I Say Goodbye to Uncle Murky

I knew this would be the year I had to say goodbye to my longtime companion, Uncle Murky.  The signs of feline age increased as the weeks went by. Uncle Murky has had vibrant health and a mellow temperament for more than sixteen years. The only time he was ever ill was on catching kennel cough from his nephew Orange, and in his first months of life he was run over by a car. Miraculously, only his tiny foot had been hit and though it swelled up like a balloon, it was relatively easy to treat with some meds and Murky never went outside again.

He did go through life with a funny toe, which we nicknamed The Talon. It healed with a kind of crumpled effect, the middle toe sticking out. Without this distinction, Murky was the most ordinary featured cat- the prototype of feline, if you will, a grey striped tabby like millions of others.

Still, to our variegated family, with me as the one constant, Murky was anything but ordinary. He embodied serenity. In the tumultuous world of Mom’s emotions, Uncle Murky was the eye of the storm. He never felt dismay or bewilderment and though content and happy, he never veered too dramatically into excitement or joy. His Buddha nature tolerated every stage of my adult life, and he was front row centre for all of it.

Uncle Murky was the son of Itsy Diva, whom I had to shovel off of the road after her unfortunate demise, to spare poor Japey the sight of his beloved fluffy princess in such macabre disarray. Itsy Diva was tiny and mainly white with calico bits, nothing like her two massive tabby offspring. She was quite eccentric, like her human, Japey. She was the only cat I knew who went mad for peanuts. I’m talking about peanuts, in the shell, which she would eat along with the nut inside. Japey would stand on the front porch and call her, in a falsetto shrieking lilt, peanut in hand. She would come tearing through the neighbourhood like a rabid rabbit on speed, and tackle the peanut head on. After her untimely demise and her son’s mangled foot, I knew I would never have another outdoor cat. Now Japey is gone, too, a young man felled by cancer, and so Murky felt like a living relic, Japey’s grandcat.

Uncle Murky didn’t mind staying indoors. In all things, he was content. All he asked out of life was a pillow. Nothing made him quite as content as a pillow. There could be boxes galore, or clean fluffy blankets fresh from the dryer, and these he would ignore. All he wanted was a pillow, usually mine. He would clamber upon it while I was sleeping and gently nudge my head to fall off the side of the bed. Then he would get good and comfy and settle in for the night.

If by some lack of luck on his part, I failed to budge, he would attempt to share the space and nestle around my head. I found this quite endearing for a while, but when he took to frequent sneezing, directly onto my face, I took offense and told him, get your own damn pillow. And so ever after, he had his very own pillow, and we would sleep head to head in perfect harmony.

Murky did not bat an eyelash if we moved, if we got into the carrier and went elsewhere, nor if there was a party and a motley assortment of guests fawning over him. He didn’t get excited about much except sushi. Nor did he exhibit those most base and vile of human emotions like jealousy or self-pity, not even if the attention shifted from him to the newcomer- Orange. Orange happened one New Year’s, born to Murky’s brother and his wife. While I was not supposed to be in charge of the new kitten- there was to be no kitten, as we had believed that Miss Purr was fixed- I ended up with the little Orange thing, born no bigger than a thumb, and the only kitten in the litter.

Orange took considerable attention as he didn’t eat anything but milk and cream of mushroom soup for the first six months of his life, making us certain he would not live. But live he did, and to this day, he has no desire for foods that cats like- fish, chicken, and so on. Unlike his calm and collected and intelligent Uncle Murky, Orange is an oddball with few brains and a comic streak. He lives in his own little world, inhabited by all manner of sprites and butterflies. Uncle Murky took him under his wing from the beginning, cleaning him, showing him how to act like a cat at least some of the time, playing ball hockey with him, though Murky was rather disinterested in games from the beginning. He understood that Orange needed a game mate, and was happy to oblige. He graciously let Orange take the limelight, because Orange needed an extra bit of it in ways Murky never had.

In the past year, Murky became increasingly withdrawn and lost a few teeth, presenting them sorrowfully on that beloved pillow. He wore a resigned expression, tolerating the pain but wishing for numbered days. His stomach began to go and he had an increasingly difficult time digesting his food. Eventually, he began to have lengthy fits where he lost control of his stomach contents, spilling from both ends uncontrollably. This unfortunate hell meant giving him frequent baths, which he disliked, but tolerated with the same resolve he’d always had. Though the vet said there was nothing wrong with him but the beginnings of organ failure, I loathed seeing him suffering like this. The bouts became increasingly frequent and I knew I had to make the choice to say goodbye.

Because the Toronto Humane Society has a no-kill policy, I had to take my beloved tabby home to Niagara for Christmas. It’s not exactly how I wanted to celebrate the Yule, but Murky had been increasingly despondent the past weeks and showed complete apathy. He was waiting for the end, suffering through bouts of horrific illness as he waited with increasing impatience. And so, I packed his favourite pillow into his carrier and prepared for Murky’s last ride.

While he was generally comfortable in cars or carriers, because he was not feeling well, he was scared and crying. I was upset enough, and didn’t want him to be distressed for the long drive to Niagara. I wondered if he would be more comfortable with some Valium, and then dismissed the thought, thinking the dose might kill him.

Oh.

And so, I gave him half a human tablet. Within five minutes, Uncle was purring contentedly on his pillow, quite enjoying the scenic route, totally comfortable. When we arrived at the noisy humane society, Uncle Murky was unperturbed by the barking dogs, a rag doll in my arms, still purring.

Once, someone said something that gave me great comfort in this situation- that we are here for the duration of our pet’s life, even if he is not here for the duration of ours.  Still, it was so hard to say goodbye.

When I returned home yesterday, I found a solemn Orange with relative newcomer Bert. Nephew was lying on my pillow, where Uncle Murky loved to be. He looked up at me mournfully, looking around to see if I was bringing Uncle back with me. But the carrier was empty. He climbed back onto his uncle’s pillow, and wouldn’t move, keeping vigil all night long. Whenever I stirred next to him in the night, his eyes were wide open and he was not sleeping. Bert looked on, worried for his friend, wondering where Murky had gone.

But this morning when I rose from bed, still solemn from the hollow in the house, Orange jumped down from the pillow and resumed life at his food bowl, followed by a gathering of all his little sponge balls. He and Bert spent the morning while I wrote playing hide and seek with them.

I must learn from their wisdom, their innate acceptance of nature’s rhythms. Love, and be loved. Say goodbye. Grieve intensely, but not for long, and then greet the new day.

Lorette C. Luzajic

www.thegirlcanwrite.net