In Memory of Max

I remember well the first day the owner of the litter of Snicker's kittens allowed me to hold one. By now, they had their first shots. There is nothing like a kitten to hold, other than babies, of course! (Am I safe, yet?)

How can one justify buying a cat when many are available for adoption? There is an entitlement clause built into all of us. It comes from the heart when you hold something so precious as Max was. But, he cost a lot.

I went back to visit weekly to watch the kittens grow. All of them sold except Max and the lady gave me a real deal on him. She told me to buy all the things he needed and I would pay the difference of her price and what was left after litter box, food, dishes and other.

Persians, as you know, have smashed in faces and tiny ears. They are great house cats because they really don't want to be outside. If the sliding door at the apartment was open, he would lay with his paws on the threshold. Once, here in Fargo, he accidentally got out through an open window, (he pretended to look like he meant to do it). We left the window open and he got back in the same way.

Granted Ryen and I used a little muscle to cut his back claws and I may have been a little rough on the brushing, but all and all, he was, for the most part, our family member. Ryen often stated Max hated him. Max really didn't hate anyone; he was his own person.

Unlike his half sister, Whispurr, who was always on the go, Max lounged. Actually, if he wasn't eating or lounging less than 23 and a half hours a day, I might have worried.

When Tom asked me to be married, I asked him about Max, who was welcome in Fargo. No matter how aloof he may have been with others entrusted to his care, that all changed.

Because Max found his true and trusted human. A lap to lay on and purr and be stroked. And even if we were grateful that he had found his paradise, Ryen and I who cared about him, wished we had been the ones he went to for petting. At this point, I asked Tom if he wanted to adopt him and he gratefully said he would.

Daddy told me once that if you ever buy a dog, go at feeding time and the one that comes to the fence to say hello is the one you want to buy. Perhaps that was the case, I had picked the cat, he had not picked me.

In Fargo, he had many places to hid and sleep. He was quiet. He did not make the horrid noises nor did he climb the curtains or try to eat the center out of a fresh apple pie. He like to bat peppermints around, just like he did as a kitten.

Max died two years ago about this time in October.

The other day, Tom and I pulled every thing out from the east wall in the living room to clean the wall, dust, and condition the leather of the sofa. Tom tossed out a Max toy from behind the sofa table.

It gave me sweet memories of Max, remembering, among other things, how he lay on the back of the sofa at the lake and watched the hummingbirds feed.

We have been without a pet for two years. There is a joke in another family about changing the station when the pet ads are on. Winter is coming and the sound of cat feet thumping on the upstairs bedroom floor would be a warm and familiar sound.

Yet, summer comes and we are off to the lake. Would another cat be happy to watch the hummingbirds and lay with his paws on the sliding glass door threshold?

Max lived 18+ years. That means, Tom and I have a responsibility for at least that long. We would be in our 80's!

As long as I keep the cat idea in my left brain, I am okay, but if the idea should sneak into my right brain, I would be in trouble with my self. And, believe it or not, my heart seems to have a mind of its own.

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