The summer of 2006 we let many strays into our home, most of which were human--homeless friends of our son. They stayed with us from one month to two years depending on their willingness to pay rent and follow our rules. But one of the strays was a cat. Tracy had recently brought me a kitten for Mother's Day. She was from one of the barn cats that lived around my sister's place until they got them all fixed. We named her Sola because she was the sole survivor of her litter. Later, based on her personality, we speculated she may have killed off her siblings. But that July she was still young and fun and cute. We were definitely not looking for another cat. But, like the
spare sons, this one followed Tracy home. One of the spares named him Maynard G. Krebs, after the beatnik character on an old TV program, "The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis". Maynard definitely fit the beatnik vibe. He was at one with the world. We were not yet at one with Maynard, however, and the boy who named him agreed to take him when he found an apartment. By the time he found one, we were willing to fight to the death to keep Maynard. He grew on us faster than a claw can snag a sweater.
And that was not the only time someone tried to adopt Maynard. A few years down the road, we began to suspect Maynard was cheating on us. When we would return from a trip, our house sitter, usually Tracy, would tell us Maynard hadn't been around much. As a matter of fact, he might not stroll home until two days after we returned. We knew he was seeing someone else. So, before the next trip, we got him a collar with our phone number. Right away we got a phone call from our neighbor two houses down asking why we put a collar on the cat she had been feeding for two years. (Canned food, no less.) Reed answered, "Because we have had him for five." Margo still tells people the story of how she tried to find a home for her neighbor's cat!
From then on, we didn't worry about Maynard getting fed when we traveled. We did, however, worry about him being out in the cold because the Margo's cat fought with Maynard if she tried to let him in the house. I spent a night of fervent prayer in Billings praying for Mayn to find shelter in the sub-zero weather the state was experiencing. Finding shelter was not the problem, Margo had built him a warm box bed on her porch. The problem was, the box was not part of Maynard's routine, and he refused to try something new. Sometimes, we even had to kidnap Maynard to bring him home from Margo's. As much as he seemed to love us, he thought we were hostile strangers when he was out of our yard.
Something new that didn't bother Maynard at all was nudity. One summer his fur had gotten so matted that we had him shaved. He didn't like the trip to the groomer, but he was happy to display his nakedness in all his usual sleeping positions once he got home. The reason Margo thought Maynard was a stray was because he meowed so much when he showed up. She thought he was hungry, but that was just Mayn, he was a
talky cat. He had a large vocabulary too, different sounds for different occasions. The loudest of which was the cry of the victorious hunter, letting us know there was a dead creature on the doormat. Since I did not want him to bring his prize inside, I would open the door a crack and praise him no matter how tiny, helpless or gross his prey appeared. And I learned to check the front doormat before I stepped out barefoot in the morning.
Maynard and Sola did not bond. Cats who are not siblings seldom do. Even we did not bond with them equally, Maynard was our main cat and Sola was the emergency-back-up cat. Sola stationed herself on our bed and stayed mostly indoors. Maynard spent a lot of time outdoors and claimed sleeping places all over the house. When Sola died suddenly while we were away three years ago, Maynard was so broken up he immediately took over her place on our bed. Mostly, he slept at the foot, causing me to sleep in awkward straddle positions so as not to disturb him. But it was also not unusual to find him between us at the head of the bed or lying on our side while we slept. The problem was, Maynard did not just want us to be uncomfortable, he wanted us to pet him. But we did, because he rewarded us for sacrificing sleep with loud purring. He had us well trained.
When Tracy and his dogs came to live with us, Maynard was not happy. Sometimes he illustrated his opinion of their intrusion by pooping on the carpet downstairs, especially when we were out of town. Sola was not afraid of the dogs, though she was of everything else. Ever since she scratched the eye of Tracy's puppy, Odin, she trusted in the power of her paws. Maynard took longer to warm up to the dogs--two years actually. But eventually he was content sleeping belly up around them, his zen position.
Time, odd thing that it is, flew by and before we knew it fourteen years had passed. Over the winter we noticed a growth on Maynard's side. We had it removed, but we did not have it biopsied for cancer because he had such a poor recovery after surgery that we feared he wouldn't survive another. Maynard had several good months after that, but began to lose an alarming amount of weight. This had happened before, cats who eat mice and birds get worms, but de-worming didn't help. A few weeks ago he stopped eating. Maynard knew it was his time. And we knew. But that last step of taking care of a pet is excruciating.
He started holing up under the stairs like he did recovering from surgery. I prayed for one more good day in the sun and the Sunday before he died he had that. Tuesday he made the hard trek upstairs to come to the kitchen for his traditional bowl of milk, and even drank a little. That same night I discovered tumors on his belly. I prayed hard for the Lord to let him sleep away, but by Wednesday he didn't leave his shelter under the stairs when I came down and slept so little I knew he was in pain.
We did not want to take him to the vet to spend his last moments where he was always so afraid. The vet who euthanizes in the home was not available until the next week. We would have to relieve his suffering ourselves. Our way, bullet to the base of the brain. Easier for me, I had hours to spend with him and I would not be holding the gun. So we said our goodbyes, even Baldr, who knew a member of his "pack" was dying. Mayn is buried near the apple tree in the front yard where he, at last, sleeps away. We bought a stone to mark his passing. Totally unnecessary. We will never forget.
