Milo

                                                                  Hannah and Milo, 2010

Hannah’s cat, Milo, died last night. I remember when we found Milo. Hannah had just relapsed with her brain cancer, and we were looking for something to lift her spirits. Having lost her cat, Jenny, the previous year, we went to Paws on the island in search of a new kitten.

Hannah was drawn to a six-week-old orange boy named Russ. His litter had been rescued from a basement and bottle-fed. I had no idea at the time that he would rescue us. He was the only orange kitty in the bunch. I’d never been particularly attracted to orange cats before. I didn’t know how sweet and loveable they can be.

When Hannah first held him, he was asleep and fell out of her lap, landing on his head. I thought, “poor thing, let’s pick another cat.” But Hannah didn’t feel that way. She was surprisingly discerning for a ten-year-old, choosing to leave Paws and come back for another visit. A few days later, we returned to Paws, where we found Russ looking alert and lively. Hannah decided he was the one for her and quickly named him Milo.

I knew at the time that Hannah was terminal, and I figured that Milo would outlive my daughter, but I never imagined that he would have a longer life than she did. He blessed us with 15 years and 4 months of his life. Milo was the coolest cat. A friend to every living creature, except for the ones he hunted. He was friendly with all people, other cats, children, and especially dogs. Everybody who knew Milo loved him.

When he was young, Hannah figured out pretty quickly that we couldn’t keep Milo inside. Despite the coyote risk, he needed to be able to explore the outdoors. He loved sitting with us outside, watching the birds, hunting mice and wild baby bunnies, trying to follow us on dog walks, and keeping watch over his territory. In recent years, he loved to sit with us on our patio, stretching out on the warm stone and keeping us company. I brought him out there one last time Saturday afternoon. I was grateful that he’d been able to resume his indoor/outdoor life this year.

We thought we would lose Milo back in December when he became seriously ill. But he recovered and returned to his old way of being. It felt like bonus time, so I imagined that when he did die it would be easier somehow. I’m not sure I feel that way today.

I knew the end was coming for the past several weeks. Milo spent an unusual time in my lap, wanting to be held. He also spent a lot of time with our dog, Beans, as they huddled together on the couch. On Friday, when I saw troubling new symptoms from Milo, I closed all the doors and windows, not wanting him to escape to his death, as cats are known to do. On Saturday, when I woke in the middle of the night, I found him crouched between the couch and the wall, as if he was trying to leave the house. He let me hold him most of the rest of the night. Like Hannah, I wanted to be with him when he passed. By Sunday, Milo didn’t want to be held. We watched him on the floor, sleeping mostly but occasionally crying or moaning, at which times he permitted the dogs to come lie beside him and comfort him.

I watched the blood red sun setting in the sky last night, knowing it would be Milo’s last. On his final day, we watched and waited and wondered what to do. Ryan was flying home from Europe. We wanted to wait until he was home and let him weigh in on our decision. Andrew was concerned that Milo might be in pain, and favored taking him to the emergency vet and having him put down. I’d been talking with Hannah, asking her to take him quickly. Ultimately, we decided to let Milo pass on his own, which he did around 10 pm.

We buried Milo today in Hannah’s garden, next to her older cat, Leia. I remember when Hannah was young, our family had pet rats. When the last rat died of a tumor, Hannah cried, “No more! I don’t want to bury another rat.” Yep. I feel the same way now.

I’m heartbroken to say goodbye to the last pet that Hannah chose. The only thing that brings me comfort is knowing he is reunited with my daughter. It seems especially cruel that our pets, specifically our dogs and cats, have such short lives, 10-15 years, give or take. It seems equally unnatural that a parent could outlive a child.

Thank you, Milo. You were loving and you were loved.