My family recently lost two pets. Melvin and Max were wonderful cats in their own ways. Max was ornery, loud, and topped the scales at 20 lbs in his healthier days. He could slice you up like swiss cheese while purring at you, unless you were my mother, for whom he had a devotion that is rarely seen in a cat. I think he fancied himself the husband and my father the pet. I recall my dad telling me once that he returned home from work late and found my mom asleep and Max stretched out beside her on my dad’s side of the bed. When Dad tried to move him, Max growled at him. My mother’s affection for Max was also that of family legend. I recall on several occasions being told to go feed my “brother.”
Melvin, was round, plump, had a purr that sounded like an old percolator coffee pot, and was truly stubborn in a way that I admire and respect. She was a sweet pumpkin, and though we always thought of her as little, that was really only in comparison to Max.
By my count, they were both 16 years old. They were well loved and will be well missed.
While sitting around the family dinner table on Sunday, we were recalling pets that we’ve had the pleasure of knowing and the sorrow of losing along the way. My cousin brought up our old dog Beau, a retriever who liked a good walk better than anything on earth.
“Remember how we used to have to spell the word “walk” in normal conversation so he wouldn’t start getting excited?”
“Shannon, we used to have to do that to you when you were little,” my cousin says, laughing.
“What?” I asked. “For walks?”
“No,” he says, laughing again. “Cheese. You loved cheese. Couldn’t get enough of it.”
Ahh, family...