Yesterday we said goodbye to a good friend. The little guy was suffering from chronic kidney failure, in pain and without hope of getting any better. I'm confident it was the right thing to do but, as anyone who's had to put a pet down will tell you, that doesn't really make it any easier.
I'm guessing Maynard lived somewhere around 15 years. He wasn't a kitten when we met. I'd see him around our apartment complex and, because he was thin and had no collar, I thought he was a stray. One night I gave him some tuna. Apparently nothing tells a cat, "hey, you should hang out with this person more" like albacore packed in water.
Our relationship progressed until he was spending most of the time at my place. Then one day we were sitting outside and a woman walked up and asked, sincerely, if her cat was bothering me.
"Your cat?"
Given this new information, perhaps I should have kicked him out. I did not. One day, while Maynard was asleep on my couch, I noticed the woman had moved. I was officially a cat owner. (Or, if you're into technicalities, a cat thief.)
It should be noted that for the first 3-4 years Maynard went by another name - Mai (short for maintenance, as in high.) Our first trip to the vet, and the following conversation, changed that:
Vet: Mr. Palmer, I have some good news - your cat is going to be fine.
Me: She is?
Vet: He is.
Me: Come again?
Vet: Your cat is a male.
Me: Izzawhazza?
Vet: Are you sure this is your cat?
In my defense I didn't really go poking around down there. I gave a quick glance, saw nothing dangling and made a logical conclusion. Looking back I can't even imagine how confused and/or irritated that must have made him. "WTF man, stop calling me pretty girl!"
Despite that our friendship continued to grow into a true symbiotic relationship. When he realized that my 2nd floor balcony was merely a 6-foot leap from a tree branch and tried, unsuccessfully, to land on my 2-inch railing, I built a crude landing pad for him. I think he was appreciative.
And when I needed someone to do pest control he was...not really what you'd call gung-ho. At first I thought he just didn't see them or maybe he was just waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Then one night I noticed a cricket crawling along the floor - on a collision course with the snoozing Maynard.
"Aha," I thought, "now we'll see some of that famous feline killer instinct." The cricket got closer and closer and then literally bumped into Maynard's paw. Maynard half-opened his eyes, lifted his arm, let the bug pass then fell back asleep.
Creatures outside received no such quarter. Maynard has delivered all sorts of birds, lizards and bugs. People say this is a cat's way of giving you a gift. I think, for Maynard at least, it was more a way for him to get me back for calling him a girl all that time.
Maynard loved being touched/brushed. He loved sitting in the sun. He loved treats, catnip and drinking out of the bathtub. He loved to talk and he howled when I'd play the harmonica. I'm not sure if that's because he liked it or hated it. Probably the latter - I don't play well.
Thank you, Maynard. For putting up with my initial cluelessness, for tolerating the long list of nicknames I gave you, for a decade of companionship, unquestioning love and fuzz therapy. For sticking around. You are already missed.
