Last week Shelter Island lost a dear, most precious friend: Murray, our 15-year-old, 17-pound tuxedo cat. He was a beautifully marked black and white tuxedo cat with a white mask and green eyes outlined in what looked like black eyeliner. At a visit last year, the vet proclaimed him "officially the nicest cat on Shelter Island." That's because Murray lay there like a lump while he was poked and prodded. He never protested. He was always too cool.
The late Murray
They say that losing a pet is like losing a child. I hesitate to make that analogy because nothing compares to losing a child, and yet, the elements of loss and pain are all there, just in a weaker concentration.
Murray and his sister Missy were rescued from a woman who was going to have them put to sleep at age six because her new baby was allergic to cats. My brother took them. They had never been outside. For some reason, the previous owner had them de-clawed front AND back! Why the back claws? They couldn't even scratch their ears!
With us, clawless as they were, they ran free. They caught, but couldn't even hold butterflies. And they spent hours sharpening their toes on the corners of the couch. I tried many times to tell Murray this was a pointless activity, but he never listened and stubbornly tried to sharpen those phantom claws. Murray took up permanent residence on my son's bed. I know the electric blanket had nothing to do with it. Murray spent hours with his big head in my son's lap, being petted and loved. They were best friends.
We will miss the way he sat on catnip. We never quite understood this particular method of absorption. He'd eat some then sit on the pile. Maybe it's a cat thing or maybe he was guarding his kill? He was always slow moving, but on catnip, he ran like a gazelle. Crashed into furniture, but still, like a gazelle would crash into furniture.
A few years ago, a gray kitten was added to the group. She attacked Murray, all eight ounces of her, and she'd dig her claws into his fur and hang on like a lion cub trying to bring down an adult water buffalo. Murray would walk all over the house wearing this kitten. It was hilarious. He'd lie down and she'd attack from all angles. He never lost his temper. And until the end, Two Socks, as she came to be known, could still attack him and sit on his head without protest. I think it was a May-December thing they had going on. There's no other reason for a mature cat to share his catnip.
He was playful up to the last few days. Then, his great little cat heart just gave out. The vet gave us a very nice coffin-shaped strong cardboard box for him. We wrapped him in a towel and had a proper Irish wake. The body was displayed in the box on the dresser. My son put in Murray's favorite toy - a penlight. Murray loved to chase the little spotlight on the floor. My brother put in one of his deerskin slippers. Murray loved to put his front paws inside the slippers and sleep. He looked like he was sledding. I'm not sure why my brother only put in the one slipper - what could he do with the other one? I found a rosary with a St. Francis medal (patron saint of animals) and we looped it around him. We wept, we laughed, we toasted him with Ovaltine. We inscribed his name and a Celtic cross on the top of the box with a personal note from all of us.
He was a good cat all in all. Never drank or smoked. Never killed a mouse. Was good to his sister, unless Pounce treats were involved. He never threw up in the house. Could have done a little better covering things with litter, but let's not speak ill of the dead.
Farewell my dearest pretty boy, Murray.
