Farewell, Murphy

In early May, 2013, a friend asked me to watch her cats – a pair of rambunctious five-year-old littermates named Murphy and Fiona – for just two weeks while she stabilized her housing situation.

I never heard from her again.

At around 3:30 a.m today, I said goodbye to Murphy.

The situation wasn't ideal. Murphy had long been losing weight – slowly at first, then he seemed to collapse in short order. I had him on the schedule for a vet visit but yesterday evening he seemed lethargic. So the vet scheduled us for a next-day urgent visit. But around midnight, I took him into the emergency hospital.

We didn't get a final diagnosis because the emergency vet's gut was that he had a low probability of survivial and the interventions needed to fine-tune the diagnosis would be invasive and painful. He was dangerously hypoglycemic; his blood protein solids were off the charts; he was severely anemic and dehydrated; his white cells suggested infection. The provisional diagnosis, supported by a physical inspection, was some sort of neoplasm in his abdominal cavity.

Cancer.

The emergency vet gave me a bunch of options for additional diagnostics, but the path was clear: if it was cancer, he wasn't going to survive it, and the odds it was something different (like a minor infection and hypothyroid disorder) was vanishingly small. So I chose to spare him the suffering and anxiety of a hospitalization when – for a 17-year-old feline – the trajectory was depressingly, maddeningly clear.

So let me tell you about this male half of my Twin Teenaged Tangerine Terrors.

Murphy was my alarm clock. He was always very interested in when I went to bed and when I awoke. We had "bednight" – a ritual where he climbed upon my shoulders while I closed down the house and we went into the bedroom. He often slept with me, occupying a corner of the bed and making sure that I arose before the sun to guarantee he'd get a plate of wet food.

He loved being on tall places. He didn't like being held; instead, he was the ultimate shoulder surfer.

He was linguistically talented, singing the song of his people in myriad volumes, pitches, and frequencies:

In his last days, he was calm. The hour before I brought him into the emergency vet, I wanted to stay up with him so I sat back in the recliner and brought him to my chest. He purred and swished his tail, but he clearly wasn't OK. His last 24 hours saw a major drop in his affect. How did we get here? Slowly, then all at once.

He will be creamated soon and will remain with me (and Fiona).

I'll admit, Murphy could be annoying at times, like when he tried to eat my food or when he drank from my water glasses. But for 13 years, he was my little buddy. He and Fiona were my animals before TheMenagerie™ and as soon as I walked into the door this morning, after he passed, the whole house felt empty.

Murph taught me patience. The value of routine. The joy of enjoying a fleeting moment because happiness never lasts. The reminder that sitting with a purring cat is one of the most beautiful experiences a human can enjoy.

I remember when I first took in the cats. Even on Day One, I suspected "two weeks" wasn't going to be two weeks. But I looked at them and my very first thought was: Someday, they are going to die.

This morning, Murphy died. I am sad, but I'm richer because he brightened my life.

Keep a spot open for me at the other side of the rainbow bridge, buddy.