Dear Kim, We gave him love

Dear Kim.

I wanted to write you about Monty. That is what I re-named Blackie when we adopted him. (I had had a black cat named Blackie in the past, and “Monty” paid tribute to where Monty was from. In fact, to the tune of the song “Mona Lisa”, I’d sing to Monty, “Monticello, Monticello, I have named you!”) The name suited him; once he was Monty, you couldn’t think of him as anything else.

I’ll never forget, and never regret, how we came to have Monty. I was following his plight on Facebook. It was Spring 2013. A person named Tanya had put out a pleas for Monty – for a black cat the owner couldn’t keep and that was days from having to be put down. Well, all I had to know was this was a black cat, and that was it. I started asking questions, keeping tabs on the black cat’s status, checking back every day. My daughter saw my replies online and started getting in on the action. She was volunteering me, she was volunteering her uncle in Baltimore. Finally, I thought, I’d better see what’s what with this situation, and I called you. You were all excited and reported that Tanya was there, getting Blackie all loaded up for delivery to New York, to me. Well, I thought, I guess I’m getting a cat. A cat from Monticello, Arkansas. I certainly can’t let this little guy down now.

How we loved Monty. He was smart and standoffish and made me smile. Most of all, Monty loved being outside. So even though he didn’t have front claws, we let him out, as long as there was no wind – which he hated, rain, deep snow, or cold. My rule was that it had to be above freezing, but Monty didn’t seem to mind the cold as long as it wasn’t frigid. He was a fierce protector of his yard, and an accomplished mouser. A family in the village walks by the house every day with their two large white huskies. Monty chased them off whenever he saw them. In spring and summer, he brought a mouse to the door for us many a day. We knew he believed he was doing his job around the house, and that it was an expression of love. He was bringing us something to eat, not keeping it for himself.

Monty enjoyed toys and had them all over the house. Winter was hard for him. He couldn’t go outside many days and, because he was such an intelligent guy, he’d go stir-crazy. So Al and I were always trying to change things up in his environment. (Al was Monty’s “Pop”.) This included a window perch his Pop built for him, and a boot box he turned in to a retreat, complete with an awning. Monty had a cat tower my brother gave him that he never went into or on, but we kept his toys inside and he’d take out whatever he wanted to play with. Last winter, when Monty was at the end of his rope and things got desperate, I wound a few yarn balls for him. He loved those darned things, chasing them around all evening.

I kept a packet of catnip in the cupboard below the kitchen sink. Monty would open the door and take out the packet to bat around. I’d go into the kitchen and see the door open, the packet in the middle of the floor, catnip flakes all over.

Monty loved his Pop. He had different routines with us. Mornings, before the alarm went off, about 4:30 or 5, Monty, without fail, would hop up onto the bed and start bumping Al’s hand. Time for morning treats! After a few proddings, Al would get up, give Monty a handful of treats, pour coffee, and the two of them – Monty on his Pop’s lap – would watch the weather report until Al had to get up to get ready for work. At that point, Monty would sometimes get back into bed with me; other times he’d climb into his boot box or settle into one of the chairs. When he’d hear me stirring – my risings were later and more unpredictable, he’d come into the kitchen for breakfast and thus would begin our day together. He would follow me from room to room as I tidied, got my own breakfast, and carried out the day’s activities. Where I was, he was. All day long. If I went downstairs to the laundry, or outside, he was at the top of the stairs waiting for me when I came up. At three o’clock, we sat down for a break and watched Dr. Phil together.

To Monty, we were a unit. If Al and I were outside, Monty came, too. When we went inside, so did Monty. If we were settled in front of the TV for the evening, so was Monty. Al went to bed early and Monty stayed up with me. He supported my night owl habits. But when I finally turned in, Monty came to bed, too. Bedtime, everyone. Bedtime, family.

Monty met us at the door whenever we returned from being out and, as soon as Al sat in his recliner, Monty would be on his lap. When Al had his supper tray in front of the TV, Monty would wait patiently below for Al to finish, move his tray and invite him up. How Al loved Monty. He made regular trips to the Walmart on the other end of town to make sure his buddy never ran out of his treats. In fact, there’s an unopened tub in the pantry even as I write this.

I took out the letter you sent with Monty, saved all these years, and one of the things you wrote was how he “rips and tears” through the house. That made me laugh. He did do that. Right up to his last day.

In October, Al noticed Monty’s breathing was “off”. His vet wouldn’t see him and, instead, directed us to go to the emergency room at the hospital. There, Monty was diagnosed with congestive heart failure. We have Cornell up here, but decided not to put Monty through poking and prodding and cardiologists and possible surgery. So he had three pills he was supposed to take twice a day.

Restraining Monty to “pill” him was unsuccessful and traumatic. And he was, after all, a heart patient. Pill pockets worked, exactly one time – until he realized there actually was a pill inside. He wouldn’t eat any of his food (pâté for breakfast and dinner) once he realized it contained pieces of pills. Putting butter on his paws was successful for a short time. It was comical to watch him race through the house trying to out-run the butter, until he finally stopped and cleaned his paws and ingested the pill pieces stuck to them. Eventually, he became uncooperative with this method, too, and would just walk around with blobs of butter on his paws, leaving grease spots on the furniture. Cottage cheese worked for a while until he got bored with it. In the end, it was sour cream that worked. He loved it! Not wanting to push my luck, we settled on giving him the most important pill, in pieces, hidden under a little dab of sour cream that was his dessert each night.

Would Monty have lasted longer if I had tried to force three pills on him twice a day, when he’d either fight me or not eat? I’ll never know. All I do know is, despite his illness, he continued to “rip and tear”, and bounce up the stairs like he was on a pogo stick, even on his last day.

Saturday afternoon, after being outside – it was an unseasonably warm day, Monty came to his Pop’s call and bounced up the stairs. Suddenly, something “threw” him to the floor. All at once, he was on his back, unable to control his legs and get back on his feet. Al and I were right there – just a few feet away, and went right to his side but, in less than a minute, he was gone.

How we loved that cat. I have had cats all my life. But Monty came at a special time. Not long after he came, my job ended, then my daughter was diagnosed with a re-occurrence of cancer. For three years, I was back and forth to North Carolina. When Julie died, I already had been not working, so suddenly I was in a quiet house with no call to action to answer, no emergencies to respond to, no trip to pack for. For over a year, it was Monty and me. I had Monty to take care of, to talk to, sing to, Monty to get up for. How I loved that cat. Loved him like no other. We (Al and I) are still crying. We haven’t even been able yet to bring ourselves to remove his litter box. And it needs scooping.

Author's Note:
I was of two minds on sending this letter to the woman from whom we adopted our cat Monty, formerly Blackie.
Long ago, I had to re-home a dog I had bonded with. My mother had acquired him and she was ill-equipped to take care of a dog. I still can re-play the scene in my head when I dropped him off at his new – a stranger’s – home. It still tears me up. I never heard from them and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to. But I wanted Kim to know that we gave Blackie – Monty, love and attention, and loved him so much that we are still not in good shape. Al and I would tell Monty he had “his fanny in a tub of butter” – my boss’s expression for a good life. We had him for just 6-1/2 years and it seemed like we had him forever. We can’t remember our home without him.