Midnight

He showed up late one night. The only cat I’ve ever known to find his way to my second floor balcony door. He was sitting waiting for me, as if he already knew my late night pattern of calling my other cats in for food. His fur was matted, or gone. His ears were chewed through. I set out a plate of food and attempted to pet his head as he ate. In the blink of an eye, he clawed my hand and resumed eating. I wouldn’t touch him again for two years.

My husband said he was the ugliest cat he had ever seen. I saw resilience. My husband called him mean. I saw fear. And we BOTH grew to love him so.

Our journey together wasn’t without mishap, adventure or heartbreak. After a year, as he was working through his trust issues, he was trapped by a neighbor and sent to the local shelter. I almost lost him there. Other than a single photograph, I had no proof he was mine and his fear almost got him killed for attacking the shelter employee. But they helped me get him home. After another year, he proved to not only accept love, but relish in it. Midnight was our watch cat, always keeping an eye out for his brothers and sister, protecting them from any outside threat. He would stay at our front window or watch the front door from the second floor to watch over the house, meowing when anyone came near. He helped me corral a neighbor’s Monty Python-like killer rabbit. Midnight moved like a shepherd dog helping me get the rabbit home in the middle of the night. He stayed close at my side through the loss of our beloved Chata. And then I stayed close by his as his age began to take its toll. Even those challenges were met with love. We worked together to make everything needed for his care - diapers, bladder expressions, subq fluids - an act of love. In those moments, we found wonderful opportunities for head rubs, singing, purring.

Until his 20th year of life, after almost 18 years together, when Midnight’s body began to betray him. Rather quickly, he began losing his physical abilities. His back legs. His front legs. His ability to eliminate. And finally, his ability to lift his head. He stopped eating and drinking water. He even stopped meowing. Despite this diving bell, his heart would not give up. Every time he lost an ability, his heart would kick in attempting to bring forward another ability so he could keep moving forward. So we could stay together. But each step forward brought two steps back until we had to say goodbye. I was listening to A Monster Calls just weeks before his death. I knew I was facing exactly the same monster. I did my best to hold him so tightly I could finally let him go, but that act is so much harder in life than it is in listening.

But I did…

I held on tightly…

And let go…