I’ve had a handful of cats in my life and I’ve never had to put one down until this weekend. Malcolm Mooney was a rescue cat and would have been ten in April. I had him since he was a couple weeks old. He is survived by his brother Damo Suzuki.
Malcolm acted high and mighty when guests were around, sitting on the back of the couch, arms folded under him, looking at you like he’s got your number. If you tried to call him out on it or draw attention to him, he’d look the other way as if to say “Get over it.”
Privately though, Malcolm was the most compassionate cat I’ve ever known. When I felt sick or down he always came over and leaned into me, purring like a lawn mower, and tried to rub some of his feelgoods off on me.
A heart condition led to large clots that paralyzed his back legs. Hearing the emergency vet talk, we realized quickly there two options, and only one would be painless. He passed away peacefully in our arms and I’m glad I was there with him when it happened.
Now who’s going to shed hair all over my fresh laundry?