M is for Morris

My oldest cat Morris died on February 20th of this year.  We'd been traveling down this path for some time, he and I.  There were signs, of course, but I missed them in the busyness of life.  I feel a little guilty about that, but I can't rewind.   Morris certainly didn't help me figure out what was going on; cats always try to hide their illnesses.  Eventually, however, I noticed that my cranky, irascible friend had stopped eating. 

I gave him treats.  I bought him some soft food; I even tried his favorite, pureed chicken.  He turned up his nose at them all; turned his back on the bowl as if he didn't want to see what he was missing.  That's when I knew.  I contacted the vet, put Morris into his carrier, and we made the trip together, just like we always did. 

Morris hated the vet.  It was nothing personal; he just did not like going to the vet. Even the most gentle of doctors was treated to hissing and growling.  Morris was known to fight any attempts to examine him, and the one time he had to have a catheter several people were bitten.  This time the vet delivered the bad news that Morris was too far into kidney failure to save; even a blood transfusion would only buy him a brief respite. 

When your friend is dying, you do what you can to ease their passing.  I brought a favorite blanket for him to lie on.  He was too weak to do much more than lay there.  I stroked his head for a long time, and he purred weakly while I cried.  I've never been good at goodbyes.  My husband arrived, and he said his goodbyes to Morris and held my hand as the vet came back into the room.

It was somehow so Morris that with his last bit of strength he would try to bite the vet.  I guess that he knew.  I kept my hand on him through everything, my fingers entwined in his fur as the drugs took effect.  One, two more shallow breaths...and then he was gone.   After that, there was not much more to do or say.  I cried for a long time. 

We had sixteen years together, and although he was a cranky cat, I loved him very much.  I hope that he is in kitty heaven, snacking on cat treats to his heart's desire, the hands of angels brushing his soft fur while he purrs in contentment.  

But I miss him.

Cats Are Also Con Artists

When I was at a training one day, the psychologist leading the workshop told us that all cats have Aspergers. There's even a book about it.  I don't know about that, since one of the criteria for Aspergers involves unusual speech and language, but who am I to argue with a PhD?   He's the professional. After all, I paid to hear what he had to say in order to get continuing education hours, so he has to be right.  Right? 

Cats do have their idiosyncrasies, however.  We call it idiosyncratic, I've noticed, when we have no idea what the heck is going on.  But I can admit that my cats certainly meet the definition of idiosyncratic.  But there's a method to their madness, I've noticed.

For instance, our youngest cat, Zena, seems to adore Morris, the oldest cat.  As soon as she sees the old guy, she runs right up to him and rubs her head under his chin.  He tries to pull back, but she manages to rub his chin three or four times before his 'lightning fast' reflexes process it.  When I saw that, I thought "Awwww! She loves Morris. How sweet!"

Except it's not really. 

Every night, Morris gets a treat.  We've been doing this for years.  It's his version of a bedtime snack; he eats his three little squares and then he heads off to find a spot to snooze.  On this particular night, I put Morris' treats out for him, and waited for him to eat them. Suddenly Zena is there, swooping underneath that fuzzy yellow chin, once, twice, three times.  Then she runs off. 

And the treats were gone, too.  I didn't even see her take them!  Neither did Morris--he actually had his mouth open to bite for them.  He might have thought that he ate them himself.  You never know with Morris; he has never been very sharp.

Still, my illusions about how my kitties all love each other dies hard.  That's what I get for putting human feelings onto feline form!

The Prodigal Cat Has Returned

I got a call from my vet yesterday. The receptionist asked if we still had a cat named Morris.

"What?" I said. She repeated her question.

I said that he'd disappeared a week ago, and she told me that someone had found him!

There was much rejoicing.

Morris ended up about a quarter mile from our house if you take the drainage ditch behind it, and just around the corner if you take the sidewalk. Right around the freakin' corner. We still aren't sure how he got out of our yard, but we were even more surprised that he made it so far away.

The lady who found him was petting him under the chin when I got to her house. I said his name, and Morris perked right up. I put him in his carrier, which he did not like at all, and drove him home. He hissed the entire way--he associates the carrier with the vet.

As soon as he got home, he bee-lined for the food bowl. He randomly hissed at everything and everyone for a good hour, then made his way upstairs. He slept right next to me all night. He's been following me around ever since, just purring away. Zena greeted him and seemed happy to see him, but Pounce has totally flipped out. She has been under the bed ever since, but she could stand to lose a few pounds(so could I!), so I am not too worried.

He was very dirty, lots of grass wrapped up in his fur. You can feel the bones in his spine when you pet him, so he did not eat during his travels, but he did not appear dehydrated. I found that odd, since it's been about a thousand degrees outside, but that is ultimately why he survived, so it's all good. His back legs, never very strong to begin with, seem to have a more pronounced limp. He won't like it, but he has a vet appointment tomorrow, because I want to make sure he is okay.

My old friend is home.

Goodbye, Old Friend

My cat Morris came into my life on October 17, 1998. It was a day when it started raining buckets at five in the morning and was still raining buckets at noon--what my father calls a "frog choker". All around, the water started to rise. First Cat Isobel and I were watching the reports of all the places that were now underwater, when we heard a soft knocking at my door. There on the doorstep was a soaking wet, bedraggled looking, pissed off yellow cat. He was staring at me. He looked so utterly pitiful that I let him in. He even let me dry him off a bit so he wouldn't soak my carpet.

After figuring out that Morris did not have front claws and trying to find his human, I took him to the vet. This was not fun for Morris, and therefore was not fun for the vet. Morris suffered from post-traumatic stress, likely from when he was declawed, and he was not about to let any person in a white coat touch him. I just stood back and watched the fur fly while the vet figured out that Morris was a)a boy, and b)probably about three years old, and c)fixed. Subsequent visits to the vet involved the use of those long leather gloves used for working with birds of prey, every available able-bodied person, and some forms of anesthesia. Morris never did get over his vet-phobia, but thankfully vet visits were a once-a-year thing.

Morris was a cranky cat from the very beginning, and as a young cat was as likely to bite you as he was to purr. In fact, he would purr to distract you and THEN bite you. He was an extremely messy eater, who would shovel in as much food as possible instead of eating daintily like other cats. Morris demanded to be fed at all hours of the day, and he didn't take no for an answer, following me around the house until I put a couple of kibbles out. He answered to no one except for the dinner bell; if you said the words "Morris, dinner!" that cat would immediately materialize at your feet.

Morris wasn't the sharpest cat. Many times I wondered just how he had survived being abandoned until he showed up at my house. His reflexes were very slow, he wasn't the least bit playful, and he wasn't sociable. He also wasn't afraid of things he should have run from. He once faced down a German Shepherd like he was the same size; and it was only luck that the dog ran off instead of eating him.

I used to wake up in the morning with Morris' face three inches from mine. He would be purring. Morris would also curl up behind my knees on cold nights, and he would purr. Occasionally he would show up while I was watching television and would sit in my lap. He would purr. If you pet him, especially underneath his chin, he would purr.

At approximately 16 years old, Morris was spending more and more time sleeping. He wasn't taking care of himself; his fur was matting in areas he was no longer able to reach. He was moving slower, and was starting to have difficulty getting up the stairs or jumping onto the bed. Morris did enjoy going outside into our yard. As he got older, a little sun seemed to help with his arthritis. Every now and then he would ask to go outside at night, and he would hide in the bushes until I called him. Except last Saturday night, when I let him out, he disappeared. We have searched for him in our yard, behind the house, and in the woods, but there's a lot of places that a yellow cat can hide.

While Morris would miss many things, he would never miss dinner. I will keep looking, because I don't like to give up. Morris has a collar, and someone might find him. I still have a tiny spark of hope, but that spark is fading with each passing day. I have come to the unfortunate conclusion, given his age and the horrific heat outside during the day, that Morris went out into the night and died.

He showed up suddenly, and Morris left me just as suddenly. I wish I had known, so I could have said goodbye. This is the best that I can do.



Goodbye, old friend. You sent me to the ER with puncture wounds, you peed on my shoes at least once, and you left clumps of yellow fur all over no matter how much I brushed you. You also made me laugh often, listened to me when no one else would, and you showed me lots of love and purrs. I will miss you.