It is time for a new tattoo. I’ve lost count of how many I have at this time, but this one will be special. It will be a portrait of my beloved Moo.
Let me tell you a story.
Way back in 1998, I was working for a magazine publisher. The name isn’t important. What is important is that I had a coworker whose husband worked at the NASSCO shipyard. It’s a huge facility down by the ocean where they apparently build or repair ships. I’m not exactly sure. This husband was at work one day, when he heard a faint mewing coming from inside one of the industrial dumpsters. He passed by, and then thought, “What if it’s a hurt animal?” So he went back and climbed inside.
He found four tiny kittens. There were two calico girls, a black-and-white boy, and an orange-and-white boy. He popped them into a box and, at the end of his work day, brought them to his wife at the magazine publisher. They decided they were going to keep the two girls, but were looking for homes for the two boys.
I was between cats at the moment, so I said I’d take them, with the thought that I’d keep the black-and-white boy, and find the orange-and-white boy a home. To absolutely no one’s surprise, the orange-and-white also ended up staying with me for many years, until he found a new home in North Carolina with a sweet boy who loved him dearly. The orange-and-white boy was henceforth known as Rusty, but this isn’t his story. It’s his brother’s.
When I was about eight or nine, I read a book called The Phantom Tollbooth, by Norton Juster. The main character’s name in the book was Milo. For some unknown reason, I fell in love with the name and decided that if I ever had a black and white cat, I would name him Milo. And that is how Moo got his name. His real name. He affectionately became Moo because of his “Holstein patterned” fur.
Moo was my first emotional support animal. I didn’t know how empathetic a cat could be until I met him. I had cats previously, and loved them dearly, but never so much as I did Moo. He was my buddy. We’d sit on the couch together and watch football, and he’d happily put up with my yelling. He (and Rusty, along with my then-two-year-old daughter) were my companions on a rushed three day drive from San Diego to Gastonia, North Carolina. He was my sole companion on a less-rushed drive back from Lake Wylie, South Carolina back to San Diego four years later.
His fur soaked up my tears many times throughout the years. He was there for multiple breakups over those years. He lovingly watched over my daughter when she was born to make sure she slept through the nights. He snuggled with me when I fought bouts of depression and thoughts of ending it all and made sure I knew that someone indeed loved me.
He wasn’t a perfect cat. He loved to pull my dirty clothes out of the hamper and drag them around the house, and then nest on them. That’s fine when you’re a single gal living alone, but it can be awkward when you bring someone over and there is a giant cat sleeping on your underwear in the living room. And he was a giant cat. He was never fat, but he was a hulking linebacker of a cat, weighing 18 pounds at his heaviest.
He loved to sleep on top of me. I usually sleep on my side, and nearly every morning I woke up with him balanced precariously on my hip. I came to love the feeling of him sleeping on top of me. I’ve never had a cat who wanted to be on me all the time, the way that Moo did. He was my best friend, who got me through my worst days.
I came home from a trip to Austin and noticed that he had gotten very thin. He wasn’t acting any different, but he had noticeably lost weight. I took him to the vet right away, and the blood work revealed that he had renal failure. She told me that if I did everything right – prescription food, subcutaneous fluids, and daily monitoring of his fluid intake to ensure he was hydrated enough – that I would have about six weeks with him. Six. Weeks. He was only thirteen at the time. That’s still a pretty young cat, on the average.
I did everything I could. He ate the expensive prescription food while I ate ramen or whatever other cheap food I could afford for myself after making sure he had everything he needed. I gave him the subcutaneous fluids three times a week, even though it hurt my soul to have to pierce his skin with a needle repeatedly. I made sure he had fresh water every day. There were a few panicked visits to the emergency vet when he wasn’t acting like himself, but there was nothing more to be done.
He held on for eight months.
On December 1, 2012 he came to me and said, “I’m done.” The look in his eyes told me that he couldn’t fight anymore. I let him go peacefully so he wouldn’t be in pain anymore. I was in pain, though. My heart was broken. One of my biggest regrets in life was that I was so fucking broke at the time that I couldn’t afford the private cremation so I could get his ashes back. I got to hold him while he took his last breath, and stoke his soft fur, and tell him, “Thank you. Thank you for saving my life. Thank you for being my strength when I had none. Thank you for staring into my soul and telling me that I am loved, and that I am deserving of love.” He was “just a cat” but he was so much more.
I will never know the hows or whys of how he and his siblings ended up in that dumpster that day, but I am eternally grateful to the asshole who threw away the best thing to ever happen to me. Without that evil act, I would not have experienced those fourteen years of absolute love.
It’s been nearly twelve years since we said goodbye. I’ll never forget him. He deserves a special place of permanence on my body, so he can keep watching over me.
veritas and balderdash 