Best Boy Ever

Cancer is a terrible thing.

I’ve known far too many people whose lives have been impacted by this horrible disease.

 Cancer Sucks. 

It was like any other weekday morning.  I woke up early, drank two cups of coffee and headed out to the garage to put on my running shoes.  Just like any other day of the week. 

What made this particular day over 13 years ago different was that Cindy was already awake.  Rarely was she awake when I got back from my morning run, let alone before.  On this day Cindy was awake to warn me that there was something in the garage that hadn’t been there yesterday.  Something our son Justin had found on the side of the road in nearby Brooks the night before.

I saw it the instant I opened the door leading into the garage: The tiniest kitten I’d ever seen with bright blue eyes and fur as white as snow.  As I got a closer look I noticed the kitten was covered with so many fleas I would have believed you if you told me it had fallen into a mound of black pepper.  I’ll admit at first glance I thought it was a white rat—it was that small—but when I realized it was a kitten I immediately wondered how it would get along with our female black lab Magic that up until now had been an ‘only child’ the entire 10 years of her life.  (It was rather obvious to me that Cindy planned on keeping him.  Not that I would have wanted it any other way, mind you.) 

It didn’t take long to see that the kitten—whom we named Maui because we felt certain he had been born while we were taking a family vacation on the island of the same name a few weeks earlier—loved Magic.  Let me back up for a second: At first Maui loved to torment Magic.  Maui swiped his paws at Magic’s tail with his talons fully exposed, jumped on the back of her neck and held on for dear life and made it perfectly clear that Magic was his very own private scratching post.  Maui couldn’t have been more attracted to Magic if she was stuffed with catnip and smelled like tuna. 

But it was soon evident that Maui loved Magic.  It was also clear that it was a two-way street.  They became the best of friends and were practically inseparable.  Watching the two of them together could bring a smile to your face, a tear to your eye and melt your heart.  Sometimes all at the same time.    

Their friendship lasted a little more than four years, up until the day Magic crossed the Rainbow Bridge. But it was abundantly clear that Magic had made quite the impression on Maui.  Many of Maui’s mannerisms bore a strong similarity to those of our late black lab: Sitting patiently while Cindy and/or I ate, hoping yet not necessarily expecting a bite or two; gently holding out a paw, his way of asking us to pet him; or lying silently by my feet as if it was his responsibility and his alone to make sure I was safe and sound.

Cindy and I called Maui by a number of nicknames: The Mau, Mister Mau and Mau-Mau being the top three.  But one thing I called Maui that only I called him was ‘The Best Boy Ever.’  As I think about it now, I couldn’t have been more accurate.  Maui was indeed the perfect cat.  I honestly can’t think of a single time that he did something to annoy me or get under my skin.  I already mentioned Maui—in his (Magic’s?) own way--ASKED for food and ASKED to be petted.  Whatever he did—and he did plenty—he never did anything to get on my bad side.  When he held out his paw and gently tapped my arm I could almost read his mind: ‘I hate to bother you but if you have some time I would really, really appreciate you petting me on my head.  If it’s no trouble, of course.’      

What you may have gathered by now is this: Maui never did any of the irritating things that the other four cats in our house were known for.  Maui never insisted on being on my lap like our second cat Molly does every single time I sit down.  He never went where he didn’t belong—into the garage or inside the dryer like our third cat Millie.  He never bumped the other cats out of the way because he thought I should be petting him and not them, like our fourth cat Moe.  And he never jumped on my lap while I was eating dinner and swished his tail over my mashed potatoes like our fifth cat Morgan does way too often.  I might add that there wouldn’t have been those four other cats in the first (second, third and fourth) place had Maui not opened the door for them.  Actually Maui didn’t open the door; he opened the floodgate.    

Maui spent his time doing things that I can only wish all cats did.  Sitting in his familiar spot at the top of the stairs watching over things to make sure everyone was safe and sound.  Eating all the cat treats so none were left on the floor where someone might accidentally step on them.  Sitting patiently in front of the water bowl, his subtle way of telling me all five cats wanted fresh water.  (It was obvious the other cats looked up to Maui, a testament to his age, wisdom and character.) 

It was also obvious how much Maui loved Cindy.  Whenever Cindy walked into the house Maui would come out from wherever he was (usually behind the recliner at the top of the stairs), walk up to her and look at her with his big blue eyes, then patiently and silently wait for her to reach down and pet him on the head.  I rarely greeted Cindy with a ‘How was your day?’ or ‘What do you want for dinner?’  Rather it was always ‘Talk to the Mau.’  (Ask her if you don’t believe me.)  I just thought Maui deserved that simple acknowledgement because he made it a point to welcome her home; you could call it my testament to his age, wisdom and character. 

As I said in the beginning, cancer is a terrible thing.  I’ve known far too many people whose lives have been impacted by this horrible disease.  Everyone is well aware of the phrase ‘Cancer Sucks.’  But here’s something everyone may not be aware of: Cancer doesn’t just suck for humans.  Cancer sucks for cats as well, even more so when it happens to one of the good ones. 

Like Maui.

A cat doesn’t have the capacity to understand why they suddenly have so much trouble drinking water from the faucet…or using their litter box…or jumping up on the sofa…or breathing.  A cat will never comprehend why they suddenly can’t remember where their meals are served…or where their litter box is…or why they no longer have any appetite for cat treats.

All Maui knew was that he wasn’t well.  Every time he looked at me with those big blue eyes I knew he was asking me to do something to make it all better.  I took him to the finest animal hospital in the area hoping they could determine what was wrong so they could do what Mai and I wished for: To make it all better.

They accomplished the former—it was indeed cancer--but there was no hope for the latter.  Any possibility of ‘making it all better’ would entail an endless series of painful treatment, a litany of unfavorable side effects and absolutely no guarantee of a true cure.  I could tell by the look in the doctors’ eyes they didn’t have a lot of optimism for a good outcome. 

While no decision of this nature is an easy one, Cindy and I made the one we knew to be the right one.

As I remember Maui in the days and weeks ahead I’m not going to remember his labored breathing that could be heard throughout the house, how he wet the basement floor because he could no longer hop into the litter box or that he turned up his nose at his favorite snack of all time.

Rather I’m going to remember the cat that was so difficult to pick up I called him by another of his many nicknames, Mercury Cat, because he was damn near impossible to pick up (try picking up mercury with your fingers sometimes).  I’m going to remember how proud he was when he made his way to the top of the five-foot dresser in the bedroom (although I know he used the chair next to it as a ‘step stool’), showing he was indeed ‘King of the Jungle.’  I’m going to remember the little white kitten who warmed our hearts so many years ago every single time I pet one of our cats because I know that if it weren’t for Maui there would have never been a Millie, Molly, Moe or Morgan.

Most of all I’m going to remember him as the Best Boy Ever.