A new cat in town...

"Weeping may last for a night, but joy 

cometh in the morning" 

- Psalm 30:5

It was a Friday afternoon. Mark had yet to respond to 'Words with Friends,' a scrabble kind of game that Molly and her two brothers played most days. He also had not answered his phone. The latter was most troubling because since COVID, Molly and he had, with very few exceptions, spoken every single day. She knew. Saturday morning, he was found at home by a close friend. He had slipped away.

 

Mark had struggled with cancer over the preceding couple of years, and he lost the battle on that Friday in Tulsa, Oklahoma. He is the eldest, and Michael is the second in the family of the 'Y' chromosome dominance.

 

It is not that it was unexpected, but as most of us know, when loss occurs, it is traumatic. And so it was as Mark finished his earthly journey and headed home.

 

It is strange with the loss of a loved one that the business of arranging all of the things following their deaths overwhelms our need to embrace the sorrow of the moment. There is too much to do. While it is necessary, it seems backward in that when we most need some time to grieve, the business of the loss engulfs us.

 

I drove over on Sunday and Monday. Molly flew in on Wednesday. There was much to do in those precious few days we were there…people to call…notices to be made…a memorial service of friends, colleagues, and church family…the beginnings of organizing what had been left behind. There would still be much to do once we were home.

 

Mark’s memorial service Friday afternoon, in the church he loved, could not have been more comforting. As these things go, the attendees shared stories with one another...a mix of quiet conversations, smiles and sorrow. Molly and Michael hugged and thanked them. These were intimate moments with people who wanted to share how important Mark had been in their lives.

 

There were many things notable things about Molly’s brother. He was a civil engineer who, along with a small group twenty-five years earlier built a thriving engineering firm. He was an avid golfer, an ardent reader, leaving behind hundreds and hundreds of books, a deeply religious man, a collector of Native American items, and a lover of cats. Three Manx cats, to be specific. Originating on the Isle of Man, they had short or no tails. Several had come and gone over the years, lucky enough to have come under his love and protection.

 

Sunday morning, Molly and I headed back to Tucson. We brought a few things home as remembrances, but the most singular was a thirteen-year-old Manx female cat to join our little family.

 

The point of the piece…

Her name is Molly, not to be confused with the biped with whom I have been cohabiting for the past forty-seven years. She's a three-legger – a tripod. As a kitten, she had a broken, functionless right leg which was amputated at the shoulder. Just the kind of cat Mark would take into his family to shepherd, shelter and love. Molly was his favorite, sleeping with him every night. While he loved the other two, she was his heart.

 

Life has a way of providing small rewards to remind us God is paying attention. Some of them are borne out of sorrow and loss. This was no exception.

 

This thirteen-year-old cat brings enthusiasm and energy to our family. Molly doesn’t know she is handicapped in any way. A week or so after meeting our two resident cats, accompanied by a fair amount of hissing and growling, they all settled into the ‘…it is what it is…’ household.

 

Molly can leap vertically almost four feet, open cabinets with that single paw (hard to believe – there is video proof!). Her purring engine is loud and clear. Most importantly, she is a snuggler who can’t seem to get enough contact. You know, the kind of burrowing in where one’s skin is almost too much clothes.

 

It is difficult to describe how this cat's presence is a living, daily reminder of the legacy Mark left behind and the love he shared not just with his little feline family but the lives he touched in the people around him.

- ted