My Other Cat Monty

At the back window

From before I brought him home, sixteen years ago, I knew he was no ordinary cat. The breeder said when she did the vacuuming, all the other kittens would scatter. But there was Monty riding on top of the cleaner. He was deaf, of course, but I'm pretty sure he was able to hear a bit, above and beyond feeling vibrations through the floor.

Later, he developed a talent for what I called Late Night Cat Opera. He'd go to the top of the stairs at about 2 AM, and call loudly for about two minutes. Then he'd stop and return to whatever he was doing. This would go on for a few nights in a row, then stop for weeks before starting all over again. He's very loud, probably because of his deafness, and it was very funny.

Just a kitten, exploring the backyard for the first time

Most of the time, he'd be The Cat Who Walks By Himself and would be deeply interested in whatever was happening out of the window. Or whatever else was on his agenda. But he also liked quality lap time. Quality lap time was usually pretty intense, with Monty alternately doing happy feet (a.k.a. kneading) on my belly, and licking my fingertips, and occasionally drooling, purring all the while. Oh, how he liked to lick. He wanted to lick my nose but I had to discourage that because he took skin off.

With a neckerchief and a treat in his mouth

His favourite activities were being brushed, particularly around the face and the ruff, and getting his chin scratched. He'd stretch his neck out for almost anyone, even when he'd be shyly hiding from visitors.

Hard to believe he was this small

When Monty was young, I had a friend visiting. We were talking in the living room when Monty decided it was time for some affection. So he stood on me, back legs in my lap and front legs on my chest, and I stroked his back and ruff. Hard. When I slowed down, he jumped down and ran over to my friend for a repeat performance. When she missed a stroke, he jumped down and raced back to me. He just couldn't get enough. This happened four or five times until he had had enough and retired to the end of the couch to watch us.

Everyone who met him said what an unusual personality he had, alternately hiding from visitors to sitting on their laps, to his unusual vocalisations. Plus his distinctive looks -- a large, shaggy, white Maine Coon with intense yellow eyes. What little skin showed -- nose, lips, ears, paw-pads -- was bright pink and many people thought he was a she. He was very gentle and good-natured. He never bit anyone, and while I had received the odd scratch from him, it was never out of malice or bad temper.

He thinks he's hiding out of sight

We were very close, Monty and me. That's why it was so heartbreaking when he suddenly couldn't walk anymore. He was fine one day, and the next was only able to crawl unsteadily. The vet said it was neurological in origin but couldn't be more specific. A stroke or clot or embolism or something else were possibilities. And with the hospitalisation required to do everyday things like eat and use the litter box, it became a quality of life decision. So we decided to say good-bye to the little guy.

Asleep on the stairs

Monty had had several health problems in recent years. Besides being deaf, he came down with diabetes at age 15. That's unusual for an older cat, according to his vet. I administered insulin shots twice a day for a couple of months, then was able to stop when a special food controlled his blood sugar. He disliked being picked up, but it's easy to sneak up on a deaf cat -- a.k.a. Mr. Oblivious -- so the shots were never a problem.

He loved to wear my sheepskin slipper

Then, a year later, the vet discovered what turned out to be a softball-sized cyst attached to his liver. It was successfully removed, along with other cysts inside his liver, about two months ago. He was recovering nicely when the walking thing happened. So there were problems, but we always worked though them together.

Handsome and furry.  This is his summer coat.

It seems like only yesterday we was saying goodbye to Maxie, my first cat, and way too soon, we had to say farewell again.

At the vet. My last photo of Monty

My wife and I visited my little buddy one last time. He was wrapped up in a blanket and had a drip attached to a leg. He was a bit dazed but still stretched out his neck for a scratch under his chin.

We will miss Monty and all his quirks. But he'll never truly be gone because we will remember him always.

Strike a pose!

My Cat Maxie

Just after I bought my first house, I phoned my parents and told them excitedly, "I'm getting a roommate!"

Dad, who was ever so hopeful since I had been single for a few years, promptly asked, "What's her name?"

When I answered "Maxine," there was stunned silence on the line for maybe 10 seconds. They're old-fashioned in many ways.

Then Mom asked in a quiet voice, "So, you decided to rent out your spare bedroom?"

I responded, "No, it's more like I'm taking her in," and there was more silence.

I broke the silence this time and said "She's got long, brown hair and big, beautiful eyes." And taking pity on them at last, added, "And a long, bushy tail."

They twigged.

Later that year, Maxie supervised while I assembled a guest bed. She was in the middle of everything -- she pawed the piles of screws and dowels to stress test the small parts. She'd be on top of the frame immediately after I added each part to make sure it was strong enough to hold her weight. And she stayed on even when I was using the hammer.  Best of all, she decided when was break time.

Then, when I was putting on the bedding, she'd be on top of the sheet, rolling around, playfully batting at my hands as I tucked, chasing wrinkles as I smoothed. I'd shoo her off to put the next layer on. As it was wafting down and before it even settled, she'd jump on top again and the whole process was repeated. For every layer.

She adopted the bed as hers, and would sleep there sometimes, nestled snugly amongst the throw pillows.

That was seventeen years ago, and she was with me all the way through three houses, two cities, two more cats, a wife and a daughter. I can hardly remember a time before her.  As of a couple of weeks ago, though, she is no longer my roommate. She passed away quite suddenly as her kidneys gave out from old age.

Maxie was a Maine Coon, a large, rugged cat with a thick, shaggy coat of browns and black with a mackerel tabby pattern and a white chin. And big, beautiful eyes that changed from yellow to green later in life.

And she loved life. Food, especially, was important to her. Whenever I ate, she insisted on smelling absolutely everything, and sampling a lot of it. Even things that I was sure a cat wouldn't eat, like hummous. Whenever I arrived home she would smell my breath to see what I had been eating.

I was her favourite toy. Especially when I had a stick with a string, and on the end of a string was a pair of feathers that would spin when pulled through the air. It would "thrum" like wings beating, and would drive her wild. She'd chase so hard and so long that she'd pant like a dog.

We had our ups and downs. For a while, her liver was causing problems but was finally settled with some special food. Her brother, Monty, could be a bully at times. She showed her stress in ways I didn't always appreciate, but we were always tight.

Especially tight when she curled up on my lap for a long winter's purr, and maybe to snooze a bit as I worked at the computer or watched a TV programme. Maxie was always ready with a purr, the loudest I have ever heard. With few exceptions, she'd always been a one-man cat, and would sit in no other lap.

It was hard to say goodbye as she lay on the table at the clinic. My wife and I could not believe that it was her time. We scratched her chin as she looked around the room one last time before laying back down on the pad. We will miss her so much. My first cat, and always the best. Seventeen years is a long time, but we want longer. Even though she's no longer our roommate, she'll always be with us, and we will be better for it.

One of my final photos of Maxie