Muffin: Farewell

In Memory of 
Muffin
June 10, 2011 - December 22, 2023

This afternoon, we will put our cat, Muffin, to sleep. She has developed inoperable cancer in her sinuses. The doctor said surgery wouldn't benefit anything, it would cost a fortune, and it would come back anyway. Decisions were made after tough conversations. We hoped she would be with us a while longer, but, sadly, the tumor is very aggressive. It's visibly larger today than Monday when we were at the vet. She sleeps almost constantly, eats little-to-nothing, and isn't herself. We could, I suppose, wait a few more days, but waiting for the inevitable only postpones the inevitable.

If you know Megan, you know her deep love, compassion, and empathy for animals of any kind. Nearest and dearest, though, are these cats, Muff, her sister, Sprint, and brother, Houdini. Megan was the lead to rescue these kittens in June of 2011. We left for a week's vacation and when we came back, we could hear the babies "mewing" in the garage, through the closed door. Megan and Laura found them in the back of the garage, behind some boxes. We got some kitten baby formula and bottles. Megan made sure they were fed, made them a safe place in the house (which Houdini kept escaping from, thus his name), wept when one of the six did not make it, and shed a tear or two when two of the kittens went to a new home. When no home was found for the other three, Megan made them part of our family.

Somewhere along the way, Sprint "adopted" Alyssa, Houdini "adopted" me, and Muff "adopted" Megs, but Megan loved all three. When friends disappointed her, Megan had her cats. When school was tough, the cats comforted her. When we moved, the cats were her companions. She has cared for them, fussed after them, gave them meds when needed, cussed them on occasion (nothing like a pile of cat puke on a freshly washed bed comforter to welcome you home from a frustrating day at work), but loved them all nevertheless.

Muff's name fit her to a T. Actually, about four T's, as in "fatttt." She weighed a solid 20 pounds before she got sick, and watching her walk was sort of like watching jello - she wiggled, jiggled, and was a lot of fun. Even at that, she could leap from the floor to the top of the bed, but she kind of oozed her way back down. She has this wierd tick - if you rub her spine about half-way down her back, she would start licking her chest like a chicken going after the last piece of corn on earth. As soon as you stopped, she would stop, look around, and leave you wondering if that meant "do it again" or "what the heck?" Her fur was always white, beautiful snow white, from her nose through her belly to her tail. She got so fat she had a hard time grooming her back, and got some nasty nots there until we got a brush to get it de-tangled, but where she could reach, she was always sleek and pretty. If she wore a set of pearls, you would have called her a lady, perhaps even the queen of the castle. When we would leave the back door open, she would sit in the doorway, like Nala beside Simba, looking over the land and her people. Occasionally she would sneak out, but always scurry back inside, back to her castle, back to her domain.

The spot on her face just came up suddenly, without warning. We hoped it was a bug bite, perhaps an infection from being poked by something. An initual trip to the vet was suspicious but inconclusive. Muff got a steroid shot and I got instructions to watch and monitor. Megan did more than monitor: she measured, every day, noting the progress, bigger, smaller, longer, thinner. There was a little bit of shrinkage, but then the thing just took off. We all suspected the unspoken, unfortunate expectation, but hearing the vet say the dreaded C-word hurt. Momma and I both cried a few tears, and then we shed a few more when we had to tell Megan after work that night: cancer, inoperable, incurable; maybe a few weeks, maybe not; watch for signs of loss of appetite, growth, not drinking. And we cried again.

As a pastor, kids sometimes ask me if cats and dogs and fish and squirrels will go to heaven when they die. The Bible doesn't really say. Martin Luther supposedly told his dog "Farewell, my faithful dog. You, too, shall have a golden tail in the resurrection." If that was good enough for Luther, that's good enough for me today.

Poor cat...poor Muff. It's gotten worse; waiting won't help a lick. She's not eating. The eye is grotesque. Last night, we decided, "It's time." Today has been tough - more for Megan than anyone else. After lunch, we're going to take Muff outside one more time and let her see her land, her people one more time with her good eye. Then, we'll take her to the doctor where she will fall asleep.

And, I hope, when we see Jesus someday, Muff will be there, a lion among lambs, waiting for us.

Excuse me....I have something in my eyes.