RIP Maurice, 1998-2012

Nobody really liked Maurice. He was hard to like. He probably had some sort of psychological illness. Perhaps he was just a moody cat. But he was the best pet that I ever had. Because he wasn't a whore with his affections like so many dogs are. Sure, my dog loves me and shows me affection, but he would also curl up in the lap of Charles Manson if Manson pet him or gave him a treat. Maurice would have scratched the sh*t out of Charles Manson. Or the returned Jesus Christ. Pretty much anyone on this planet but me. (And even me every once in awhile, but not too much). He was not friendly to anyone else, but he saved his love and affection for me. He loved to play when he was younger, but mainly he was happiest curled up in my lap or next to me (always close enough where his back or paw was touching me) and just relaxing. In front of the TV, while I was reading or working, he just liked to be with me. And I loved being with him, in part because he was so loving towards me, but even more so perhaps because he was not loving with anyone else.

I picked him up at the animal shelter here in San Antonio in 1998. He was a cute little furball of an animal. A tiny little kitten who had been found abandoned somewhere. Perhaps that was his issue, he was separated from his mother way too young. I already had in mind that I wanted a gray tabby cat. And he was it. A little furrier than I originally had in mind, but close enough. I should have known he was a fiery personality early on, due to the fit he threw when I got him home and gave him a bath. He was no larger than my hand, but he was putting up a fierce resistence.


ABOVE: Maurice as a kitten, climbing on my mountains of CDs

All his life he refused to wear a collar. I tried to make him wear one once. I had it on pretty tight so he couldn't remove it. Later in the day I saw him without it on. What the hell? I eventually found it hanging from the faucet in the bathtub. I surmised that he figured out how to hook part of the collar on the faucet and then somehow pulled his head out of it. There it was, hanging from the faucet, still in a loop, as if to say "f*ck you, I'm not wearing that." Fine, I never tried it again.

I counted up how many places Maurice lived with me over the years, and it was eight. From apartment to apartment, from San Antonio to Austin to Houston and back to SA again, he always came along with me. Most cats are notorious for not liking for their environment to change, but I think he kind of enjoyed it whenever we got a new place. The pattern was always the same. He would first hide for a few days, just to make sure the SS weren't going to burst through the door or something. Eventually he would get comfortable, and then he would spend days running around, exploring every corner, searching out safe and secure spots to take a snooze. This might be presumptuous of me, but his home was less his geographic location than it was wherever I was.



He went to law school with me, went through a trying time when I was close to vagrancy and out of work in Houston. He was with me over several career changes, an engagement and its disintegration, another engagement and eventual marriage, the arrival of my daughter. He has been there at every point and milestone in my life for the past 14 years. But it is less the milestones with him that stay with me. What I really treasure and love are those lazy days that were not milestones. Like the period when I was single and living in Houston and decided to watch a film from Netflix every night for a period of several months. After work, almost every night (unless I had a poker game with some friends), I would come home, grab some dinner and relax on the couch with Maurice and we would watch everything from Metropolis to Monty Python. I can still feel him leaning against me on the couch with that steady, deep, content purr.

He developed diabetes about two years ago, so I have been giving him daily shots of insulin since then. I remember when I first started, I was wondering how the hell I was going to get him to sit still for a shot every day. But he never even noticed it (I would deliver his food, and as he was eating I'd come up behind him and give him the shot in the back of the neck). About three weeks ago he stopped eating regularly and started to lose weight. My vet told me the end was near and I could bring him in to put him down any time I was ready. He seemed to rebound the last week and a half though, and I am glad that I waited. Knowing he was getting weaker, I spent a lot of time with him each evening for the past week or two. I'd bring a book or some papers to grade out where he was and we'd hang for sometimes hours. He was weak and tired, but not in pain. He would curl up in my lap in a tight ball and fall asleep and I would pet him and read or grade papers (I even brought the laptop out and watched a couple of movies with him, just like the old days). That was good. I felt like I was able to say my proper goodbyes this last week or so.

Still, last night was tough. Yesterday morning he seemed OK, but when I went out last night check on him and hang out I knew immediately he was dying. I took him to the 24-hour vet down the street, and they were so great. The vet let me stay in the room with him for over an hour before she did what had to be done. She talked through what was happening to him and gave me all the time I needed. I was in the room when they knocked him unconscious (he was almost there anyway), so appropriately the last thing he knew (if he was even aware at that point, he was completely immobile) was me stroking his head around the temples and behind the ears, which was always his favorite.

Anyway, I hope this is a proper tribute to my friend. RIP Maurice.

ABOVE: I always liked this one. He is being stealthy and thinks I can't see him as he is hiding at the top of the stairs.


ABOVE: I think this was on his first or second day home with me from the shelter in 1998