Dear Murphy (13 years)

I have an hour for this. I make an hour for this.

This morning, I’m in a hotel room away from home. Away from a home Rebecca is closing on right now, as I type. Dealing with lawyers and bankers and realtors who collectively seem bad at their jobs. Assuming their jobs are to deliver a good service. I am two flights away from where I need to be but I will do my work today, which is to get on two planes and arrive in New York and be so very happy to see my wife and cats again.

And now this is about you. About cats. Maybe about all of us.

It’s been a tough year. Don’t I always say that? This one has been a belter. Because of marriage and love and health and money and work and…a search for peace and safety. We finished 2022 with optimism, and then it all went to hell.

You know what that looked like, when Rebecca or I, or both, were in trouble. When we struggled. I’ll tell you something; I wish I had spent the five years we had knowing what I know now. I would have done better, been better, lived better.

Okay, so here’s us:

I say goodnight to you, and Sully, and Pussy Galore every night. And if the cats in our house are struggling, I ask for your help with that. I asked last night, as they move from the hotel to their new house today. For them to trust Rebecca, for them to be as comfortable and calm as possible.

We will make the new house work for Maisy, Daisy, Kitten, and Milo. We’re heading into a snowy, cold winter and it will be an inside season. But there will not be racing traffic and bullets. They will be safe, and just maybe, there will be a real fireplace with a real fire, which they’ve never had before, and they’re cats, you know?

Here’s how it’s been going for the cats who are alive in this house:

Maisy is just more like Maisy. A few nights she stayed out late, making me look for her, making me fear for her. Otherwise she spent her time with me in the classroom, in the catio, in the yard. She seems healthy. I love her very much. She is approaching her 12th birthday, like her sister. I look ahead, the thing cats don’t do, and I am unsure how I will deal with her death. So, I should make the best of each day and moment, then thing that cats do.

And I tell her, I ask two things of her. 1, to always come home (just like I do). And 2, to just be a cat. I tell her not to take on my badness, my stress and anxiety. She just has to be a cat.

Daisy is beautiful and smart and hungry and cross and she still has the best of purrs. She weighs too much, we have tried different diets and we have failed. She has the best summer, sitting on the deck, hours at a time. We must find something similar for her. I believe all cats need to feel the air on their fur, to smell the outside as well as just see it. We will find a way to do that in our new home.

Kitten is healthy and sweet and still scared of all kinds of things. She had covid late in 2022, week after the problems she had in the autumn. It’s fair to say that she nearly died. We watched her struggle to breath, the most shallow of breaths. And we nursed her back to health. And Murph, I know I find it so hard when cats get sick, and we have four cats, right? And all of us are getting older. I don’t want this move to have aged those cats, to knock their confidence – yeah, the stupid shit I worry about. Chances are, they will be happier in this new home. But this stuff doesn’t happen by accident.

Milo has grown into his role. He is the boy cat. He has done his best to look after Rebecca. Hey, he’s not you, but he’s a good boy cat. He had a great summer and fall outside, and he loves to be with his people outside. When stressed heN over-grooms, and he’s had stomach troubles. We are looking forward to the cats-only vet in our new town. No more doggy noises or smells at the vet.

All 4 cats endured 775 miles in the car, and a week of hotels. They have also put up with house viewing after house viewing, stuck in their carriers, and the removal of most of their stuff. Surely, this new home, with hey, their scratching posts, their litter boxes, their toys and bedding, all of that must be good news. Just a few hours until Rebecca takes them there, as long as (and I am anxious with every text message) the closing happens.

This is all in my head right now. Last night, I dreamed of a dying cat, of grief and horror. And I will breathe through it, I will ground myself and do what I have to do. But I’m still learning how to do this, and sometimes I get it wrong.

We can’t take the Sully tree. It is a proud young oak now, tripled in size. The cats have sat next to it, rubbed against it. Birds land on it, squirrels climb up it. We couldn’t take it with us and so I said goodbye to it. Because I talk to trees these days. Especially cat trees. Rebecca asked if I’d chosen a new tree in our new yard as the Sully tree. I hadn’t thought of it that way, but maybe it will work.

Just like my Murphy walk that I will take on our day, this Friday. I can’t go to our train tracks, but I can go to the beach. I can run the sand thorugh my fingers and I can smell the air and listen to those pesky seagulls and I can talk to you. It will be a good walk and a good talk. I’m lucky that I get to do these things.

Each night as I have a moment with you, most often it’s the memory of my returning home from work that I reach for, when you would run along the street to meet me half-way. Looking cold and hungry, even though you could have waited inside. But you never liked to wait for things. And I think of how you would let me pick you up and hold you, purring like a monster, in return for your dinner, and maybe you were a little glad to see me, right?

I have to go. A ride-share awaits, two flights. Right now Rebecca is still working on closing, and she carries all our stress and pressure today. That’s not right. So I will do my job today of getting back to her.

And I will speak to you on Friday. I don’t mean to rush through the writing. I just have to get home, you know? By Friday we will be in our house, and I will tell you how it’s going. I will tell you about cats. But I know you know already. If you choose to. If you want.

All cats are connected. All cats are good. My spirit and soul remembers you forever.

Hamish

Dear Murphy (12 years)

Let me remember you.

There. From beginning to end. Gotcha.

Maisy is on my lap. She sulks when I work away from home.

Milo is here as well, eating food that he’s not supposed to. I should intervene, but I’m leaving him to it.

This is a very difficult time of year. I remember the good old days, which were challenging enough, but I had Thanksgiving to look forward to. The stress and the planning and the wanting of it. The belief in it. Three or four different events and arrangements competing for my attention. This year, we have nothing. We are not wanted, and I think we will spend the holiday alone. So I should decide to make a success of that but I’m tired of making new traditions, I’m bored with making the best of it. I tell people that we should follow the energy with friendships and family, and all of that energy is in the other country.

A lot happened this year. With kids, with everything. We almost got kids, and then we didn’t. Maybe in the next life they can tell me whether it was fear or good sense that changed the plan. Either way, my wife is grief-stricken and her entire family have nothing to offer except denial and ignorance. Maybe it helps for my in-laws to be so terrible, otherwise I would have to take all of the blame for myself. But no; I would prefer for them to show even the smallest of damns for her.

I got some joy from the time we spent with my sister, I got some love and energy. But coming back here, it’s even more obvious, we have less now. Less burden, less interruptions. Less love.

I was supposed to write this year. I wrote a poem that I’m proud of, but I don’t have people around me who write, I haven’t found my tribe.

Let me tell you about the cats.

Kitten was bitten in the neck by another cat, probably one of the family. Resulted in a horrific abscess. But she has recovered, and while she is still as skittish and well, crazy as ever, I think she is more confident around people. She likes to chase the squirrels, and she likes to play with Milo, even though he is no Sully. Kitten is profoundly traumatized by her life before us, and it seems that we cannot fix her, perhaps because we’re broken ourselves. But we love her.

Maisy is my cat. I love her, and she will be 11 soon. The age where it can all go badly for cats, you know how it is. Today she is still fast, she still cries at me and purrs as soon as I touch her. She caught three squirrels this year, and I don’t even know how she managed it. (Of course, I don’t want her to do such things – I cremated the squirrels, spread their ashes by the Sully tree.) I wonder if her dying will do me in. But I have been telling her something important, something I wish I had told you; she just has to be a cat. She doesn’t have to take on my sadness or anxiety. She can just be a cat and be in the moment, and all I ask, as I let her out without a harness, is that she come home. That’s the only thing. Come home.

Daisy is beautiful and smart and her whiskers vibrate magnificently when she purrs. Still, she is too big, and I know she isn’t always content. She could do without Milo, but she spends late afternoons on the deck furniture, lounging in the sunshine. She doesn’t leave the yard and she keeps me company when I work on the firewood. And she is our very best alarm clock.

Milo is strong and fast, he is playful and affectionate. He would spend most of the day on Rebecca’s lap if she let him. He goes on long patrols around the neighbourhood and gets into trouble the way boy cats do. But he has overgroomed his front legs in a bad way, because of…we don’t know why. We are trying blood tests and special food and all the things. The dynamic between him and Daisy means we have two cats who spray in the house, but we like having a boy, we’ve always had a boy, right?

And I say good night to you, every night. Which makes me a bit fucking crazy. But I can’t stop that. I won’t stop that. It’s this time of year when I look forward to the walk, down by the train tracks, where I can say the things out loud, and I can tell you how sorry I am for letting you down. And I can say thank you. I can tell you the story of you and us. It’s a good story.

I cried about these things, the bad things, last night, tears down my face, and it feels crass to hold the weight of cats and grief when there is so much I could be feeling. But we know, don’t me, that it might not be so much about cats. I’m putting my darkest side into grief for you.

And since we’re being honest, my grief for Sully feels harder these days. I think because he lived here in this house. Because his last week was spent in our walk-in closet, dying so obviously that the other cats wouldn’t go near him. But I love you both, I cry for you both. And I do my best to smile as well. Every night I seek to hold you in my thoughts, Murphy, Sully, and Pussy Galore, and there are times where I will ask you to look out for the cats alive in this house, and I suppose I’m asking the universe or God. But it’s nice to put a furry face on the ask.

Maisy continues to purr, make her sulky miaows on my lap. Milo wanders around, looking for me to drop some food. So I must be thankful, grateful that at least I have cats. I am 50 years old, and so much of this has been a colossal waste of time and energy, but I’m grateful for cats.

Murphy, I see cats that look like you online. When I see one at the adoption places, I want to grab it. But there’s nothing I can recreate. There won’t be a cat who’s as clever, as fierce.

I’ll make my promise, the same one I’ll make on the train tracks. To be good for the cats, to give them a good home, to pay attention, to read the signals.

I remember you, from the first time I heard you purr to the last. And as my life goes on, into over-time, I have to accept that I don’t connect with people, even though that makes my heart ache. So I will be good with cats, I will be better. And I’ll tell you how much I love you at the train tracks, and there will be the best of energies.

Best of cats. Best hunter, best sleeper. I love you and I miss you.

Dear Murphy (11 Years)

I’ve been out of sorts today. I’ve been wondering if I should keep doing this.

Maisy is on her chair, and I can watch her grooming. She just had a can of this excellent tuna food. You would have liked it. I should have given you more food like that.

Let me remember you. Let me have the moment.

There it is.

I was going to say that the day we said goodbye still ranks as the worst day of my life. But that’s not right. It was the day when I felt the most. It was the day that I howled. The day I felt the most for another living thing. Because you and me both know that I don’t like people all that much.

Smurf, I could tell you about the year I’ve had. It has been humbling. I have made some bad mistakes. And I have had my best moments with foster kids, where I finally understood the job, which is to love them. Our foster home is now closed, because it was too hard, because we can’t, won’t, have kids. It breaks my wife’s heart in a seemingly literal sense, and I miss the kids more than I can say, even after a year. I know that I can love, at least. Better late than never.

But we’re here for the cats, right?

Let me bring you up to date.

Maisy will be 10 on Halloween. I read recently that a cat’s life-span is 12-15 years, and I immediately thought, I only have two years left with her. That’s a hard thing to accept. But I will tell you that I love her, and celebrate her. She delights in climbing the fence and escaping most days, she delights in me seeing her do it. In the summer months, she migrated to the catio during the day, but now the weather is cooling down and she joins me in her Victorian chair, spends the day in the classroom while I teach. When it gets colder still, I hope she will remember the warmth of our bed, and come find the hot water bottle by my feet at night. I believe she is as fast as she’s ever been, and while she shows little affection for her sister, she and I continue to be supremely close. She is my favorite and the world around us knows it.

Daisy is still the pretty one, the clever one, and the one who wakes us up in the morning. 10 years? Thousands of wake-ups. She remains forever hungry, and will make her biscuits if we just talk to her, if we tell her our stories. I continue to tell her that she is the very best Daisy cat in the world. She weighs too much but can still run fast when she wants to. And she is a miracle cat who is content to stay in the garden. We feed her diet food and she spends the rest of the time hunting down the other cats’ meals. She is cunning thief and I love her very much. I just want her to be happy and healthy, and I can’t imagine our home without her.

Kitten, after six years, has shown signs of being social. Most visitors don’t know we have a ginger cat, but Kitten has been more confident. If only Milo could understand how Kitten likes to be played with, the way that Sully instinctively understood. She is sweet, and she is increasingly vocal. She still knows where ‘under the bed’ is but I rarely find her there. She is, and will always be, Rebecca’s scaredy-cat.

Milo has been here for two years. He is the most popular with guests, but isn’t that always how it is with the boy cat? He is confident, playful, and would eat dry food all day if I let him. Every night I throw the food for them, and if I’m late, Milo is the master of the mournful miaow, the one that gives me a headache. He would be happier in a home with children, and we’re not that anymore. He is a good cat, except for when he bullies the others, except for when he stays out too long and I worry. I’ve ordered a tracker that is due to arrive next month, and all cats laugh at my chances of getting it to work.

I’m writing this two days before our anniversary, before I take my walk and talk to you. Either I’ll go to our usual place, or I’ll do it by the Sully tree. I still miss Sully very much, and I think of adding four cats to my grief, and it will be the price of living, won’t it. I have cried writing this, and I will cry on the day. And that’s okay. I’m tired of thinking badly of myself, and I think of those human relationships around me – this last year has laid bare the inadequacy of my American family, they have collectively shown that they do not know my wife, that they do not care to try. She has never needed her family so much, and they have all failed. And so while I miss my Scottish family deeply, and while I would like more friends here in America, my best friends continue to be the feline kind.

Murphy, I remember the day we found you. I remember the day we let you go. And I remember so much of the time in-between, and I think of it as good times. I tell people stories about you and they are about your cunning, your popularity with the neighbors. But I will tell you know that the best moment was when you would come in from outside at night, when you would jump on the bed and purr. And we would be a family. I loved to hear your purr, and I loved to have you watch me in the garden. You kept eyes on us both, because you were looking after us. And we sure as shit needed looking after.

I will speak to you soon. And I will write more than this, I will begin to write something beyond cats. You won’t care about that, but I wanted to tell you anyway.

My best boy. My sweet, clever, vicious tiger. I love you and miss you.

Dear Kids (8 months)

Eight months since you left, sixteen months since you arrived. I’m writing this down, even though you won’t read it. I hope the universe gets it. I hope you know that I love you, I’m sorry for all the times I wasn’t good enough, I’m glad you came to stay.

My Google photos remind me every day, 1 year ago, 1 year ago. The photos are of cats and you. Every day. Next year, it will be 2 years ago. And on it goes. Becca and I can put you in freeze-frame, keep you little forever (and how little you were! I can’t believe you’d eaten real food before you came to us, I can’t believe you’d had real sleep). That’s not a trick regular parents can pull.

The photos don’t show how it felt, they don’t show the noise, the repetitive questions. They don’t show the relentless, pandemic drudgery we all felt, trapped together at home. What they show is Becca trying, and you trying. Trying to get by, to be a family. And we became one. A family where the parents make mistakes every day, a family where the kids fight and fabricate and whine and imagine and break and then, when the moon turns blue, show their bravery, show that they’re better than I will ever be.

We were your family for eight months. We knew everything about you that parents are supposed to know. The food you hated, the songs you loved. We made your birthdays and treated your illnesses, we knew your triggers and how to make them better. We were your better parents. Becca was the superhero, and I was the other half; the one in the movie that ends up needing rescued. Of course, all superheroes have their kryptonite, and you found Becca’s more than once. You went for her jugular, because that’s what kids do, especially the one who have been so badly hurt, and please remember how she just kept on loving you.

I was angry after you left. With myself, because I wasn’t good enough, wasn’t quick enough getting to know you. If I’d known we were going to be together for eight months instead of two weeks, if I’d known that your time with us would end with a funeral and a broken little boy, I would’ve done things differently. But we don’t get to do any of this again, do we?

X, I want to show you the changes I’ve made to the basement, you’d get a kick out of it. The classroom stuff, but especially the cat stuff. Every night, when I throw the dry food around for them to chase, I think of you, and I’m sorry for the times I lost patience, for the times I didn’t see how hard you were trying. I thank you for video games, Uno, riding bikes, chess, the order of operations, making Becca laugh so many times, giving such a damn about the ice-cream truck. I thank you for telling me some of the good and bad about your dad, for running baths so hot you turned red as a lobster. And I’m sorry for two times at the end, both times when you were furious, both times when you were frozen with grief, that I didn’t know what to say. You needed a better me, those times. I’m sorry.

And yeah…hairy baby.

Y, our drama queen, our mean girl in training. In twenty years when you’re all grown up and can do whatever you want, when you don’t have to finish your supper and you don’t have to do your homework and you can watch Disney+ and Netflix all day, let’s all meet up at your French castle and we can admire your bangs, and we can drink tea, and we can use our manners.

Your parents loved you but they weren’t good at their job. Becca helped you let out your pain and your rage, she took it on even though it hurt like hell. She says maybe she was put on Earth to help kids like you.

What did I do for you? Who am I kidding? I wasn’t the one who held your hand when you were terrified, I wasn’t the one to hold you tight when you were set on hurting yourself. Becca did it all, and I was her occasional proxy. (Except for the laundry; I did every single piece of laundry). I sat next to you for hundreds of dinner times, while you took an age to finish. I supervised while you took those unfair online tests and did your unfair homework, I was there for subject-verb-agreement. I stood-in as your dad so you could say that you had one. I taught you British curse words by muttering them under my breath so you could yell a mangled version of them in the back yard.

And I protected you. Sometimes at the dinner table, but mostly by hiding the sharps, and by checking your bedroom for late night monsters, which meant more for you than most little girls, because your monsters had voices you could hear out loud.

Those Halloween yard decorations were for you and your sister. The leaf-blower? That was just for you. So you could run and scream and be merciless. I wrote down your stories. And when you hugged the rotary drier and called it Momma in your game, when I laughed at you, I was falling in love with the angriest, most hurt six year old I’d ever known.

Near the end, after we went away for Labor Day and you realized I was actually your dad for the duration, you competed with your sister for my attention. And the final time we had a fire in the back yard, you asked if I would wash your hair at bath time, and of course I said no, and of course I was happy you asked.

And yeah…buddy hell.

Z, tell me, I’m begging you; what was the favorite part of your day?

You won’t think of me when you’re older. You won’t remember. But I can tell you that you’re the first child I ever fell for. I know that’s because you latched onto everyone that came your way. That’s what you do. Thank you. I think of watching Daniel Tiger with you when you were sick, I think of looking you in the eye when you ran into the road coming home from daycare. You are the one who made me most furious, because you were my favorite. But loving you gave me permission to love the others. I’m still a stupid, ridiculous old man, but you made me a better version.

Now, I bet, you don’t put on your pajamas the wrong way around. Now, I’m sure, you don’t mix up your gender pronouns, or which meal comes first. But I bet you still mess up the interrupting cow joke. And maybe you still struggle with the days of the week. Good thing you know a song about that, right? Please flush the toilet when you’re done. Please wash your hands. And seriously, brush your teeth.

Your last words, once you were out of my arms and in the car; “I’m never gonna see you again.” Said calmly, with your gentle smile. I disagreed, but you insisted. And of course three weeks later Becca and I did get to see you again. I guess you knew it really was the last time, which is why you ran after the car as we left.

I miss holding you tight and not letting go, I miss telling you that you can never escape, just so you can push and wriggle away, triumphant. I miss you terribly, and you won’t ever say the same, because you won’t remember. You were so young and you have lost so much. I’m nothing compared to that, I’ll get lost in the shuffle.

But just in case…yeah…knock knock.

Kids, 2020 will be the story you tell people when you’re older. About a pandemic when you were taken from your parents, and forced to live with strangers. Eight months will be an anecdote, and you can use it to gain sympathy. And perhaps the only stories you will tell yourselves about that time will be the sad ones, the mad ones, the mean ones.

But we did our best, Becca and me, with her best being so much better than mine. You were lucky, getting to stay together, and getting a superhero foster mom and, well, the guy she’s married to. I thought we were forced to put our lives on hold for 8 months, I thought we sacrificed so much for you (and we did, because the good parents do that stuff every day). I wouldn’t take it back, I wouldn’t re-write that moment when we said yes to taking you in.

Whatever you end up remembering – and Becca did a million wonderful things for you – a million, tooth-fairy, report card signing, saving your skins, magical things – you were better, healthier, more loved at the end than you were at the beginning. I’ve got the photos to prove it, and if we ever see you again (let me hold onto that ‘if’, I’m just a sad old man, let me have a glimmer) we will show you the photos and tell you the best stories.

We miss you. In 3 months I will put out the Halloween yard decorations if I can bear it, and you girls won’t be here to hug the inflatable cat and witch before you go to school, and I will allow myself a minute or so to fall to pieces, and then I’ll carry on.

We love you. Life is going to be hard, it will not be fair, and you’ve all known that for a long time. I hope it’s also happy, because you all deserve a lot of happy, not too much mad, and I hope and pray, hardly any mean.

Dear Murphy (10 years)

Hey smurf. It’s been ten years. We had you for five and you’ve been gone ten. But these are just numbers, and who cares about that? I can be right there at the vet hospital, sitting on the floor as you walk towards me, a purr of recognition, crooked tail in the air, leaving bloody pawprints.

It’s getting cold here. So I imagine you outside, you know the night I mean. The one when you wanted me to leave you in the bushes, that frosty night, and I couldn’t do it. I begged you come in, to let me carry you, and so you did.

It’s been ten years, and I know now that I’ll always cry on this day, my throat will always hurt. Because this year could have shifted my feelings, left me thinking that an old, dead cat shouldn’t make the list.

But you do. You always do. And when I’m even older, when I’m at my own end, I won’t forget to be grateful for the five years I got with you.

In the midst of some challenging times this year, Rebecca and I have been sentimental for the place we left, for our Scottish home. There’s a video Google made by itself, of a day filled with getting the vegetables from the garden, and you sunning yourself in the middle of it. You being everywhere. Because you were. We want to get that sense of home back, a sense I’ve never felt here, even though there is much to love about our house, our cats, our lives. It’s not back home, and maybe it’s my youth I’m missing, maybe it’s something that we can’t get back. Maybe it’s you. And you won’t come back, will you. And yet, I tell our cats that you’re looking down on them, and I still ask you for help.

In case you didn’t know already:

I looked after some rescue cats this year. Twice a week, driving out to feed them, let them play, litter boxes and the rest. All I wanted this year was for them to find homes, and they did. It was a good thing, a worthy case.

And then there are the cats live in this house:

Maisy is the classroom cat. I’ve been doing most work online, and she hangs with me in your basket on a green couch. We spend the day together, and as soon as I say goodbye to students, she’s on the desk, telling me it’s time to go outside. She had one of her funky eyes this year and I was afraid for her. I got her teeth cleaned, which brought its own stress and fear, but I think it was the right thing. It’ll be her sisters turn next year. I must play with Maisy, I must find her games and fun.

Daisy is too fat, and she is a hissing, hateful thing sometimes. But she loves us, and she wakes me up every single morning. I’m trying to get her weight down, but damn, she wants all the food in the world. I must brush her more, and help her play.

Kitten has grown in confidence and presence, despite or because of the company of three foster children who are due to leave us in three days. She spends the night on our bed, she climbs onto Rebecca at night and demands attention. And she is trying so hard to get Milo to play with her the way that Sully did.

A year ago today, we brought Milo home from the Mewsic Kitty Cafe. What a day to get a new cat. I cried on the way home. His gotchaversary is tied up with your death. Milo is our confident boy cat, eager to socialize with children and adults. Daisy hates him, Maisy mostly ignores him, and Kitten chases him around the house.

He’s not you. He’s not Sully, either.

Maisy’s all over me right now. Super purr, super miaow. Maybe she knows that I’m hurting, or maybe she’s just hungry. Probably both. I love her in a way that is partly torture, to imagine her dying, in pain, lost. Sound familiar?

She’s not you. It’s different. She’s my baby, you never were. Imagine putting a harness on you – no chance in hell. You spent most of every day outside, and you always came home eventually. Fierce beast, cleverest of cats, the best hunter I’ve ever known. Thank you for liking me, for trusting me. Thank you. I’m sorry you got so sick, I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough, I’m sorry I didn’t see what was happening. We got there in the end, didn’t we? But what a shit final journey. Is there anything I regret more? Funny, the things we can’t leave behind.

The big MIAOW from Maisy. The big purr. She thinks I’m good, and I promise to do my best for these cats.

I will go for our walk. It’s cold, it’ll be dark and muddy. Just like old times. I will tell you that I love and miss you, and I will tell Sully the same. Because all cats are connected, and all cats are good. I will say good night to you every night, and I will think of good moments. And I will pray that you are free of pain, well fed, enjoying the sunshine, and watching the birds.

Hamish

He Will Be Fed

As told at Tenx9 Nashville / Mewsic Kitty Café

Sunday November 10, 2019

 

I want the cat as soon as I set eyes on him. As soon as he sinks his teeth into my wrist.

Murphy is wide and he is long. He is bigger than your cat. He could kick your cat’s butt. Same for your dog.

Murphy’s life before us? A mystery. Two old ladies look after him for his first seven years. Two old ladies who aren’t here anymore.

But we learn. Murphy is not a lap cat. He is not for petting. He will purr, but as our Scottish vet laughingly advises, “Doesnae mean he’s happy.”

In our first days together, he seems fearless – vacuum cleaners, power tools, the cable guy – nothing disturbs or intimidates him.

When the Scottish Gas man comes to service the boiler and bleed the radiators, Murphy is there, ready to trip him up. When the man says, “Actually, I’m a wee bit allergic,” I hold up my hands, show my palms, because what am I supposed to do about that?

I regret playing the starfish game, spreading my fingers above Murphy’s head and then staring down, unblinking, an absurd yet addictive game of chicken that he usually wins.

I get used to never lying down on the floor because he will take that as a sign of submission. He will reject that sign, and then he will attack.

Eventually, we discover something Murphy is afraid of – black shoes are this cat’s Kryptonite – and we judge the two old ladies for making this poor wee cat fear their footwear. But in time, we understand – at some point, you have to throw something.

When Murphy isn’t drawing blood inside, he’s hunting outside. He gets in and out using a dog-sized cat-flap, a home improvement the cat adoption people insisted on.

“So he can potter about the garden.”

“Pottering about” sounds harmless.

Murphy doesn’t potter. Murphy is a clear and present danger.

He patrols the neighborhood, seeing off the other cats and picking off the wildlife. I come home from work to find feathered or tailed remains in the living room. When the neighbor’s dog mistakenly enters our back yard, Murphy chases it around in circles. The neighbor appears, rescues his dog, and I sit with Murphy. I’m laughing, he’s foaming at the mouth.

Murphy is clever, stubborn and vicious when it suits him. I am certain that he will live forever, he will bury us all.

But he is a hungry cat. Relentlessly, irresistibly hungry.

We joke about the two old ladies who died in quick succession. Hell, maybe Murphy ate them.

At dinner time…no, an hour before dinner, he begins his charm offensive, destroying our wallpaper with determined strokes of his claws until we respond with pleading, then threats, and then thrown office supplies.

But Murphy is my boy. He is my jungle cat, my fantastic beast. He sits on the fence and supervises as I wash the car, as I stain the deck. And at the end of the day, when I light the grill, he stares up at me, daring me to not share a burger with him.

When I come home from work, walking back from the bus stop, Murphy greets me half-way down the street and we saunter home together, side by side, a couple of old gents.

We find a tearful little girl on my doorstep.

“Are you Murphy’s dad?”

I nod.

The girl points accusingly, identifying the suspect. “He scratched mah dug’s nose.”

I make sympathetic noises, but I’ve seen the lassie’s dog. It’s nae a wee dug. And seriously, what does the girl expect me to do? Does she think I call the shots?

Murphy is gentle with my wife, solicitous. When she screams at the sight of a Scottish spider, he rushes into the room. When she slips in the garden, he is there again at her side, yowling empathetically.

My wife leaves, twice a month, for work trips to London. Murphy seizes his chance at being Alpha male. When he really wants to press the point home, I’m forced to push him outside with a broom.

“He’s too big,” the vet tells us. “He needs to go on a diet.”

Slimming this cat down will only increase his capacity as a lethal weapon, but we decide to do it anyway. Because we’re responsible cat owners, because we’re in charge.

Murphy designs his own eating plan.

At night, I lie awake and listen for Murphy to come inside. Flip-flap. Murphy comes inside, thumps up the stairs and then into our bedroom. His miaow is muffled, because there’s something in his mouth. At night, the birds are safe, so it’s either a mouse or a vole. Sometimes they’re still alive, squeaking between his jaws.

We put his prescription-diet cat-food on a high shelf inside a plastic bag and then inside a Tupperware box – he climbs the shelf, knocks down the box and tears into the plastic bag.

When he uses the refrigerator as his personal larder, I add a child-lock, and boast to co-workers of my problem-solving skills. It takes Murphy one day to defeat the lock. He’s smarter than a child, and he’s definitely smarter than me.

I place a heavy chair against the refrigerator door. In the night he shoulders it away, and I come downstairs in the morning to find the remaining wrapper of a block of Irish cheddar, plus the carcass of a roast chicken he has dragged from the kitchen into the living room.

We are worthless disciplinarians. If he begs at the table, a meaty paw resting on my knee, I squirt him with a water pistol, which results in a drenched but unmoved cat, who will stay there as long as it takes, until my firing hand cramps.

One evening, we binge-watch episodes of Lost. We’re busy trying to make sense of the season 3 finale when Murphy enters the cat-flap, carrying a fish stick in his mouth. I brave his wrath by confiscating it. He promptly leaves, returning half an episode later with a slice of margherita pizza.

Has he broken into someone’s trash? No; the food is still warm. He’s charmed his way into another family’s affections and late-night suppers. I picture him picking between his teeth with one claw and selecting from Today’s Specials with the other.

The next day I ask my next-door neighbor, the one with kids, who might be feeding my cat? They confess immediately, blaming their girls, who have a soft spot for Murphy.

“He comes into the house,” she says. “Sits on the landing. Looks hungry.” They’ve fallen for a ruthless killer, just like me.

Mystery solved. I secure a promise of no more pizza, although they claim ignorance about the fish stick. Buoyed and reassured, I cross the street and start to share my delicious story with the mother of three boys.

She doesn’t laugh. She goes red in the face, goes inside her house and brings Murphy back out – she’s been letting him stay inside while I’m work.

Do her boys like fish sticks? “Aye, they do.”

That cat, just as large and fantastic as ever, manages to look docile in my neighbor’s arms. I take him from her, which results in growling and a flurry of claws.

I let go, and Murphy drops to the ground. He looks up at me, curls his tail tightly around my legs, and delivers a slow blink. Then we go home.

Dear Murphy (9 years)

I’ve got an hour. I’m writing this on Friday, but your day is Sunday this year. I will write today and take my walk on Sunday. Just so you know.

I dreamed about Sully this week. It’s been 8 months since he died. That was an awful day on top of an awful week. But I tried really hard this time, to make his last few days as comfortable as possible. I screwed that up with you, I know. I didn’t know any better. We did better with Sully, but it’s still so hard. You know I can’t say goodbye to cats.

So I sit here and cry, and I haven’t cried much for you this year. I think of you every day, your basket is here in my classroom, and when Maisy sleeps there during the day, it makes me happy. Your picture is above the basket, your pictures are in my bedroom. And it’s you and Sully that I think about now, it’s both of you that have me in tears.

Let me tell you about Daisy. She lost two pounds in weight this year, and I know she’s hungry (always, always hungry) but I know she’s healthier too, I know she’s faster, and I think more comfortable. We can maintain her weight, she probably doesn’t need to lose any more. I just want her to be healthy and happy. And maybe just live forever.

Two weeks ago, she got into a fight with the neighbors dog (you’d have been proud – hell, maybe you were egging her on) and she ended up a tree, and at the end of it all, the vet had to remove three of Daisy’s teeth, 2 cracked and 1 caught in her lip. The dog didn’t land a single bite, but Daisy took a bite of her own. Again, you would’ve been proud.

She is our sweet, social cat. Our lap cat. Our hungry, nuzzly, bonky girl.

And Maisy? She is our wannabe barn cat, she wants to run away, just for the day, just every day. Last Tuesday I ended up walking along the creek behind the yard, climbing over trees, to rescue her – she had run away from Rebecca, got her harness caught on the barbs of an iron fence. She was truly stuck, and when I rescue her (and she promptly runs off) I imagine what I would have done if I hadn’t found her, if it had gotten dark, and there’s no happy outcome there. So I will have to get clever, I will have to find a GPS tracker collar, something for her to wear outside so that when she bolts, I can find her.

Maisy loves me. We are surely bonded forever. I love that she loves me. I must play with her more, she needs the hunt, she needs her mojo raised to the max. But I love that she comes to bed at night, pawing at the duvet until I let her in. That is her winter trick, to be my furry heater. I’m okay with her not liking other people, but I do want her to like Rebecca.

We learned from the vet this year that Maisy has a heart murmur. A mild one, but it’s there. I don’t know what will kill her in the end, but something will, and then what will I do? I’m truly not sure what I will do when that happens. I think I might just stop.

Kitten misses Sully. She misses her best friend, her wrestling buddy. In the months since Sully’s death, Kitten has taken on some of his patterns. She is more vocal, and she often sleeps through the night on our bed. And slowly (so slowly!) but surely, she has taken to climb on top of Rebecca, lying on her stomach or chest. Although her favorite spot is between Rebecca’s legs (in her crook, her nook, which is one you know about). But Kitten misses Sully, and we all do.

Without Sully, we are a broken cat family, and I don’t know how to fix us. We fostered two girls this summer, and that didn’t make any of this easier. Neither of them were good with cats. You can’t be in my family if you don’t love cats.

So what do we do, find a new cat, make a rescue. I want an old boy of course, I want one that has a hint of you or Sully. Some big old gent, and maybe Kitten could make friends with him. It’s a lot to ask of an older male cat, to put up with Maisy and Daisy without attacking them, and to be friends with an orange Kitten.

But I think it’s my turn to choose. And in the last couple of weeks, despite both catten’s dicing with disaster, the 3 cats seem to be getting on better.

We’re going to plant a tree for Sully. One that produces acorns for Kitten, one that all the cats can climb on. We will plant it and spread his ashes. I’m scared of killing the tree, I’m scared it won’t grow. Mum is coming for Thanksgiving, and I know she wants to help plant it. Of course I will cry my fucking eyes out, and she’ll find that awkward.

Murphy, I thought of something in recent days. That you probably thought we’d abandoned you when we left you with Christopher and Caroline in Edinburgh. And that’s why you went downhill so fast. I’m sorry for that. We were always coming back for you.

And then I think of your last day, when I came to the hospital, and you jogged across the floor to greet me, tail up and crooked, and you were leaving bloody pawprints, and my boy, you were so sick. We got to say goodbye, but it’s always so fucking hard, and I wish we could’ve done it at home.

The Scottish vet, the Broxburn ones, I know how they weren’t up to caring for you. Our Nashville one, they are caring, they are sweet and gentle. It makes a huge difference. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better advocate for you with the Broxburn one.

So many sorries. And yet you had a good time in Broxburn, those five years, I reckon. I’m going to tell the story of when we tried to put you on a diet, I’m going to tell a ‘cat café’ audience that story in Nashville in November. It’s a worthy cause, and it’s test for me. I want to pay tribute to you, and the story maybe funny, it may get laughs, but know this – they’re not going to be laughing at you, they’ll be laughing at me. At all my mistakes.

I’m telling a funny story, I’m not telling a sad one. Can I do it without crying, without cracking? I’ll do my best.

Murphy, I remember the day we found you. I remember so much. And today I feel raw, and on Sunday, I’ll weep harder for you. You should have had so much longer. But you cats know the score, I think. You live and you die. You knew when it was your time to go, you told me.

I’m getting older, and I’m this old guy with kidney stones, messed up gallbladder, weird nodules that the US doctors don’t like. As long as I’m breathing, I will remember and love you and miss you. And yeah, when I die, indulge me, let me fantasize, of seeing you again. I want to pick you up and remember how big you were, I want to feel that lion’s purr. And since you didn’t like being picked up so much, you can give me a bite if you want. But I will tell you stories and we will lie on the bed and you can look look out the window and watch the birds. And then we’ll go outside and I’ll paint and fence and you can look on, doing your thing, on patrol.

You and Sully. My grief gets heavier. I thought I would get better looking after kids, I haven’t. I thought I would get better grieving for cats. Today, I’m not. But maybe telling your story in November will help. I haven’t talked about you to anyone for a long time. You were our best boy, and then we lost you. Sully was our gentleman, our kitten-saver, and we lost him as well.

On Sunday, it is your day. Forever in my calendar, October 27. But I will remember you both, and I will tell you your story. I will walk along the railway tracks and remind you how much I love you.

 

Hamish

Dear Sully (4 months)

Dear Sully,

 

I give myself one hour to write this. That’s what I do. You’ll get the hang of it.

Here’s the story of you and us:

In the summer of 2012, friends were staying with us in the Rivergate townhouse. We already had Maisy and Daisy. One afternoon, we were at the pool and there you were, doing your growling miaow, making biscuits in the woodchips outside the pool area. We all agreed you were hungry, and so I went back to the apartment and brought back a can of catfood. I was busy trying to cut it into chunks and Christopher says he doesn’t think you’ll care either way, and you and me both know he’s a fucking idiot.

I feed you, and you’re charming, and yet still it’s not love, but responsibility at first sight. It’s guilt, over leaving you back at the pool. And so for the next eleven weeks, I go up to the pool with food and water, and I’m panicked if I can’t find you, but most time you show up, rustling out of the bushes. We ask the complex management about you, and you’re famous. You’re Sylvester, and you’ve been abandoned. Everyone loves Sylvester, and no one takes you in. We put up signs around the complex, and I know other people are feeding you, but this can’t last, because they’re also feeding a funky feral cat colony, and if you get mixed up with them, you’re done for. And there is an asshole cat from that pack, giving you a hard time. And people see me feeding you and ask, “Is that your cat?” and I tell them, No, because I’m a fucking idiot. And I tell Rebecca that we can’t take you in either, because we have the cattens and they come first.

And then we’re moving to Madison, moving house, and you spend a couple nights in our room and then we take you to Nashville Humane Society, and who are we kidding? But We pay our contribution, fill in the papers, actually let the woman take you back, and we even leave, standing outside, and Rebecca and I both cry and realize there’s no way we’re leaving an old cat like you in a place like that.

So we take you to the new house, and Daisy is pissed at you for a long time. But you stay, and after a while, we’re a family. You take to the harness best, it’s easy for you, even though you’re so nervous sometimes, even though you piss over everything, anything left on the ground. You make our home stink of piss, and you won’t stop, and we try drugs and diffusers and sprays and none of it works.

But everyone loves you. You’re the cat everyone remembers, because you’re Sully, you’re a gentleman, and you want to meet everyone.

And at the start, for at least four years, how could we miss it, how healthy you were? How perfectly alive and strong?

How you would want to sleep on Rebecca’s chest, how you would bonk and nuzzle and bonk and nuzzle, and how you would talk to us. You taught the others to talk, Sully boy.

And you were a hunter. A killer, no mercy, so strong and fast. And your proud tail, sticking up so straight and hard, quivering either with excitement or anxiety.

You didn’t like arguments. Raised voices made you afraid, made you pee, made you hide. Storms made you hide, and for good reason after you time living rough by the pool.

But you got braver, because we were a house of love and kindness and sure, routine, and you knew we wouldn’t hurt you. And those were your best times with us, at Nancy Beth. You had a fucking lake, man, and you even still had a pool to walk to.

And then we got Kitten. Daisy hated that ginger little thing, and they still fight, but Kitten didn’t fear you, she loved you at first sight. She kept walking up to you, right in your face, and then falling at your feet, begging you for a scrap, until one day you gave in and played.

And then we knew what kind of cat you were. A big brother, a protector, and sure, sometimes an asshole to the cattens, but they could handle it.

And everyone loved you. I took so many photos, Sully, because you were everywhere. On our bed, on the ledge upstairs where I worked, in the yard in the evenings. And still you kept peeing on everything, and we never managed to fix that.

 

I’m at Centennial Park. I bought a metal cat from the art show that’s on. I have the Sully figure that Kera made. I’m sitting under a tree. But there are distractions, music, voices, dogs, the whir of food trucks. Wind in the trees.

And I think, fuck me, it’s a Sully day of weather. You loved days like this, lying on the ground, and then at our Idlewild home, in the catio. You got one year of catio, Sully. That wasn’t enough, that wasn’t fair. I wanted you to have so much more.

Ah Sully, you got sick and so thin and we didn’t know what was wrong. We tried our best to work it out, but we couldn’t fix it. I’m sorry. Did you think we were torturing you with that hairball medicine, then the steroids that turned your fur orange. I know you hated that stuff, but it kept you alive. And you still played with Kitten, still hung out with us, still wanted to love Rebecca. Still came around for bedtime treats, still chased the cattens, and still wanted popcorn. And still talked to us, you talked so much. Ruh-ruh-r’ow.

And then Rebecca noticed the swelling in your face, and then the vet ran the tests, the ones that left you bleeding and hurting so badly. And you stayed in our cloet for a few more days, and I talked to you and fed you whatever the hell you wanted, and we cleaned you up with wipes, but you were dying and you knew it. And I told you what would happen, and on Saturday, February 16 2019, 6 and a half years after you came into our lives, we took you out, we took all the cats out for one last walk, you patrolled your territory, shook your tail, and when it was time for you to come back in, we gave all of you tuna water. And then you lay on the living room perch until it was time to go.

 

And when Rebeccca picked you up, you miawed in protest, and I’m so sorry it had to end. But you were in so much pain, and we had to make the call, and I wanted to give you peace on a relatively good day, not wait until you were in agony.

So we took you to the vet, and they were kind, and they put you to sleep one last time and they left us alone, and Rebecca and I touched your paw and petted you and we wept.

And then we took a walk, and talked about cats and life, and we collected some stones.

And now I talk to you sometimes, and I pray for you sometimes. And I talk to the cats about you. And Kitten misses you the most of the cats of course, but we aren’t a complete family anymore, we can’t replace you. And one day we have a boy cat again, because we will have to rescue another boy, just like we did with Murphy, and we did with you. But will Kitten want to play with that cat. It’s unlikely. We’ll never see you’re like again. And of course, sometimes I cry about you. I think we did our best for you, but I’m sorry you had to be in pain. I hope you know how much we loved you, and how we will also remember you and keep you in our hearts.

In the autumn, we’ll plant an oak tree in the back yard. We will put your ashes with the tree roots. It will be our sully tree, and I hope one day the cats will climb in its branches, and that it will produce acorns for Kitten.

And I’m going to close this letter now. Sully, we love you. You were our butler, our best gentleman, and you told us so many stories. We all loved you, and we miss you so very much. I will try to fill the hole you’ve left by being…no, I will show my love by being good to Kitten, by caring for and loving cats.

Rest in peace, sweet boy. I have a sliver of hope that I will get to see you again one day. I also hope you got to meet Murphy. You could be buddies, I reckon. And all cats are connected. I will pray that you are safe and happy and pain-free. I hope you get to hunt and play and eat the best food and get the best pettings and nuzzles. I’m still listening to your stories, and I’m still singing your song. Maisy-Daisy-Sully-Kitten. Thank you for helping me be better with cats, thank you for teaching me and loving me. Thank you for being our American boy.

I love you and miss you,

Hamish

Dear Murphy (8 years)

I’ve got an hour. I’m taking an hour. You know the drill.

Every year could be the last time I do this, even though I’m making a promise. How could I stop? Because all cats are connected.

Let’s do the update. I wipe my tears, recognize the pain in my jaw, and I tell you things you already know:

Maisy is in your basket right now – I could say it’s because I’m crying, because I need support. But it’s really because the girls are stamping around upstairs, because I’ve been teaching down here. I’m always happy to see her in your basket. She knows it’s  safe place. You knew it too.

And I cry now, and she looks over at me.  That cat, she’s run away a handful of times this year, just for an hour or two each time, but it scares me. She’s the one who wants to get away, to be free, and when she comes back, she’s so pleased, so satisfied. This is not the best home for her, despite the catio, despite everything, and I’m sorry for that. But I love her the most, that’s a fact, and hey, she likes me too. I work full-time these days, she’s not a fan of me being out of the house so much, so I’m having to make it up to her. She doesn’t want flowers or chocolates. I must play with her, I must give her focus and exhaustion. But physically she’s well, she’s astounding, so fast and athletic. What the hell would I do without her?

Sully comes down the stairs, magically on cue. Announces his presence with that growling miaow. He’s sick, he got so thin this year and we struggled in ignorance for 7 or 8 months before a CT scan told us what was wrong, and what might be wrong as well. A twisted spleen, an auto-immune disease, a maybe-cancer. Rebecca gives him daily steroids which has made him like his old self. Feisty, affectionate, so playful and sociable. He’s had such a hard year, and I just wish a happy and healthy time for this skinny old cat. I love him, and we’re doing our best for him.

Daisy is fat but fast. Forever hungry, forever wanting a lap. My alarm goes off at 5.50AM and she’s right there in my face, with her machine-gun purr. She is beautiful and intelligent. I try to brush her regularly, brush her on her throne, and I don’t stop until she gives me her second yawn and then starts to flick her tail. I know when she’s had enough of me.

Kitten has been with us for 3 years, but it seems she will always be our kitten. She hasn’t had her hairball problem in a while now, and while she’s still so skittish sometimes, she has taken to sleeping on our bed at night, and she play so well with Sully that I can’t imagine them apart.

And she caught a pizza slice this year. Not like you did – the stuff you brought through that cat flap, pizza, fish fingers, courtesy of the girls next door. You were a brilliant beggar, a fantastic thief. But for Kitten, it was a slice of pizza dropped from the sky, I’m guessing a squirrel in the tree branches, and she pounced on it. Yeah, hardly the same skillset, but it reminded me of you, it made me smile.

Their relationships to change, develop. The house helps, the best house we’ve had with them. Vertical space, the catio, it helps them all get on. But a fenced garden, more roaming outside time? I know how much they would love that.

Maisy’s still in your basket, grooming. I will take my walk later today, to the railway tracks, I will take the gift I was sent after you died, I will hold it in my hands and I will speak to you, I will tell  you your story, our story. And I will tell you that I’m sorry, because I fucked up so badly in your last year, I should have done more, notice more. We know that – you deserved better. And on this day, I get to beat myself with that knowledge, and now thanks to my kidney stones, I get to know what pain is like, and yeah, I had that coming to me didn’t I?

All cats are connected. I pray for help with them, and there’s not  day goes by, you know that, because I tell you that I love you every night .And what does it mean, for me to let go of that? Why would I? I promised you I would be better, better with cats. And I am, but there’s always more to do.

Maisy’s back to watching me from  your basket. She knows when I’m upset.

Let me tell you something. The life we had in Scotland – it’s gone, I can’t get it back, can’t wish for it or negotiate for it. Here is my home, and I love the house, love the cats. In some respects, walking with them when I get home from work, I couldn’t be happier. It’s what I wanted. And of course, there’s plenty to worry about. Work and money and health and family and…

Rebecca’s having a hard time. She always gets through it, she’s the best person I know. But she’s having a hard time right now, and thing is, you helped fix her before. Can you believe how long ago that was? I can’ even remember the year right now. 2006. I didn’t know a thing back then. But my wife got so sick and I was so afraid, and you fixed her. A cat and a garden, you brought her back.

And now we don’t have either. So I need the garden back, I need the cats to step up their game. And I need to be better. We are getting old and we’re running out of time.

I want to say thank you for being the best cat. I will go to the train tracks and I will tell your story and I will remember to talk about all the good stuff. And I will repeat my promise.

Hey, Murph. I remember the day we found you. And I sure as hell remember the day we lost you. And it’s been eight years, so this is it, right? The pain never goes away. And that’s how it should be.

Hey, remember how you would be half-way down the street waiting for me when I came home from work? Waiting for me in the dark, in the freezing fucking cold? Thank you for all of it.

Sully’s here, standing on the cold concrete floor. Just as hungry as you always were. We’ll look after him, we’ll pay attention and we’ll do our best.

All cats are connected. I love you and I miss you. I’ll speak to you at the train tracks.

 

Dear Murphy (7 years)

I think to myself, I don’t feel this grief anymore. I don’t dwell on it, I’m not distracted.

And then at the beginning of August, when I’m swept up with anxiety over work and money and all that crap, I have a thundering nightmare. A magic trick, a powder, that brings you back. Rebecca and I are at the vet – Scottish or American? I’m not sure – and I see you from behind, lying down, showing off your haunches.

I don’t get to touch you, to say hello. The next moment, I’m outside with Rebecca, talking about options, and I don’t know what those options are. You can’t stay, we can’t keep you, and you’re ashes again and I’m weeping.

And that next day, awake for what it’s worth, a beautiful summer’s day, I’m a wreck all over again.

I didn’t get to see your face. I know that dream was made up of fragments of then, of Rebecca commenting on Daisy’s weight, how she looks from behind, on TV shows and life that was giving me nightly heartburn. But it always comes back to you as well.

A week before Bob went home, after staying with us in the basement for 11 weeks. I had been feeling guilty about not spending enough time with him, and then there was Sully, at his yowliest, pissiest best, making me furious, cursing him, and then feeling bad about that too.

Ah, you boy cats. You leave me in pieces, and yet what would I do without you?

7 years. It’s nothing, but that’s just poetry. We carry on and there are things I’ve forgotten – maybe I’ll get them back when I’m old, if I make it that far.

I would say 7 years since you died, and that’s true, but you made the call days before we did. The more I know about cats, the more I learn, the more I wish I’d done things differently with you. Different food, different cat spaces. And this for the cat who had his own back garden, a cat-flap, plenty of warm beds. But I got plenty wrong, didn’t I.

My grief is tied up with so many things. I will take my walk in  a few minutes and tell you what I need to tell you. It’s a drive to get there because we moved house, and I’ll take the recycling to the place on the way. Is that okay? Am I allowed to multi-task? I decided that I am.

Rebecca is in Gatlinburg, 4 hours away. I’m back here because of work, but it’s right that I’m back for you as well.

I love our house, by the way, and I think you’d like it as well. But Broxburn was our home, I think it was just right for you.

Let me tell you about the family.

Maisy and I are so close but I don’t always know what she needs. And it’s Rebecca who sees that she wants to play instead of eat. I don’t play with her enough, does that sound familiar? But I think she’s healthy, far less over-grooming, and there’s lots of space in this new house. I love that she loves me, but I wish she and Rebecca would be better friends.

Daisy is so affectionate and so territorial. She is the bravest with the neighbor’s dogs (who don’t jump the fence but bark from time to time). And she is too heavy. That sweet girl, I’m going to buy her special food and I hope it works. Rebecca told me last night she bought new toys for Daisy, determined that our greyest catten run off the fat. But yes, Daisy weighs too much and it will become serious if we don’t help her.

Sully keeps on going, he is our boy who is alive in this house. He’s not like you, and yet he’s in your spot. You were both more wild and more of a gentleman. He is more often affectionate, and he is so anxious at times. I think health-wise he has had a good year, and Kitten is a part of that.

Kitten has grown without us realising, but she’s still the smallest. It took us several bad medical times for us to work out a hairball regimen – food, grooming. If we neglect this, she doesn’t eat for 2/3 days and is in bad shape. But when she’s healthy, she eats so well! And months after moving in, we got a rug for the living room and she and Sully started playing again. Oldest and youngest, such good friends.

And Bob returned to be our summer basement cat. He needs so much love, and so much play, that funny, smart cat. He’s back with his family now, and I don’t think of him the way I think of you but I call out to him when I pass his apartment building in my car. Bob-bob-bob-bob-bob. A little bit crazy, but I hope you’ll understand.

Ah, all this chat. I think it’s important but it’s not about you. All cats are connected. What can I say about you that I haven’t already said. Murphy, I miss you. You got cheated, and it’s easy for me think that when we decided to leave Scotland, you decided, fuck it, you’d had enough.

You were the best thing, the best soul, the best connection I had. I don’t see it happening again for me, and maybe that’s what stops it happening. I’m afraid of the cats alive in this house dying, I imagine it and I really don’t know how I’ll get through it. And then I imagine dying before them, fuck, Rebecca and I both dying, and then what, for them? My mother promised this year that she’d take care of them if that happened, can you believe that? My 73 year old mother, in another continent. But she knows how we can feel about each other, cats and us.

Sully is right here with me, the sentinel. Kitten is here now as well, and she never comes into my classroom. They are both here at my feet, guarding me.

Our big news – the catio, a fenced in cat-space, is almost finished. If I buy the roofing today, my brother in law can finish it. Aside from a hole in the wall, they can use it. I think they will love it. It’s a big deal, giving them the chance to enjoy the outside any time of day they want. And there’s our longer-term plan, to fence in the garden properly and give them space to roam.

But to finish the catio on this anniversary, it seems fitting. Not that a catio would have worked for you. I mean, you would have used it sometimes, but you were a different kind of cat. Sully would spend most of the day lounging outside if we let him, and Maisy would be gone, who knows where, and you can decide if it’s wrong for me to keep them inside, save for a few minutes each day before dinner. But it means they’re safe, and I try to make them happy. So much of this house is for the cats.

So that’s my time. I will take my walk, I’ll talk to you, tell you your story. And I’ll tell you the good things because there were so many. We’ll have our moment, outside of course, it has to be outside, in the wild, and I believe in your spirit, and tell the cats you’re looking down on them.

And I felt you in that dream, I saw you, and I grieved for you all over again. And if that was your way of saying hello, I’ll take it. And I think there’s a chance that all this writing is bullshit and that I just miss you, my sweet boy, but I’ll keep writing.

I love you and I miss you, and I keep you in my prayers.

Eat and drink what you want, sleep where you want, play and chase and hunt and be with your family and everyone who loves you. All cats are connected, Murphy, and us too.

 

Hamish