Morty

Maine Coon cats are voracious eaters, which you’d think goes against the culinary traits of drama-queen felines. Instead of “I’ll just have a salad,” Maine Coons need to mercilessly shred any meat put in front of them, and then typically submerge it in their water bowl, effectively killing and drowning their tasty morsels. It’s awesome. We had one named Max that also had a thang for the spice. I remember giving him some spicy shrimp, and the boy just licked all the hot sauce off, and left the shrimp. Max also had a penchant for that pressed deli-sliced turkey, but I won’t hold that against him. Sometimes they get accustomed to whatever faux foods that their feeder (my mother) gives them.

Can you pluralize a superlative like “best?” Can there be many “best” things about someone you love? Morty’s got several best things about him. The thump above your head when you walked into the basement, which was him coming off of some furniture he wasn’t supposed to be on in the first place and down to meet you. His, along with Rudy’s, downright refusal to eat from their bowls if either one of them was less than full. (Here’s another “best”: my mother’s frighteningly manic dedication to keeping their bowls full. They would literally starve themselves, not eating for days, if these food requirements weren’t held up.) The way Morty’d be more than happy to sleep on your legs at night, but if you tried to move, he’d just get pissed and lay into you with his claws. You’ve got to appreciate love that’s almost entirely on someone else’s rules.

Morty passed away this morning in the waiting room of the vets. Apparently he had an inoperable mass in his stomach that spread faster than expected, and my mom watched him have a seizure and die in front of her before anything could be done. I know I always try to be upbeat, if not really really sarcastic on here, and I also try to include food, because it’s something I love. I also know this one’ll come off rough, unkempt, and very poorly structured, but death’s no time to make things neat. Because I love food, but I also love Morty. He couldn’t kill a mouse worth a damn, but that’s ok. He had soul without being a soldier. He was also a rock star cat, being the center of attention at pretty much all our family gatherings, and had pretty much edged me out in terms of offspring priority. I’m still coming to grips with that one. In any case, close to midnight on a Friday night in the Scottish Highlands, I’m missing my cat.