Max is gone

On Tuesday of this week, our 20-year-old cat, Max, died as I was sitting right next to him. For at least a year and a half, he had had a growth of some sort (tumor or cyst--they don't know) in his abdomen--a growth that had gotten so large that it was pressing against other organs and making his life much more of a challenge. We had reluctantly made an appointment to have him euthansized at 4:30, but Max beat us to the punch by 60 minutes. And in a way, we were happy that he was able to pass on at home, lying on his favorite spot on his favorite couch.

I thought I would feel a bit more liberated after he died. Max could be a real pain the butt, yammering for food (loudly and plaintively!) first thing in the morning, missing his litter box sometimes when he peed, and leaving cat hair just about everywhere. But I am surprised at my sense of loss, and am constantly amazed by the empty spot on the couch. At 20, he was, after all, older than our daughter; he was a bona fide member of the family. Several days later, I still habitually look at that couch as I round the corner, thinking I will see him there and wanting to know if there's anything he needs.

Ironically, I think that pets--animals--help make us more human. They remind us about things like lack of judgment, unwavering acceptance and trust, and unconditional love. In a world with some cold pricklies, Max was always a warm fuzzy--he sought us out and wanted to be with us no matter what.

A significant measure of our humanity involves how we treat animals. Although Max had a way of demanding our attention, he also had a way of getting into our hearts. I miss you, big guy--rest in peace.