problems and had lost 7 of his 15 pounds. His fur looked sparse. Dr. Marx said the biopsy would be the most definitive way of finding out what was wrong. In the afternoon, she called me and said that they couldn't do the biopsy because he had such a large tumor it was impossible and now that they had found that, it was no long a necessary procedure.
I think I must have sounded very bleak because she said she thought I wasn't ready to part with him yet and that he wasn't in any agony right then, so she felt that I should take him home for a few days to enjoy his company just a little longer.
I brought him home, knowing I would give him everything he loved and wanted. I threw out all the special medical food he hated so much. I stopped giving him the nasty medicine. He ate like a little pig and gained some of the weight back. In fact, he seemed well and not in pain. At last, I called Dr. Marx and told her how well he looked and how he was eating and gaining a little weight. I wanted her to say she had made a mistake, that I should keep him longer. But she didn't. She said that the tumor was poised to rupture at any moment and if that happened he would suffer unbearable pain. I had no real choice. I would have to go through with it.
That morning, he played with my shoe laces while I was getting dressed. My son, Sam, put him in the carrier, a thing he hated with all his heart. Whenever he saw the carrier, he knew he was going either to the doctor or the groomer, both of them unreasonable punishment, in his opinion. Even with the more frequent trips to the doctor lately, he hadn't become used to it; the fear had increased with every visit. He yowled all the way to the car.
When we got there, they told us that they normally carried out the euthanasia in a special room on the second floor, probably with lowered lights and looking something like a funeral parlor. There was no elevator and, at 71, with a bad spine, I don't do stairs, so they make an examining room available. They put a big, fuzzy blanket over the exam table.
I handed him over in the carrier and they took him away to put an IV in his leg and give him a tranquilizer, not to make him sleep but just to take the edge off his fear. They brought him to us in the examining room and, though he was a bit calmer, he had lost none of his fear. He was never a lap cat, preferring to be next to me rather than one me, so I rolled the chair over to the table and put my arms around him. He curled himself into the smallest ball he could manage, about 6" in diameter (amazing for a large cat) and put his head under my arm. He could not get close enough to me. I petted him and petted him, trying to think of sunny, green fields to romp in, no thunderstorms and no fleas, lots of his favorite food and everything just beautiful and warm, hoping he would pick up on the mood and be a little less afraid. I hope some of it got through. But I couldn't help crying. Sam cried even more than I did.
A little while later, Dr. Marx came in and said she wasn't going to rush me, that I could have all the time I wanted, but that I should indicate when I was ready for her to give him the shot. She emphasized that he wouldn't feel anything and that there would be no lingering and no pain, just a sleep coming over him in about 10 seconds. I told her she had better do it then, while I still had the courage. So she did. And in about 10 seconds, he was gone. And I will never forget how alive he looked. And I will never forget him.
In the long line of rescued cats I have had since I was a little girl, and thinking of how many I have had to put to sleep, it never gets any easier. But in that long line, there are a few, three or four that stand out in my memory as special and Mumford was one of those.
And so he's gone, my Maine Coon, my Mumford.
I knew that in a couple of months or so, I would take that trip down to the Anti-Cruelty Society and I'd walk past the cages of cats and one would adopt me. They always know whom they should go with. I never attempt to adopt a particular kind of cat. I go with an open mind and I get adopted by the perfect match for me.
And so it was. I was adopted by the most adorable little female marmalade tabby, seven years old and probably not very adoptable because of her age. She was named Penny but she didn't recognize it, so I renamed her. She is tiny but has long legs and walks like a ballet dancer and I thought she should have a French name. So I call her Minou. Minou has the most amazing green eyes and a little mouth that opens in a startling perfect pink O when she meows.
And so, again it has come full circle, the cat who comes to me and lives with me and loves me and makes me happy in it companionship and then dies, leaving room for another one to love. Because love is too expandable. I love them all and I will never forget any one of them, but least of all, Mumford.