Monday, June 26, 2017

Mick "Feisty" O'Malley

He sat there, snuggled into the corner of the box opposite his brother in May of 2000.  He was teensy tiny.  Their mother had been hit by a car and died a short few weeks after birthing them.  Seeing them, I instantly melted.  Losing his mother so soon didn't bode well for the runt of the litter.  No one expected him to live.  No one expected much of anything from him.  Even I didn't expect what came from this precious kitten.

His days were spent playing "King of the Chair" with his bigger brother and another rescue that we took in.  He was named for Mick Foley, the hardcore wrestling legend.  He fought spots on the wall, the vacuum cleaner, and feet.  He attacked me in my sleep and nestled himself in my hair to catch his own zzz's.  He really was the smartest of them all.  And the most loving.

A few months in, my landlord decided that cats were a "no".  So, we had to re-home all 3.  Mick went to live back at home with my little sister and parents.  Our dad always proclaimed his undying hatred for cats and dogs.  Which was ironic because we always had so many.  He secretly loved them.  I would walk into my parents home and find Mick relaxing on my dad's lap.  My dad would make an elaborate scene where he pretended like he didn't know the cat was there and put him on the floor.  Much to Mick's confusion and chagrin.  Eventually, my dad confessed that Mick was the best cat he'd ever known.

Shortly after Mick's first birthday, my 'ma passed away.  I moved back home to care for everyone and I was reunited with my Mick.  But my dad decided to sell the family home and move to an apartment down the road.  Mick was none too happy with this decision (much like the rest of us).  He took matters into his own paws and walked back to our house.  Somewhere along the path, he became entangled in a fox trap.  He was found by house painters with the trap on his foot.  They, in turn, called the police and the humane society came to get him.  They removed the trap and boarded him.  When he didn't return home, my sister knew something was amiss.  She insisted upon finding him.  Miraculously, they did.  However, the paw was in serious pain.  He had become infected.  So, the week of Thanksgiving, he had his toes amputated.

We changed his bandages.  I'd hold him down and tell him how much I loved him and how we were just trying to help when he'd fight.  He'd calm and let us work.  Sadly, the infection had traveled too far.  He had to have his entire leg removed or die.  At 1, he lost one of his back legs.  For months he was depressed.  His playful self had been tamed.  He didn't do much of anything.  My dad and youngest sister moved away and Mick went with them.  Within months, my dad was gone.  His last days were spent with Mick on his lap.

Mick got bounced around but went wherever my sister went.  He befriended a kitten, Sally, who was missing an eye.  They looked so much alike.  He took her under his wing.  Of course, stability isn't anything our family has ever known.  My sister was living with my aunt and was forced to let go of her pets.  Mick came back to live with me again.  By then, The Middle Son was a baby.  Mick adapted to the household and the move well.  He was always there.  Crapping in my dryer or the bathtub in the winter and spending summer days and nights catching whatever was slower than him.  His feisty side was always there.

Mick was a formidable hunter in spite of the missing leg.  Once, he took care of a pesky rodent that The Oldest kept in a cage in his bedroom.  You can never get the visual of finding half of a hamster in a cage out of your mind.  Really.  You can't.  It's upsetting.  Another time, he caught a rabbit and let it loose in our living room - still alive.  Mostly, he would bring us mice or moles or bugs.  Sometimes he would eat them whole and puke them back up on the floor.  Cat ownership is pretty awesome.

He got very sick once right before I had The Youngest Boy.  I remember begging him to eat something.  He just laid on my bed, uneating, unmoving.  I resorted to force feeding him.  The thought of losing him physically hurt.  He bounced back, though.  He never left the immediate parameter of the house, no matter where we lived.  The Oldest and I think that losing his leg so early in life saved him.  He always stuck close to home after that.

He was kind of an asshole.  Knocking water over onto guests.  Attacking my feet while I slept.  Sleeping on my face.  Barging into my bedroom every night.  Stealing the last piece of bacon.  Demanding to go outside but not actually going outside.  Begging to get in the front door so that he could immediately go to the back door to get out.  Like walking around the house was a chore.  He wouldn't kill the mice in our garage.  Pee on every bathmat I ever owned.  Puke everywhere on everything on everyone.  Finished my hot fudge sundaes.  Beat the shit out of bottle caps.  Knocked down every cup in the house.  Peed on my house slippers.  Peed on kids' back packs.  Ordered $667 worth of Hello Kitty memorabilia on Amazon.

He was also gentle and loving.  If you were sad - he would comfort you.  He'd come right up to you and rub your face with his head.  He'd nudge you.  He would let you hold him.  He'd snuggle you at just the right time.  Like he understood that your tears meant that you were hurting and he knew to love on you.  If you were sick, he'd bring you chicken soup for your soul in the form of purrs and pats.  He loved popcorn and potato chips.  He loved ice cream and whatever you were drinking.

When we made our move to our current home 3 years ago, he moved in with The Oldest in his room.  Peas in a pod, they were.  They began speaking the same language.  The Oldest knew when Mick needed something.  They had a very regimented routine.  The Oldest gave Mick his all.  They kept each other company.  They were best friends.

In the last year, his age started to catch up with him.  The last several autumns he'd get really sick and I'd think it was the end.  It wasn't.  But, he wasn't bouncing back like he used to.  Last summer, some jerk of a kid hurt his back leg.  We thought for sure it was the end.  I put him in cat diapers just to try to do something.  Back then, I thought it was the end.  He pulled through, in true Mick fashion.

Trips down to his basement were too painful.  He moved upstairs, onto a heater vent, to warm his bones.  He'd sun himself under the tree or in the flower bed.  He loved the outside during the summer.  Eventually, he stopped trying to catch everything.  He began to watch the wildlife around him.  I'd come home from work and he'd get up from whatever spot he'd found and come in with me.  He'd wrap around my legs and I'd yell that he was trying to kill me.

He'd had several near death, close calls in the last few months.  He got so sick that I'd made "THE" appointment.  I'd sobbed on him the whole night before, praying for more time.  On our way out the door, I noticed an area on his leg and touched it.  He bit me.  Minutes before being euthanized in March, we discovered an injury from fighting a raccoon.  He missed death again.  The infection was stubborn though.  More stubborn than we thought.

His face swelled and wounds at his neck seeped.  The vet said that he didn't back down - since the injury was to the front of him, it meant that he put up a hell of a fight.  The infection overcame him though.

I came home from work early to find him comatose on his spot on the couch.  The Oldest took him out under his tree for the last time while I called our vet.  Together, we carried his limp little body in for the last time.  We hugged him and rubbed his head and told him that we loved him.  We held him until his purrs stopped.  He hobbled along Rainbow Bridge.  He took my heart with him.

17 years is a long lifetime for a cat but it wasn't enough.  Especially the little one that no one expected to survive.  He used all 9 of his lives, and then some.  He made every single day better.  It's been 3 weeks now and the pain in our hearts is still very raw.  He's home now, in a box on the shelf.  Next week, we are taking part of his cremains to my dad so that they can be together.

He wasn't just a cat.  He was never just a cat.  He was a small little furry person with a loving soul and hilarious personality.

Until we meet again key, I love you.