Goodbye Mickey

Big Mick

Our cat, Mickey, died last summer.  He was fourteen years old and one of two brothers.   Cooper, is still with us.  Actually, he's right next to me on the desk, watching as I type.  The boys, as they came to be known, were a gift from my husband many anniversaries ago.

From the day they arrived, though, Mickey was different-odd somehow.   He was lanky and skinny, where his brother was round.  He was vocal (and I mean meowy to the point of annoying), where his brother was quiet.  He was demanding; running to the pantry FIRST thing in the morning, after I let him back into the house, because he knew his  treats were kept in there. And he'd howl whenever I was in the kitchen preparing food, begging for his own.  Cooper was none of these things.  

And until about a year ago, he slept on my head  EVERY NIGHT.  And not just on my pillow, but literally on top of my head.  And he wouldn't just sleep on my head. He'd claw and scratch my head, pulling my hair and, occasionally, draw blood.   Of course, I could have put him out, but that was his spot.  So I tolerated it.  Some nights more than others.   I thought he needed that comfort.  I thought he was taken away from his mother too early and, therefore, I  filled the mama void.

Over the years, he was basically a good cat.  He loved us.  We loved him.  We played with him.  He made us laugh.  He sat on our laps and snuggled up to us on the couch.

As usual:  on a lap

As he grew older, however, his quirkiness became more and more annoying.  He started begging for food, hopping onto the counters when he thought we weren't looking.  He'd jump on our laps, pawing at our plates and cups.  He'd pee in things, like purses.  But really, I think it all started back at our old house, where he was involved in "the accident."   I wasn't home at the time, but the story goes like this:   

Unbeknownst to Dave, who had been out working in the garage, Mickey was sitting on top of the garage door, which was in the open position.  Well, when Dave was finished,  he pushed the button to shut the door, lowering it to its closed position, and walked into the house.  Now you would THINK that, at this point, Mickey would have jumped OFF of the door.  But no!  A few minutes later Dave heard a terrible howling sound.  Upon returning to the garage, he saw Mickey's back legs and tail at the top of the garage door!  The rest of him was hanging over the top--on the other side of the door!  Not knowing how to deal with the situation, he hit the button to reopen the door and Mickey simply hopped down.  He didn't seem hurt at all:  no cuts, scrapes, broken bones, swelling--NOTHING!  He simply ran off, as if he was mad.  Like it was Dave's fault for trapping him, embarrassing him for all the neighborhood cats to see!  

But, really, after that, he was never the same.  He became much more demanding; howling EVERY time you went into the kitchen.  And he moved from sleeping with me, to sleeping with Anna.  In fact, he really became Anna's Cat.  So much so, that she was afraid we were going to "do something" to him when she went away to college.  That's how crazy he was making us!  But, of course, we didn't.   We wouldn't.  

So when Dave found him all curled up on the grass, in the back yard, TWO WEEKS after Anna went to school, not only were we devastated, but we feared telling Anna.  

And she was upset.   "It's because you make him sleep outside!"  Even though he practically lived his entire life outside.  As a matter-of-fact, we tried to cage him once, about four years ago, because, for some odd reason, he liked to go to the bathroom on our neighbor's lawn.  And not just any neighbor.  The neighbor with the nicest, greenest grass on the block!  And they didn't like it.  So, after an embarrassingly, uncomfortable "talk" with me, I promised her I would keep him inside.  And we did, for about three weeks.  But, finally, I let him go.  He couldn't take it.  We couldn't take it.  My house couldn't take it.  He was ripping up doors, pulling up carpet.  So, out he went.  

After a few weeks, I saw her out doing yardwork and pulled my car up alongside her driveway.  I felt enough time had been spent avoiding her.  I mean I have to live practically next door to her.  So, I bravely asked how they were doing and  if Mickey was leaving them alone.  And she said, "I don't know what you did, but it worked!"  Hooray!  We could be friends again.  Honestly, I don't know if Mickey actually stopped using their grass as a toilet, I hope so.  Or maybe she just took my advice and brought the hose out every time he came creeping their way.  Whatever we all did, it seemed to work out.  

We don't know what actually happened to Mickey.  We only know he was laying on the ground in the back yard when we got up one morning.   He had no wounds, no blood, and there were no signs of distress or struggle.  It was as if he simply went to sleep and didn't get up.

So I cried some farewell tears, hugged Nora, called Anna, and then dug a hole alongside the fence.  I wanted to bury him below Anna's window.  That night we held a little ceremony for him and for Nora.  It was her first loss.  "To keep him company in heaven," Nora also buried Mickey's toys, an entire bag of  cat treats, and a card.  Oh the card!  She picked it out herself and it still makes me cry just thinking about it.  Basically, it said "you were put on this earth to be our friend and so we could love you."  And then she wrote:  "Mickey, you were a good cat.  We loved you and will miss you.  I hope you can use one of your nine lives now to see your mama in Heaven.  Love, Nora."  

Mickey had been a part of our family for a long time.  My girls grew up with him and my oldest daughter loved him dearly,  moreso, I think,  because she thought we didn't.   Which isn't true, of course.  We did.  We do.  But, yes, we did  complain about him.  Because he was annoying!  

But we still loved him. 

And we'll miss him too.

Goodbye Mick.

Mickey
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