“You didn’t think there was any way we were going to let you live alone, did you?” said Amy.
“A kitten is just what you needed,” Megan chimed in. “And… we kind of already named her. Her name is: Majc!”
“Magic,” I echoed, the significance of the name not registering. You were still halfway in the stocking, sizing me up.
“Not that magic,” Amy explained. “Megan, Amy, James, and Carrie -- MAJC. We thought for hours of a way to name her after all of us, and James finally came up with the perfect acronym!”
I didn’t have the heart to tell them at the time that I was scared shitless to take you home; the weight of your itty bitty body might as well have been 100 pounds to match the weight of responsibility I felt. So, I loaded you into the car with the litterbox, food, and toys they had bought as a starter kit. During the drive home, the questions bombarded me. Where would I put your litterbox in my one-bedroom apartment? What if you didn’t use the litterbox? Would I remember to feed you? What if you hated me?( After all, I had an unfortunate relationship with Lucky, who was supposed to be my cat but decided he liked my dad way better and waged a years-long bout of sibling rivalry).
But when I got you home and sat on the futon to ponder my new state of motherhood, you clumsily ran over to me in that irresistible way reserved solely for kittens who intend to capture your heart. The bell on your pink collar jingled as you jumped onto my lap, purring loudly. And just like that, I was smitten.
As were you, I might add. You were of the cat variety that had eyes only for her owner; (sometimes) tolerating others as a favor to me; other times hiding away until the unwanted company was gone so you could take up the place reserved for you by my side. Or on my hair. You loved to sleep on my hair when you were a baby, which simultaneously drove me crazy and cemented your place in my heart.
And so we forged our little family that remained just the two of us for almost seven years. Together, we moved countless times, but where didn’t matter as long as we had each other. Together, we adapted to living with someone else when I met your new dad. We bonded over learning how to share spaces neither of us had to share before. I knew Marcus was the one when you started sitting on his lap.
Over the next seven years, you and I kept our special bond, even when I brought a new cat home after a trip to Baltimore. I know it wasn’t easy for you to get over what you must have seen as a betrayal, especially because, let’s face it, Scout was your cat opposite: friendly and social. But, you did get over it. I’m not sure what you really thought when we betrayed you again by bringing home the dog, but you took that like a champ too, content as long as neither one of them took your place on my lap. Though Rosebud has certainly tried over the past few years, neither ever took your place.
And here’s the thing. No animal ever will. It’s just not possible. The 100 pounds of responsibility I felt at being your mom was nothing compared to what you must have felt. When we left our life in Maryland, you became the link to my former self. All that love, homesickness, and longing for connection wrapped up in one furry ball. But you had the strength (and sass) to handle it. You tolerated me in a way you wouldn’t remotely try to tolerate others.
So today, when we had to put you down, it wasn’t just our cat that was lost; it was a part of my history, and it was a part of your dad’s heart. Your normally stoic father has been crying all day, a testament to the fact that I wasn’t the only girl to steal his heart seven years ago. (By the way, he’s proud of the growl you made when the vet gave you the first needle. “That was our girl,” he keeps saying.)
After that, you lay in the crook of my arm, which was your favorite place to be, and you finally fell into a peaceful sleep. A sleep you hadn’t had in weeks since your sickness had begun to wreak havoc on your little body. I felt the weight of the world lift off your shoulders, and I knew we had
made the right decision.
The reality that I’m never going to see you again, or sweep you up in greeting when you meet me at the door is almost too much to bear. But what would be even worse to bear is the idea that I could have spent the past 14 years without having had the privilege of being your mom. So, I thank you
for loving me, and I thank M-A-J for bringing you to me. Your name will always live on through us.
