You may remember, if you follow this blog at all, our issues with our cat, Max. He was a great cat, but we couldn’t keep him — he was exhibiting all sorts of behavior problems that came from loss of territory (moving to a much smaller house and adding more people to the mix) that were underscored by issues stemming from his weight and problems with the food he ate. We looked for months for a place to take him and no one would. When things were at their darkest (think euthanization), the vet down in town stepped in and adopted Max as their office cat. His departure left me with a heavy heart, but the vet promised to look after him, rehabilitate him, and see if they couldn’t get him into some sort of adoptable state.
Max won their hearts. He lost weight, he was on Prozac, and his urinating issues were largely behind him. Even with those issues, he was a great cat — he got on well with the kids, he was affectionate without being clingy, and his personality left its mark on our household. Once he was gone, the place felt a little empty.
So he went off to live at the vet, and they loved him, and he loved living there. They posted Facebook pictures of him lounging around, playing with his other feline friends, and generally being the big, lovable doofus that he was.
I always wanted to visit — almost did a few weeks ago, actually. But I didn’t want to upset him, and I didn’t want to pick that scab off yet because I wasn’t sure if there was a scar underneath it yet. And now I won’t have the opportunity. Max passed away two weeks ago. It was quick and he wasn’t in pain.
And today, I realized just how much I missed the goofy bastard. Sure, you say, he was just a cat, and you hadn’t seen him in months. But if you’d ever met him, you’d understand.
Miss you, pal.