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Mia

Mia, 16 years young

It’s difficult to tell the story of Mia without telling the story of us. Her years marked so many of our big moments, which, I guess, any 14-year chunk of time will do.

Mia came into our lives in 2001. Andy was taking classes at OSU and living with friends. I had just started a new job at Popular Woodworking Magazine, and was living with a friend in a small townhouse in Mariemont. A man my dad worked with had a daughter who had a cat—Mia. This daughter and her husband had a child, and Mia, turns out, bit. They needed to find a new home for their cat.

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Andy took her. We had no children. We weren’t even engaged. The idea of owning a cat was charming. She was maybe 2 or 3 years old when Andy took her to OSU, to live on Stadium Drive in University Village, in his messy, college room.

Turns out Mia didn’t just bite children—she bit adults, too. Upon graduation Andy moved to an apartment in Cincinnati. The market was tough and he was working the night shift at Target. One late afternoon, after showering in preparation for his shift at work, Mia attacked him. She charged at him and clamped onto the skin behind his knee, drawing blood.

Still, he kept her.

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Andy proposed. We got married. My roommate moved out and Andy moved in. Mia came, too.

Andy got a job in his field. We bought a 104-year-old Dutch Colonial with a shifting stone foundation. We thought we had lost Mia when so many of our friends helped us move from Mariemont to Fort Thomas on a cold and rainy day. Turns out she was so frightened she had hidden herself in the rafters of our basement.

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Everything frightened Mia. The Dutch Colonial had a sunroom and in it we had a glass-top table, the back edge of it lined with potted plants. One night, in the middle of the night, I heard the sound of glass, breaking. It was loud enough to wake me up and I saw Mia in our closet, shaking. I woke up Andy to investigate (which he did, curiously, with a rolled-up bath towel as his weapon of choice). Turns out Mia had, we assume, been spooked by her reflection in the sunroom’s windows. She had scattered off the table with such hurry and force she turned over a potted plant, causing the clay to break on the glass-top table. There was no burglar, only our very own scaredy-cat.

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Mia hated other cats. Although we could leave her for a few days without intervention, for longer trips we had to rely on family and friends. A trip to a kennel, or vet, or anyone’s house who owned another pet, put her in a panic. She had a heart murmur. Her heart didn’t need any additional distress.

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Still, we decided to buy a black lab, Tucker. (That’s Mia in the picture above, glaring at Tucker the day we brought him home.) They had a love/hate relationship. Mostly hate. Mia would get annoyed with Tucker, raise her paw and hiss. Tucker, always the gentleman, would just walk away. And when he did, Mia would go to his bowl and paw out all the water, flooding the kitchen—daily.

We had Sophie. Mia bit Sophie, hard enough to draw blood. This resulted in a trip to the pediatrician’s office and a prescription for an antibiotic. We tried to find a new home for Mia after that. Turns out it’s difficult to find a home for a cat who bites and hates all other cats.

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So, we kept her. We taught Sophie, and later the boys, to not talk, touch or look at Mia. That’s probably a bit dramatic but true enough that, for a while, our children were terrified of all cats. And eagerly approached all large dogs. Which is backwards, I know.

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Mia moved with us to a 100-year-old foursquare, also in Fort Thomas, five years ago—the same house we’re in today. That move was hard. The boys were three months old. For months I unpacked a box, pumped milk, gave the boys a bottle, changed their diapers, put them down, and unpacked another box. On repeat. I truly have no memory of how Mia fared during that time.

Once the boys became mobile, the basement became Mia’s castle. We never saw her during the day. Often, while taking laundry down to the basement, I would find her sitting on the top basement step, listening, waiting. Once she determined every child was in bed she was upstairs, purring and rubbing up against our legs, desperate for the attention she had missed out on during the day. And I gave it to her.

lap cat

And that’s the thing about cats. And dogs. And even people, sometimes. Mia, often, was awful. I know. But, like all living, breathing things, you simply had to get to know her. And, in her case, really, really get to know her. But once you did, she was a joy—until a switch buried deep inside her would flip. And then she would bite.

Through the years I learned her triggers. Even the kids knew to never, ever touch her when her ears were back. When on my lap, purring, I would wait for her body to tense. That was her way of saying, “Stop.” A particular twitch slightly behind her shoulders also indicated she was about to draw blood. In all the years of living with her, she only bit me once.

Still, we had to warn everybody. “Don’t touch the cat. She bites,” was spoken in between hellos and welcome hugs. Babysitters were warned. Grandmas were given Band-Aids and apologized to, over and over again. Mia was banned to the basement during playdates.

Mia was a huntress, which was apparent in the number of mice she caught in her lifetime—even near the end of her life. We’re a live-mouse-trap kind of family, so her particular skill caused us (me, mostly) distress. Mia liked to play with her mice before killing them. I remember one particular evening when such awfulness was happening and Andy wasn’t home—and I was in tears. Like all other cats, she left the mice for us, in places she knew we would see them. One early morning I walked downstairs to find Sophie, probably 3, sitting on the couch, watching a show. “Mia killed a mouse,” she said, nonchalantly. “Where is it?” I asked. “Here,” she said. Sophie was sitting next to it. It was on the couch.

Near the end of her life, Mia’s demeanor changed completely. Always a thin cat, she started eating a lot. She gained so much weight that we took her to the vet for tests. We feared the worst, given her age—14 plus 2 or 3 years. Her diagnosis? “She’s just fat,” the vet said.

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Mia began living upstairs during the day, even when the kids were wild. She stopped biting. She let the children pet her. She sat on my lap in the middle of the day. Every morning while I poured Tucker dog food, she would saunter over and drink water from his water bowl. Tucker would patiently wait until she finished, and then would drink after her. (But she still splashed water.)

I’ve since researched “end of life” in cats. Her change in disposition was clue No. 1. This lasted several months. A few days before she died, she seemed off—more so than usual. The day before she died, we knew it was coming. We knew in the way she sat, staring but not seeing. The way she walked the perimeter of rooms, over and over again. We knew in the way you just know these things, without really knowing why you know.

We considered calling the vet. But she didn’t seem in pain. And she wasn’t showing any signs of being in pain. We agreed that if she was in pain, we’d take her. A home death, we thought, is preferable—for anyone.

That evening she perked up a bit. But then she began hiding—under the couch, under the kitchen table, under the leather chair. While reading John Grogan’s Marley & Me years ago I learned that pets do this—they find a quiet, hidden place to die, away from predators, as their ancestors did.

Mia settled on underneath the leather chair, in front of the bookcase, in the living room.

I couldn’t stand the thought of her dying alone. So I curled up on the living room rug next to her, one hand under the chair, on her back. I stayed like that for an hour.

Andy had gone downstairs to play video games. Pet losses are hard on him. In grade school he faked a reason to leave the classroom so that he wouldn’t have to watch the end of “Where the Red Fern Grows.” When it comes to hard things, we excel, differently. I can rock a baby for hours, singing “You Are My Sunshine” again and again and again. And again. And while Andy lacks such patience he, on the other hand, can cradle the head of a child who is getting sick, not once dry heaving at the smell. And then he can bathe said child and clean up said mess with nary a complaint or sigh. I fail at this.

We’ve learned to let go, hand over, pick up, take over. It works.

After about an hour, Mia stopped moving completely, and her breathing grew shallow. Perhaps it was selfish of me but I needed to hold her. So in one quick motion I pulled her out from under the chair. She perked up again, and fought me for a moment. I sat on the couch and threw a cream and gray-striped wool blanket over her, covering her completely—even her head. I held her tight against my stomach. The effect, for her, was the same. She felt hidden, but I felt better.

Andy found me like that, on the couch, around 2am. He convinced me to go to bed. So I did, but I took Mia. Like a brand-new mother in charge of a newborn solo for the first time I rested my hand on her, lightly, counting breaths until the sun came up.

With morning we had the children come in to say their goodbyes. The boys had many questions. “Will her body be frozen?” “How long will she stay underground?” “Is she still breathing?” “How will she dig herself out?” The questions were honest, heartbreaking and tiring.

Sophie, older, wiser, but still 7, cried deep tears that made Andy and I cry, too.

The boys and Andy left, but Sophie stayed. So much of what Mia was doing was instinctual. She was dying in the same way her mother died, her mother’s mother died, and so on. I couldn’t help but think that Sophie’s actions were instinctual, too. Woman, girl. Mother, someday mother (perhaps). Sophie stayed. And all three females curled up together on the bed, mother, child, cat.

We stayed like that for a long time. And then, Mia started convulsing. This, I knew I didn’t want Sophie to see. And this, I knew I didn’t want to see. I scooped Sophie up and took her to her room, yelling for Andy. Let go, hand over, pick up, take over. Andy came.

Mia had gotten sick. (I should have thought about this. I should have been prepared with towels, and a box. But this was all a first for me.) Andy moved her to box lined with a towel, and cleaned up the bed. A few minutes more, and Mia was gone.

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My parents came over, and Andy and my dad dug a hole in the backyard. (Another thing I could not do, the digging, the moving of the dead body. But he could, for us, for me.) It was muddy and dreary outside. The children each drew a picture, which they put in the hole with Mia, along with the Christmas present we had bought her—she died in December, before the holiday. We said our goodbyes.

The holidays came and went in a swirl, and although we were sad and missed her it was OK. We answered the kids’ questions. We walked out to where we buried her whenever the kids asked. We gave away her leftover food.

Several weeks ago Owen and James began fighting while working on their homework. After yelling at them to stop fighting, I discovered the problem: They had to write the number of people in their family, and the number of pets. James insisted we had one pet—Tucker. Owen couldn’t bring himself to not include Mia. He started to cry. “Of course you can include Mia,” I said. “But it won’t make sense!” James said. “We’ll have different answers!” I assured James it was OK.

Lately, in these long, gray days of winter, I miss her. Especially at night, when she would curl up on my lap, purring, on the brink of drawing blood.

It’s funny, the love we can amass for the pets—and people—who can cause us so much pain but also, so, so much joy. It’s the beauty—and cruelty—of life. And even though the end is hard, I’d do it again. And will do it again. In time.

“Barney was brave, I said.
And smart and funny and clean.
Also cuddly and handsome, and he only once
ate a bird.
It was sweet, I said, to hear him purr in my ear.
And sometimes he slept on my belly and kept
it warm.

Those are all good things, said my mother,
but I still just count nine.

Yes, I said, but now I have another.

Barney is in the ground and he’s helping
grow flowers.
You know, I said, that’s a pretty nice job for
a cat.”

—from The Tenth Good Thing About Barney by Judith Viorst

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This entry was written by kara, posted on February 16, 2016 at 10:53 pm, filed under All and tagged cat, death, Mia, pet. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post. Post a comment or leave a trackback: Trackback URL.
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     We had a double feature tonight. First up, Snow Biz, the highly acclaimed 4th grade musical. James was a postal worker who was often difficult to spot due to his affinity for standing behind everyone whenever possible. Owen was nicknamed “pyro Owen” at school because he got to handle the dry ice and work the smoke machine backstage (he was thrilled). After that we ran to the car, drove through town, had to park across from the firehouse and with 4 minutes to 7 ran to the high school auditorium. Grandparents (who were treated to a matinee of Snow Biz) were saving us seats for Sophie’s first string concert. The 6th graders played a small part of New World Symphony, which Andy and I played our junior year of high school marching band. (Andy moved to my high school his junior year. I first spotted him on the marching band field. I thought he looked like a 1990s Keanu Reeves. It was the eyes.) Everything is cyclical.  Christmas = the holiday I get to hang random pretty things everywhere ...  A couple days ago Andy and I got into a big fight about tools that had been left out on the deck for more than a month. Today I took a last-minute trip to Clifton Mill, with my mom, grandma and two aunts in town from California and Pennsylvania. I left at 4 and got home a little after 11. This left Andy with buying a fruit tray and two dozen cookies for tomorrow’s Grandparents’ Day at the boys’ school, getting Owen’s haircut for tomorrow’s 4th grade musical, and buying dress shoes that actually fit and hose for Sophie who has a strings concert tomorrow. In addition to dinner, baths, homework etc. ❤️ Life is life though. In a couple days we’ll have our regular argument about my ability to Tetris the hell out of our pantry recycling bin instead of just taking it out. Clifton Mill was gorgeous, and spending the evening with four women I admire so much was much-needed balm. Thankful.  Owen just came down (he’s supposed to be asleep) to tell us he forgot to do his homework (he said he was done) but as he was plugging in his school iPad (which he had upstairs because he was reading a book on it, instead of sleeping) I saw what he created for his home screen and it’s so cute I swear ... this kid ... I’m no longer mad.  Relationship tip: Don’t tell your partner that “this is your favorite part of Christmas” and immediately follow it with “I want to do this with you every year until we die” while he’s experiencing a thousand needle pricks due to being over-meticulous about the lights while you’re sitting on the steps drinking Chardonnay (with a couple ice cubes) out of a Christmas mug with a sexy reindeer on it (Vixen, of course).  Picked the kids up from school and took a beautiful drive to a 100-acre tree farm in Ohio (thank you, friends, for the recommendation!). Way better than last year’s last-minute Kroger lot tree. Andy may grumble about my refusal to get an artificial tree every year but he said he had fun today. He secretly loves the long drive and the sawing and the cost and the prickles and the tying it to the van and the falling needles due to our neglectful watering all December long .... Our antenna is broken so instead of listening to Christmas songs on the radio I serenaded the family the whole way home. And yelled LOOK! CHRISTMAS LIGHTS!! every time we passed a festive house. I don’t know about everyone else but I loved today.  My mom has made many Christmas bags over the years — she and my dad wrap all their presents in them to reduce waste. Some of her bags feature little surprises like this — that’s me, Katy and Kyle, 1980-something.  My sister and Tom hosted a beautiful and delicious Thanksgiving. I’m sad to leave! Thankful for family, sweet sweet potatoes, hikes, wine, warm fires, early birthday celebrations, plays, and new and old faces willing to seek seashells hidden around the house with the kids.   This world can be so cruel. And our actions ... my worry lines deepen daily. A trick I use to keep myself from crawling into bed and refusing to come out (which I’ve tried, with little success) is to remind myself of something my mom once told me: Soldiers, she once read, were sent a recording of children laughing — nothing more, just happy squeals. And it helped them all. It’s genius, really. Who doesn’t like the sound of children laughing? I like to think about all the little things we humans share in common. Take fire, for example. It draws people in, for survival in the early days, yes, but still, the next time you’re close to (purposeful) fire, watch how people are attracted to it, as if we are nothing more than moths drunk on the flames. And although many may ignore it, no one curses a beautiful sunset. Each of us has a least one smell that brings on a good memory. Everyone loves zoo babies. And finally reaching that itch that needs scratching. And the joy of embracing someone they love. We all have a song that gives us goosebumps. And a cat video that makes us laugh. And something that makes us cry, privately. We all share in the goodness of drinking something cold when parched, taking our shoes off after a long day and wrapping ourselves in a blanket when cold. Each of us finds connection in eye contact resulting in unspoken conversation, witnessing a sweet reunion at the train station or airport, and in niceties — waving someone on, a sincere apology, holding open a door. There is privilege in my words, yes, and I know I experience the world quite differently from someone who is, for example, autistic (but I know there are shared experiences there as well). And please don’t mistake this for a “we should all just get along” post. Because some of y’all have beliefs I will fight until the day I die. But this Thanksgiving, especially this Thanksgiving, I’m grateful that we as humans have some things that bind us. For it is there I find hope that we may one day find ourselves on a better path for all humanity. Think this is a stretch? Ask yourself this: Have you ever met anyone who doesn’t like having a back scratcher when they have a hard-to-reach itch? No.  Io was home alone a long time today. He found toilet paper rolls (and a shoe, a watch, a package, two books, a large ice scraper, socks ...). And copious amounts of glitter. If you use your imagination really hard, it’s like glittery snow, all over the first floor of our house. But it’s not glittery snow. It’s all the toilet paper rolls from both baths torn into tiny bits and ACTUAL GLITTER all over the rugs and hardwood and furniture and given that the candle sticks are askew and glittery at one point he must have been ON THE DINING ROOM TABLE in a self-induced frenzied dance of glitter spreading in every creak and crevice of our house. Me, two weeks ago: “He’s such a good puppy! He’s hardly chewed anything!” 🧻✨  Lost electronics for the night, spelling lists with all those tricky silent k’s and b’s, a patchwork dinner of stir-fried rice and veggies and odd chicken and naan (all lazily pulled from the freezer), angry yelling (regretful), a clogged drain, a curse word and then another, a tiny, soft splinter, a (sad) no, a sierra of laundry, and this guy, who stinks. Hoping tonight’s winds blow all these bad vibes away along with the leaves. Grateful to have tomorrow.  Snow meant three separate requests for hot chocolate today, requests I was already on top of thanks to my mama intuition and a grocery run the night before. Most of the time I have no idea what I’m doing during these intense mothering years, especially with the big things, but 11 years in I can finally say I’ve mastered (a few) little things. I’m counting on those adding up in my favor in the long run. ❄️  Snowy Night, by Mary Oliver “Last night, an owl in the blue dark tossed an indeterminate number of carefully shaped sounds into the world, in which, a quarter of a mile away, I happened to be standing. I couldn’t tell which one it was – the barred or the great-horned ship of the air – it was that distant. But, anyway, aren’t there moments that are better than knowing something, and sweeter? Snow was falling, so much like stars filling the dark trees that one could easily imagine its reason for being was nothing more than prettiness. I suppose if this were someone else’s story they would have insisted on knowing whatever is knowable – would have hurried over the fields to name it – the owl, I mean. But it’s mine, this poem of the night, and I just stood there, listening and holding out my hands to the soft glitter falling through the air. I love this world, but not for its answers. And I wish good luck to the owl, whatever its name – and I wish great welcome to the snow, whatever its severe and comfortless and beautiful meaning.”  It’s hard work waiting for the kids to come home from school and play.  Today is my dad’s 65th birthday. All summer long he fills our kitchen (and others’ and the food bank’s) with his garden bounty. Almost every time the boys ask him to play baseball (even if it’s the third time of the day) he says yes. I can’t count the times he’s lent me his truck (and time and hands) to help me move things or pick up my crazy Craigslist finds. He dedicates a ton of time to our Unitarian church (just last week he spent the night there while the church offered shelter from the cold). “No problem” is his response to everything (even if he’s silently rescheduling things to make it work). All summer long he plays baseball with the Cincinnati Dragons and listens/watches the Reds play (and still finds time to watch our kids play). I’m so grateful to have him in my life and today was such a good day. Happy birthday, Dad. ⚾️  Friday night II ❤️  Friday night ❤️  I got a new phone (and I adore the camera, thanks again for your help, @jjmenk !) but I’m changing carriers (to Tello, it’s so inexpensive, check them out!) and apparently my phone number is “porting in” which “can take up to 5 business days” (maybe this is why it’s so cheap) so email me if you need me. Also, Sophie looks way too old in this picture!  Today was a good day.  Every great once in awhile it’s good to test the solidity of your marriage by moving a large piece of furniture, such as a couch with a bed tucked away inside of it and a chaise lounge attached to it. #WeAreStillSpeaking #INeedToUpMyWeightsAtBarre
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