CELEBRATING MAGGIE*

Whenever I tell anyone how much I pamper my cat, they look at me like I’m crazy. If she wants steak, she gets it. If she wants chicken, she gets it. If she wants cat food that costs a buck a can, I go hungry or eat franks and beans. If she wants breakfast in bed, she gets that too. After breakfast she snacks for the rest of the day on high quality dry kibble that she seems to enjoy just as much. When I get home from work dinner is served to her in the place of her choosing. I wonder myself sometimes why I indulge her so much. The answer of course is always the same. Every day she lives in meaningful comfort and good health is a celebration. She’s nineteen years old. She wasn’t always treated like a resort guest, though. If she could speak she’d tell you she’s been through some radical changes in her world.

I met her the day after I met my now, ex-husband. He said he got her from a farm in Western Mass where he worked as painter in the spring of 1989. He told me she would curl up and nap in front of the fireplace with her sister. On my first visit to his apartment he said she was so absurdly shy she would probably hide somewhere and never come out. But I spotted her crouching down on a kitchen chair peering out at me from under the table. I walked straight over, caressed her cheek, and she didn’t move a muscle. I later found out I had rubbed a special gland at the side of her mouth used for marking territory, which might explain the attachment to me over the years. The following day she jumped up onto my lap, a rare event in her seven-year history. Apparently I was sitting on the chair with the access route to the window, her favorite stomping ground. She was never shy around me. Maggie was exotically pretty with a cheetah-like black streak between her eyes that ran the length of nose. Her fur was black, brown and gold and puff ball fluffy. When I agreed to marry her owner I believe Maggie threw the stardust in my eyes.

Maggie lived in a cape-style house that had been converted into a two-family just outside Boston. The downstairs neighbors were noisy beyond decent consideration. Maggie lived upstairs with another kitty, Gizmo, her companion for most of her life. As time went on I discovered their relationship was more sibling-driven. Gizmo craved affection and warmth, while Maggie seemed indifferent to both. When Maggie would nap on the bed, Gizmo would invite herself up and plunk down on top of her. She would even straddle her back at times. She, nonetheless, tolerated Gizmo’s domineering snuggles with grace and poise for many hours. Finally when Maggie could endure it no longer she’d abruptly stand up and abandon the spot. In spite of these conflicts, she loved Gizmo like a baby sister. Years later, when Gizmo passed away, Maggie went into a dreary mourning period that lasted several months.

After my ex and I had dated for several months he asked me to take Maggie and Gizmo to my apartment to get them away from the noisy neighbors downstairs. I could tell they were jumpy and stressed and suspect they may have experienced a wild party or two of their own. He didn’t seem to understand basic cat care, and had them feeding from the same dish all the time. It explained why Maggie was twice the size as Gizmo. When I took them in I ended that practice and babied them like children. Several months later we all moved to an apartment in Waltham, a quiet place that didn’t prohibit cats. But they encountered some new revelations in the process. We moved to the ground floor where numerous other cats would peer in the windows at them. The howling contests could have broken crystal. Gizmo acted more threatened and menaced these intruders more loudly.

But Maggie seemed fascinated by being so close to the ground. For the first time she wasn’t viewing the world helium-style from the second floor window. And for the first time she could see other creatures close up. But she soon discovered how out of condition she was from eating too much and lying around in bed. The windows were high off the floor with wide window sills. Maggie would jump up there from the bed to watch the outside world. Occasionally she would miss the sill, and we would hear the scraping of her claws as she slid to the floor with a thud. Thankfully she never hurt herself and we’d try not to laugh knowing how sensitive she was. And those calisthenics would prepare her for some new adventures.

The autumn after the marriage we bought a house in Billerica, a beautiful suburb in the far reaches of Middlesex County, just outside Lowell, Massachusetts. And despite the relief I felt leaving a soured marriage, I regretted leaving that town. Maggie regretted it even more. The neighborhoods were quiet little enclaves of winding roads, trees and brooks flowing from the Concord and Shawsheen Rivers. In fact, there was small brook running through the backyard of our property where Maggie would watch the ducks float serenely by. The bird population was vast and varied; wild rabbits, deer and turkey roamed through yards with complete indifference to swimming pools and kid’s bicycles. And for the first time, Maggie was allowed outside. At once she lost that doleful sad expression and embraced the outside with surefooted gusto. I came to wonder if it hadn’t been much crueler fate keeping her inside. For the first time she was able to feel the grass under her paws and the cold wet morning dew soaking her toes. She could challenge the beetles and flying insects to tests of speed and agility. She could roam. She prowled her street and territory like the queen of Meadowlark Way. There wasn’t a mouse or chipmunk that would be safe from that moment forward. She emerged from shy couch potato to svelte agile huntress.

Maggie loved the outside so much it was impossible to keep her inside. Maggie had a way of conveying her needs to me that I couldn’t ignore. Ninety percent of the time I succeeded in getting her in the house by sunset before nocturnal predators in the area began their nightly excursions. Unfortunately, the other ten percent she’d disappear into some hiding place, and let me spend countless worried hours calling her until I lost my voice. Sometimes she’d lie there on the deck waiting for me to try and retrieve her. I’d get within a few inches of her and she’d quickly dart away in the darkening night. I dreaded those nights more than any other wondering if something had caught her. But she always returned unscathed.

But her romance with the outdoors had to end. We lived there for eight years until my marriage lost all the glue that held it together. With that the house had to go too. I couldn’t afford it on my own. And I was heartbroken in every direction. By then Maggie was 17 years old. The vet’s office kept telling me she would be safer indoors. And she was finally showing signs of age. But I knew how much she loved the fresh air and the smell of adventure that only a cat would understand. I knew she would be miserable inside, but I had no choice. And toward the end of the divorce, I could only afford the cheapest apartment in the suburbs. It took six months before she would even step foot in the living room. And to this day she won’t go into the kitchen as if the worn vinyl tile smelled like some malevolent past event. The bugs that find their way through the broken screens are her only source of entertainment now. It hurts to think about her losing her territory. But we have adjusted. At night we sit together on the living room sofa with the window open listening to the chirping crickets. It’s just her and me now, and she gets all my attention. That seems to keep her content for now. Perhaps she knows she is my best friend. And for the first time she doesn’t protest being groomed. She acts as if she’s enjoying some special pampering. I know she’s not too pleased that she can no longer go out, l but I believe she understands she’s too frail and old for those wild nights anymore. So we sit together, her and me, like little old ladies watching “The Life or Birds” narrated by Sir David Attenborough on TV and celebrate our twilight days together.

*Sadly Maggie succumbed to pancreatic cancer not long after I wrote this piece. I will never forget her though.