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| Mo and his master relax in the former chicken chair after a day's work |
We’ve seen telltale signs the
past few years. Mo, our outdoor/indoor mouser extraordinaire, hasn’t scampered
to the door when we slide it open to snow and frigid air. He curls his tail
tighter around him, dreams of bygone days and nights as Alpha Cat, raiding all
the food bowls set out in the neighborhood.
He doesn’t meow much to be let out. I do and don’t
appreciate that. It hurts to see Mo slow down, reminds me of P.J., our previous
mouser of eight years. And when Mo’s sister was run over as a yearling, he mourned
for months. Eventually, he recovered with TLC, although he preferred my husband
to feed him.
My
household timekeeper guesses Mo’s age at seventeen, beyond his life expectancy.
You cat lovers understand the bond between the two, one strengthened with
passing time and routine. Mo knows six o’clock when Mel’s blue CRV parks by the
grape arbor. He stands at the basement-kitchen door and calls his name. “Me-o-l!”
That’s
what I’ve enjoyed most about Mo since we adopted him and his sibling from a
litter of feral kittens. His vocalizations are musical. Alas, I’ve learned you
can’t name a hunter Mozart and expect a relationship.
Mo’s
never had a thing to do with me, goes on hunger strikes when Mel's out of town.
Until this summer, we couldn’t sit down to dinner without Mo’s interruptions—calling
my husband’s name at the kitchen door, rubbing his facial pheromones on
everything close to his master’s chair. That’s one jealous cat.
Once the snow melted this year, Mo strolled
outside, found the warmest step south of the house, rubbed his face on the
stone, rolled onto his back, and at last laid down his four paws and slept. Weeks
passed before I noticed the quietude of our table for two.
“Where’s Mo?” I asked. “I’m worried about him. He
isn’t hunting much these days.”
“Oh, he still hunts.”
Afterward, I found his chipmunk-gut gifts at the
garage doorstep. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he wanted to put my mind as
ease. Then, I saw him strutting home from our neighbor’s woodpile with a vole
clenched in his jaws. Good boy!
Although
my affection for Mo remains unrequited, I love him nonetheless. To love a cat
is to practice unconditional love, a most difficult virtue to achieve. He has
no clue it is I who finds the most caring critter sitters for him and the hens while
we’re away from home.
Yesterday, a friend summarized my sentiments about our
beloved pet as we hugged good-bye under the farm’s pergola. “I have an old cat waiting at home. Maya is certainly
very special to me. She’s not doing well, but I’m not yet ready to give up on
her ninth life just yet.”
Dear Reader, when Mo’s ninth life expires, we’ll
bury him beside P.J., next to the compost bins where our hens love to scratch for bugs and worms. And when Mo's master's heart recovers, I
hope to bring home a mouser who prefers me.
