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Editor's ViewpointMeditations Of A Minnesota Mossback |
A Farewell To Miss M.
Last month we said a sad goodbye to our “Divine Miss M.”
After arriving as a birthday gift for Daughter No. 2, this diminutive black and white kitty ruled our roost for 15 years.
The name wasn’t my husband’s first choice (he had always wanted a cat named Euclid), but it was the daughter’s kitten. She had naming rights.
From the start, Mittens made it clear that mice were her responsibility. The weather was ours. Unfortunately, we were often to be a disappointment to her.
Mittens’ manners were always above reproach. When she was hungry, she would gaze intently and gently pat my leg with her white paw, never meowing.
She acknowledged us while coming in and going out with a two-syllable mew-mew, which we quickly learned was cat for “thank you.” (As much as she taught us, we never did teach her how to open a door.)
At bedtime, my daughter always brought two cups of water upstairs: one for her, one for the cat. Mittens always knew which one was hers.
When she wanted company, Sphinx-like, she would adorn the top of my husband’s big warm computer screen, draping her tail over the back so he could continue working.
(She wasn’t pleased when he upgraded to a flatscreen.) Mittens kept the dog in line: when Halley was too rambunctious, this tiny cat—who barely weighed six pounds soaking wet even when she was in the best of health—would whack the dog’s nose with her dainty paw to get Halley’s attention.
When all was well again, she would lick Halley’s face as they curled up together.
Sometimes in the morning, the Divine Miss M. enjoyed tea in bed with me. I got the hot loose-leaf Irish Breakfast in a pot; there was a saucer for her on the tea tray.
We’d split the pitcher of milk. (Halley got a dog biscuit.)
But Mittens’ health began deteriorating last winter.
She learned how to tuck away her thyroid pill and spit it out when we weren’t looking. We switched to liquid medication.
Near the end, the morning after the first October snow, our sick kitty ran away—possibly in search of more acceptable weather. I wonder if she’d finally lost faith in us.
She returned several days later in the middle of the night, meowing plaintively under our bedroom window.
My husband gave her fluids with an eyedropper and brought her to the vet, but her time was up.
Once again, we face the hard truth that no animal can ever replace the ones we’ve loved.
There was Persephone (Purrsey), the tiny gray kitten abandoned in a field in Golden, Colorado: she would fetch scrunched up paper balls as long as we were willing to throw them, dropping them at our feet, her tail twitching in anticipation.
Then there was Cassiopeia (Cassie), our dependable border collie, who made short work of herding our four little kids around the yard.
I never had to worry about them wandering off—Cassie was always on the job.
There have been others.
But as anyone knows who has ever loved a fourlegged friend, they just curl up around your heart and won’t let go.