Hey All,
Last Tuesday, I wrote one of the most painful essays I've ever written on my Facebook page:
"Our cat Milhouse died today. For almost 18 years, this little mood-altering substance with paws cut a wide swath through the lives of my wife Robin, my stepdaughters Rachel and Natalie, and finally me. I never had a real pet before so I cannot believe how low I feel right now.
Milhouse never grew up. He acted like a kitten, possessing astounding energy and athleticism right up to the last few days. His kidneys started to fail and the doc said their function wasn't coming back so we had only one excruciatingly hard choice. Natalie (who was 10 when Milhouse came into her life), Robin, and I indulged him with one last "kitty time" session before he was euthanized. Since he had a saline IV drip going, he probably felt better than the last few days but that's no life for a cat like him.
Milhouse was a magnificent fighter, retiring with a record of 138-3. he had one frayed ear from a particularly tough battle with a cat that was probably twice his weight. He was a fine hunter, terrorizing the neighborhood rat and mouse population but always offering to share. We always demurred but somehow that didn't stop him from offering.
He enjoyed my Kitty Chiropractic treatments. I would cup his jaw and neck in my hands and lift him just off the floor. He would go limp and just hang, occasionally twisting a little to get the most out of his spinal adjustment. He always let me know when he was done by just placing a paw on my hand. I'd put him down and he always sauntered off with a look of satisfaction on his face.
One day, I was sitting at home and Milhouse squeaked like a mouse. When I told the girls what he did, they didn't believe me. For awhile I felt like Wilbur Post of "Mr Ed" fame. Wilbur was the only one who knew Ed (a horse, for you millennials out there) spoke because he wouldn't speak for anyone else but Wilbur. Finally, I figured out how to get him to squeak; first for my wife, then the girls. When he got positive attention for it, you couldn't shut him up. He was always a talker. Squeaking just added to his repertoire.
There were times I would be lying on our bed with a migraine, thrashing around trying to get comfortable. Milhouse would jump up and lay down next to me. Petting him would relax me and bring some relief so I could fall asleep and cure the headache. That's what I will miss most. He could always change my mood when I was down or not feeling well. He never did pay his chiropractic bill but in retrospect we traded services.
Robin and my stepdaughters showered much love and affection on him so he always enjoyed the company of humans. He lost his own mother at three weeks old so the girls compensated with hugs and kisses and belly rubs. When I came aboard, I added some roughhousing which he loved.
Milhouse was never interested in television. Not birds on Animal Planet. Not other cats. Except boxing. He watched boxing with me on HBO. One night, he imitated the fighters by rearing up on his hind legs and throwing a few "punches." That was a move I'd seen him do when protecting his turf.
In the last few months, Milhouse made friends with one of the other neighborhood cats. They'd meet up in the yard and go bounding off together on another adventure. I guess he missed the company of another cat since Paisley died. When it was Paisley's time to go, she wandered off as cats often do so Milhouse never knew what happened to her. He spent his last couple of years looking for Paisley. He began scratching at the laundry room door, wanting to go in for a look around. Of course he never found her but he never stopped wanting to look.
After the life left his little body, I took him back home and buried him under an acacia tree in the yard he defended zealously for almost 18 years. I didn't want him cremated or taken away. I didn't want strangers who never knew him to handle him after he died. He was our beloved mascot and a cat's cat. We all said one last goodbye, then I wrapped him in his little sheepskin sleeping pad. He now rests with his family at our home. He meant the world to us. As my first real pet, he set the bar high.
Just before Milhouse died, Robin saw his eyes widen. Perhaps it was the moment he realized his time was up. Maybe It was a last longing goodbye. Or maybe he finally found Paisley."
My wife was only half-kidding when she would say, "This cat better be immortal." Indeed, just one month before his kidneys started failing him, Milhouse pulled off an amazing feat. A hummingbird came into the house through the front door. While we were figuring out how to get him back out, Milhouse came into the room, leaped into the air and caught the hummingbird. Then he took the bird outside. How many cats could pull of a hummingbird air-snatch in their prime? Imagine making a catch at the wall in Dodger Stadium when you're like 87 years old.
Personally, I am just taken aback by how much grief there is in the house right now. Maybe it was the suddenness of his decline. Maybe we didn't have time to contemplate his passing, even though common sense says his time was growing short. No one ever warned me about this part of pet ownership. So I guess my question is, am I crazy or does everyone feels this way when a beloved pet dies?
Thank you for letting me ramble,
Jerry
