Milo

In case my head was cold....

He was the one clamoring from the cage, looking pleadingly into my eyes.  I hadn't wanted a tabby cat, but I couldn't say no to this one.  So he came home with me.  My Milo.

He was my day-to-day friend when I didn't know anyone at my new job in my new city in my lonely apartment after graduating college.  At the time it felt like a very grown-up thing to do--have this little creature who was wholly dependent on me for his welfare.  But really, he played a big part in taking care of me when I'd come home after a long day at work, coming right to me and showing me that I was loved and had been missed.

He weathered the addition of my sister-in-law's cat, Emmy, like a champ, even though Emmy was skittish and, if human, would have merited a DSM diagnosis, I'm sure.  They were companions in pools of floor-sunshine and when she died on Super Bowl Sunday three years ago, I know he missed her at least a little.

 From that first apartment, he moved into another, before I made the leap into home-ownership.  No matter where, he made himself right at home.  One of the ways I knew my now-husband was a keeper was when Milo incredibly didn't cause Mark's allergies to flare.  I had developed a horrible pit in my stomach when Mark told me on our first date that he was allergic to cats, thinking, "this could be a deal-breaker...."  But soon enough, Milo had happily accepted Mark into his world, and it was good.

And then we moved to Nashville, where Owen was born.  As soon as we assembled the stroller, Milo hopped in, as if, "I'm ready, let's go!"  I'll never forget leaving the apartment the night I went into labor with Owen.  Milo was sitting on the shelf by the door, wondering, I'm sure, where we were going at such a late hour.  I thought, "Oh, buddy, life is about to change for you, for sure!"

Ready to go.

And it did, but he took it in stride.  But that's not even right.  He owned life as a fraternal-feline.  Where most cats would quickly ascertain that this new little person has grabby hands and no understanding of "gentle," and do everything to avoid contact, Milo chose the opposite tack and plopped down in the midst of whatever Owen, and then our subsequent kids, were doing.  Over the years, he endured stroller rides, less-than-careful-handling, doll clothes, and interrupted naps.

We'll never forget the nine days during the summer of 2003 when an oblivious (though sweet) babysitter accidentally let him out of the house while we were gone.  I guess we hadn't warned her stringently enough about his stealth escape maneuvers, and he got free.  I'm sure, for a time, he was in heaven as he explored the hilly wooded area around our suburban Nashville apartment.  We put up posters and walked the surrounding area, calling for him.  It broke my heart, and I was pretty resigned to him being gone.  But then, one evening, as Mark and I sat in the basement, a small face appeared in the walk-out door.  Startled, I screamed, but quickly recognized my boy.   I had to climb several steps down the hill behind our building to coax him in.  He looked like he'd endured quite a time.  His poor little front paws--declawed--were bloody as I'm sure he had done a lot of climbing.  He got a lot of cuddles in the ensuing days and weeks.  You'd think he would've learned his lesson, but until several months ago, he'd still try and slip past us every once in awhile.

He never was good at learning from mistakes, though.  Even after being sprayed repetitively by the water bottle, he continued to try and join us for dinner each night.  Despite getting locked out of the bedroom, if left free for the night, he'd still come and either knock things off the bedside table or nip at my ear in order to wake me in the early hours of the morning.  I guess his love for us outweighed the expected consequence?

Who knows.  In any case, our kitty started winding down a little over a year ago.  Long story short, probably lymphoma causing GI issues.  We gave him daily pills which helped, until they didn't.  We started talking to the kids about his health several weeks ago, knowing the time was near.  Sunday night, it became clear that the time was now.

So last evening, I held my sweet, mischievous, loving, patient, curious boy-cat as he died.  This morning, I sent my kids off to school and am now alone in this house, as I have been many days.  But today, it is subtly more lonely.  Because I didn't have to wonder if Milo had drank some of the water from my coffee cup while I stood at the bus-stop with the kids.  Because every time I walk into the laundry room, there's no litter box, which I thought I'd be so happy about, but I'm not.  (Yet, at least.)  Because I walk into the kitchen to get another cup of coffee and there are the paw-print molds the vet gave us last night as keepsakes for the kids.  There's no persistent meow telling me, "it's time to eat," or just, "here I am."  He's not here, and I miss him.  We all will.