I've had Max for 12 years. I met him on November 11, 1995. I was dropping of a semi-annual donation of old blankets, some food, and a little money to my local animal shelter. I didn't go back to visit the dogs. My grandmother had just passed. My heart couldn't bear the sight of them staring at me from behind those fence doors that day. And I couldn't bring another one home.
Their cat room is adjacent to the reception desk where I was to leave the goodies. It has a very large window, like that of a hospital newborn nursery. I couldn't help but peer in. I saw many adult cats and kittens playing happily together in different groups around the room. I also saw him, sitting alone.
A small, fuzzy black cat sat alone in a corner, staring at the floor. I asked the receptionist if there was something wrong with him. Of course I knew he wasn't sick; he wouldn't be allowed in "general population." I was told that he was picked up as an abuse case, that he had a bad temperament, he would probably never be adopted, and that he was set to be destroyed.
My curiosity got the best of me. I opened the door, went in and sat in the floor a few feet away from him. I was ignored by the majority of other little cats in the room playing with cat "stuff," but after only a few moments, the little black cat looked up at me. He eventually got up and walked over. To my surprise, he jumped up into my lap, placed his paw on my cheek and meowed. That was it. I took him, Max, home.
My other pooties where not exactly overjoyed to have a new little brother, but they all adjusted after awhile. Max was a part of the family. Turns out, he was the cuddly one. He was always the first to greet me at the door when I arrived home and insisted that he sleep on my chest at night, although he had a very loud purr and delayed my sleep on many occasions.
A few months ago, Max was diagnosed with cancer. Renal neoplasia. He showed few symptoms until the disease had reached an advanced stage. It had spread to his other organs. Upon the advice of our veterinarian, we made the decision to forgo aggressive treatment. He was too ill. The best we could hope for was to keep him happy and comfortable to live out his remaining days with us. Those days turned into weeks. The weeks have turned to months. This morning, our little Max let us know he couldn't stay with us anymore.
We contacted our vet, and he came to our home. I asked my husband to take our son to the park this afternoon so that he wouldn't be home when the vet arrived, explaining that Max was just too sick and that he needed to say his goodbyes. As big tears ran down little 4 year old cheeks, he kissed Max on the head, stroked his back and game him one last hug. I held Max in my arms as the vet gave him the injection. In just a few moments, his now-quieter, gentle purring stopped. He was gone.
My heart is broken tonight, but I know Max is no longer in pain. My husband is bringing home a tree to plant as a marker for Max's grave in our yard.
Our little pets give us so much love and bring joy to our lives, but ask for little in return. Please remember during this campaign season to also give a little donation to your local shelters. It can bring some love and joy into their lives, too.
UPDATE: Dear friends, my family thanks you from the bottom of our hearts for the love and support you've shown us tonight. This has been a tough day for us. My husband took our son to the park and to visit grandparents this evening so that he wouldn't have to be at home to witness the death of his beloved pet. Although our house was empty, other than Max's grieving brothers, I wasn't alone. I am forever grateful to you.