Motormouth took his last breath just before 6 a.m. on Friday, December 24 - Christmas Eve day. He hadn't been sick long, and we thought he'd be with us for a long time to come. Just before Thanksgiving, he was diagnosed with renal failure, but he responded well to hydration treatments and a daily pill (followed by his favorite treats).
Then this last week it all changed. He ate a little on Monday night, but on Tuesday, he stopped eating. Several vet trips still suggested he'd be fine with some additional - and fairly minor - treatment. But as I left work on Thursday afternoon for Christmas holidays, Forrest called to say he'd just talked with Dr. Mentzer, that Motor's body was failing, and we had a decision to make. We went straight to the vet and brought Motor home to die. We kept him comfortable, warmed with a heating pad, pain meds to numb, at our feet in a basket full of blankets. I so wanted to snuggle him again, but by then he was too uncomfortable. On Thursday morning, something told me to bring him into bed with us, that this could be his last morning, so I collected him from under a table where he'd begun to hide, and I brought him into bed to snuggle in between us.
That night, we brought blankets and pillows and slept on the floor of the back room, the warmest room in this drafty house, so we could be with him every minute. We set the alarm to make sure he had pain meds before the last wore off.
We buried him deep in the ground later that morning, in the backyard near a place he loved to sit and keep watch. As hard as it was to see his lifeless body, it leaves no questions.
Sweet Motor kitty loved his sunbeams, the back yard, laps, tormenting neighborhood cats and dogs, laps, right shoulders, treats and catnip, dinner time, laps, and his pal Photon. I don't think he ever met a lap he didn't like. He wore a studded black leather collar for most of his kitty life, from which dangled a big red heart-shaped ID tag, hinting at his dual personality - lover and fighter. We're pretty sure he and Nightmare, as well as neighbor cat Buster, had devised some kind of power-sharing agreement, and only pretended to not get along when we were nearby. But when he was mad, he didn't mess around. He had some killer teeth and deadly claws.
I think he also found some kitty pride or maybe humor in being a tough guy. He was known for chasing dogs, and rumor has it that even big dogs (with their owners) would cross the street if Motor was perched near the sidewalk.
Nearly every night we lived together, he'd snuggle next to me at bedtime and all through the night. He'd lay his sweet head on my pillow, stretch out beside me and we'd 'spoon,' and he'd purr and make those sweet little kitty noises. He could be so still; I'd occasionally poke him to make sure he was breathing. Sometimes he'd lay on our heads, or compete for body space with his nemesis, Nightmare.
He was 15 1/2. He started his life in Savannah, Georgia, where Forrest adopted him when he was no bigger than a handful, a wee bundle of grey tabby fluff. He came out to the Olympic Peninsula before he was a year old, and stayed six months - at one time picked up by a bird of prey and dropped from a distance. He had troubled hips from then on, and avoided big jumps and for the most part, climbing trees. He came back to the NW two years later, when Forrest settled into an apartment in West Seattle. He was an indoor kitty then, but because I knew he liked the outdoors, I'd carry him onto the balcony so he could (sort of) be outside.
I met him when he was still on the Olympic Peninsula, just over a year old. We took to one another immediately. His big personality was obvious from the beginning, and I adored him. His voice was unmistakable, and while Forrest was in Savannah and I was still in Vancouver, I'd swear he'd pull Motor's tail so I could hear him on the phone... but no. Motor just talked. He earned his name.
He wasn't shy. He announced himself whenever he'd come in the house, or into a room, or jump on the bed, whatever time of day or night. He introduced himself to guests while the other two would find a place to hide. He early on earned another nickname - Boomakitty - because anytime you'd toss him off your lap, he'd come right back. And he'd always ask for whatever he wanted - the faucet, treats, a lap, outside, more loves.
When we moved back to the house in Ballard, my job became to open and close doors for cats. He was also a smart kitty - after we blocked off the cat door broken by an insistent Photon, he learned to use it as a door knocker. So there could be no question when he wanted to come in...
He had a little tuft of golden fur right behind his ears that was softer than even the softest fur. A sweet little pink nose, set off by white fur above and a white bib below. His paws would spread wide when draped over a shoulder, his happy place - his happy paws. His voice was loud, his purr was big, and he would coo pigeon-like and burble the happiest of sweet kitty sounds.
Weaned too early, he kneaded our bellies to "soften them up." And he was "needy" - he insisted we show him love whenever he wanted it (which was most of the time) and demanded much attention. Because I relate to his need to be loved, I'd give him extra pets, or a treat, or tuck him into a cozy spot if I couldn't make time to give him the attention he requested.
I know some kitties live to be 20 or more now. I thought he'd be with us till at least 18. We thought he'd move with us when we leave this house. But I think burying him here is the right thing - this place has been his home for a long time, and he's had many good years here. What more could a kitty ask for - birds and mice to stalk or watch, grass to chew or hide in, dirt to dig and roll in, trees to crouch or sleep under, room to run at high speeds, leaves to chase...
Sweet and happy cat that he was, he could also be curmudgeonly, and I thought his grouchy self would keep him going for many more years, if nothing else. We knew his kidneys had shown some wear this last year, but other than an illness a few years ago, he's been a pretty healthy cat.
I joked recently that perhaps he was getting a little senile; just before we knew he was sick, he would sit and stare, head down, seemingly "zoning"... Sleep sitting? I didn't realize it was a symptom, and I'm kicking myself for not recognizing that he should visit the vet right then. But soon there were other noticeable but subtle differences in behavior that told me something wasn't right. So we went to the kitty doc.
Yet now I ask the proverbial questions - is there more I could have done, could I have done something sooner, what didn't I notice...? I'm so connected to my cats; I usually have a sense... Now I have enough questions to make me crazy, when I know I did what I knew to do, and did as much for my sweet pal as I possibly could. They're not very good at telling us something's wrong until it's really wrong.
He had more personality than most, and was adored by most people who met him. Diane called him "the big bruiser," an "epic" cat. He had a way about him, of carrying himself. He left a lasting impression on just about everyone. I am missing him more than I thought possible. Motor kitty, King Cat, sweet Motor, precious companion.
