A week ago today we lost a dear friend and my heart still aches for him.
Merle was the cat who said his own name. We got him when he was a tiny, black as coal kitten nearly twenty years ago. He grew up with our kids and tolerated several other cats, dogs and even a pig in what quickly became his kingdom.
He was the coolest cat I ever knew.
Unexcitable, always able and willing to defend himself, Merle was never the aggressor. He put up with a lot of nonsense from kids and puppies. He grew to be nearly thirty pounds of impressive reflexes, muscle and sinew. But near the end he had withered away to merely ten pounds and was having trouble finding a reason to eat.
Merle wasn't in pain but he was tired. Our backyard was still his domain but he patrolled it less often near the end, preferring a soft basket chair in the shade of an enormous avocado tree. We prayed for him to slip away quietly in his sleep but when he stopped eating altogether we knew it was time to say goodbye to one of our babies. Quality of life is a subjective call but Merle's magnificent integrity deserved preservation. It was time.
He loved us deeply. He was purring loudly and looking calmly into our eyes as Carolann and I gave him our tearful goodbye kisses.
Even then he gave us comfort.
The backyard is awfully empty now. When I open the screen door I still expect to hear him calling his own name, "MURRRL!" and to see him ambling toward me with his graceful, regal gait so that he might allow me to scratch behind his ears.
And as I think of him now I am painfully aware of how the hearts of our beloved pets are so great as to selflessly wrap us in their furry, purry love when we are in need of compassion.
I wish I could hug Merle one more time. I certainly owe him that.