Small forewarning; if you are sensitive to stories about pet loss, this is one. But I feel like I have to write something to honor our friend, so I’m doing it here.
It’s been almost two weeks since we lost a small but important part of our little creative process here; our cat Milo. He was fifteen years old, a pretty old age for any cat, and up until the last few days of his life you’d never have guessed he was so old. I adopted him in 2008, before I graduated college, before Delade and I were living together, before we got married, before we (really) started making stuff together. We’ve barely known a life without him in it.
Milo was a shelter baby, found through Petfinder as I was mourning the loss of my previous cat. Both my family and Delade were pretty insistent that I needed a cat around, and I couldn’t argue. Life just isn’t the same when you’re used to a having little friend around all the time. We decided to go visit Milo at the shelter and see if it was a good fit. He immediately wanted to climb all over me like a wild boy, and upon getting into Delade’s arms, fell asleep purring immediately. That was it; we loved him immediately. He was just a little guy, a few months old at most. The shelter was waiving the adoption fee that day because they were overburdened and trying to get animals homed quickly, so he was free, but for the rest of his life we told him he was a prince and that we’d had to pay millions of dollars to get him. I’m sure this in no way inflated his little ego.
We brought him home to my mom’s house, and let him loose. He would not stop running. We’d gotten a little toy duck, still on its backing card from the store, and let him check it out. He attacked it, grabbed it in his mouth, and ran under the couch, card and all. He knew it was his, and that was how he lived the rest of his life. We could not stop laughing, and that’s something he brought us for the rest of his wonderful life. This cat had such a huge personality for such a small creature, and we were always discovering some new bit of it every day.
Later, we moved in together, and of course Milo came along. The apartment was a new place to discover, and right away he made it his own. Perching in windowsills, stealing straws from cups and hiding them in a closet (which we wouldn’t discover until moving out – he had gathered an enormous collection) and playing in the bathtub. He somehow figured out how to get on top of doors, and would perch up there squeaking for help getting down. I’m not sure if we ever figured out how he was doing it, but he sure did it. We did not live in a big apartment, but he managed to find every little nook to disappear into, more than once making us think he’d gotten out. Then, he figured out how to dart out the door and into the hall, making a break for the upstairs and the big window in the hall every time. At least he was predictable. This little cat was a ball of unending energy, and if only we could have harnessed it, we’d have powered the entire earth for years to come.
We went through several moves together, living in a bunch of different places. One of our apartments had a beam that ran across the ceiling, so of course he figured out how to get up there and chase his tail. During the move, we’d tied up some furniture cushions with a string, and when we cut them loose, the string became Milo’s. It became a game to throw it up to the beam, and he’d run at top speed to go up and grab it. He had no fear. This place was near a wooded area, and during the fall and winter in particular, we’d see deer and turkeys pretty close to the house. Milo was convinced that he could catch them and eat them, and nothing would convince him otherwise, even though both animals were multiple times his size. He was a relatively small cat, even as an adult. And even as an adult, he never stopped loving his toy ducks. We ended up with a collection of them, even seeking them out online after they were discontinued.
Probably around this same time, he started becoming more of a companion while we were working together on creative projects. His bed was right next to my desk and drafting table, and he’d either sleep peacefully beside me, or try to get into my lap. (Or into my paints. This is when I learned I had to dispose of my paint water immediately when I was even thinking of being done painting.) He perched on the back of Delade’s desk chair. He was the supervisor, the boss, the best coworker you could ever wish for. I put him in the back of the first print edition of Messenger, because he was around all the time while I was putting it together. I later included him in the author/illustrator image we use around the internet, because he was as much a part of the team as either one of us.
One of my favorite stories about him is this: I was working on my computer, sitting on our couch, and the charging cable for my laptop dangled down and brushed my bare foot. This apartment was full of gigantic spiders that just came out whenever and were essentially the size of mice, and equally fuzzy. I’m not sure what kind they were, only that they scared the heck out of me every time one appeared. Anyway, I was pretty sure that cable was a spider, and I yelped, loudly. From wherever he’d been sleeping, Milo came tearing out, straight into my lap, his face in my face. He put his paw on my cheek and meowed, very seriously. He knew something was very wrong and came to make sure I was ok. I feel like I’ll never meet another cat with that kind of concern for his people.
He snored like a tiny chainsaw, and was always pretty nasal. The vets tried multiple treatments over his entire life, but he was just a very congested boy no matter what we did. The snoring was comforting, especially at night when he tucked himself into a little spot by the heater in our bedroom. Later, he had a problem with stones in his bladder, which may have been a precursor for what would come years later. In any case, he spent a couple of nights at the vet. We worried for days, and finally the vet called to inform us that in the night he’d ripped out his own IVs and catheter and so he was probably back to normal. He earned himself a “WILL BITE” sticker on his file. He came home, and tucked himself into my lap, between me and my keyboard, falling into a deep sleep while I worked.
We once took a roadtrip and brought him along. After his vet issues, I worried about leaving him with anyone. In the worst case, we’d know what to look for and could get help immediately. In the best case, he’d be fine and we’d have a ridiculous story about taking our cat on a cross-country trip. He was fascinated watching trucks on the road, but pretty quickly decided that it was best to either perch on the center console between us in the sun, or tuck himself under the seat and nap. He got to stay in a hotel, twice, which might have been the most exciting experience of his life, based on how he spent all night jumping from bed to bed to the window. On our way back to Buffalo, we stopped at Primanti’s in Pittsburgh, and got an extra order of fries. While we sat in the car stuffing our faces, Milo reappeared from his nap spot and decided the fries were now his, and ate a bunch of them before we could stop him. No cat has ever been so spoiled. We later discovered, through his bossy nature, that he also loved: pizza crumbs, ranch dressing, and potato chips. Any one of these items would bring him out of any hiding place in the house to try and demand a taste. What he wouldn’t touch, though, was tuna. He had very particular tastes.
I could go on and on endlessly with stories about things he did — but that was the thing about him; he was always doing something, always being far more clever than a cat ought to be.
We moved again, and again, and no matter what, he always wanted to be part of what his people were doing. If we were working, he was doing his part by being there to watch. I always kept his bed near my work area, just so he could be around. When I started streaming in…2021? He made a habit of wandering in to yell something loudly, as if he knew I was on a live microphone. He just had to get his opinion in. Somewhere in my archives, there are clips of him meowing in the background, and me asking what he needed, multiple times over. I never got the chance to use it, but I coded an overlay I could pop up on command on stream when he wandered into the room, showing his little face jumping up from the corner with a meow.
Around this same time, I started developing symptoms of some of the health issues I’m still currently dealing with. I’m fatigued all the time, my joints and muscles are in pain all the time. I started having to draw less, simply because being vertical is really difficult some days. I started having to spend more time in bed, not by choice. It got very lonely. Milo would come in regularly to check up on me. He often made himself comfortable right next to me, putting his little soft paws on my leg, right above my knee. One of the spots that always hurts, and he’d knead and purr and we could take a nap together, and I felt a bit less alone because he was there.
Through the years, Milo was especially good at picking up on his peoples’ feelings. He was a self-appointed therapy cat. In addition to my other health issues, I have pretty severe anxiety, and he was always good at knowing when I needed comfort, and would come to check up on me when I was having a problem. During the early months of the pandemic in 2020, I ended up having surgery unexpectedly, and when I got home he very carefully sat with me. He just knew where not to step – I didn’t have to stop him from walking on my incisions at all. He tried to take care of me, in a cat way, licking my legs, because it was summer and I was wearing shorts to try and not sweat to death while I recovered. This isn’t something he ever did otherwise, but somehow he just knew I wasn’t feeling well, and took it upon himself to try and take care of me.
The past two years have been especially hard on all of us here. We were illegally evicted from our apartment, and had to figure out something new very quickly. Even though it’s been two years, we’re still feeling the effects of this event in many ways, psychologically and financially. It’s been very hard. Upon getting settled, we found ourselves too short on anything to buy food, much less cat food, and I worried immensely, particularly because of Milo’s age and specific dietary needs at this point. For as much as I searched and gathered solutions for our human problems, I was also searching desperately for solutions to cat problems. I had to figure it out before we ran out of his specialty food. After a lot of worry and desperation, I discovered our regional SPCA runs a pet food pantry. After getting together proper documentation on our finances and from our vet, we were given a giant bag of specialty food for him. I am forever grateful for this, and look forward to being in a position financially to donate back into this system. They saved him, and probably helped extend his life by getting him what he needed.
We started to find our feet again, and all the while Milo was our constant companion. No matter how bad things seemed around us, situationally, there was always at least a little cat who would fuss over you, insist on being part of what you were doing, or just sit with you quietly. On the way to or from one of my millions of doctors’ appointments, when conversation in the car got quiet, one of us would inevitably say, “what d’you think Milo is doing?” And the answer was always, “probably sleeping.” But almost always, he’d be running to the door when we got in. He just always wanted to be where his people were.
About two weeks ago, he started visibly slowing down. I think I knew in my heart that this was close to the end, but I had to try, because he had always tried so hard for me. We were blocked out of an emergency vet visit, because every vet in the area was charging more than everything I had in my bank account just to walk in the door. I panicked. I have never in my life run a GoFundMe campaign before now, but in desperation it was all I could think to do, and within 24 hours the goal for the vet’s estimate was surpassed. I was in tears, both because my cat was sick and because I absolutely would have the chance to try and help him. If you contributed to our GoFundMe, please know that you have my eternal gratitude and that you made what was an incredibly stressful time just a little bit easier on all of us. You helped me help my longtime friend, and that means the world to me.
We got into the vet, knowing it was possible that this would be goodbye. We ran every test reasonable, and he was looked over from head to tail, just in case there was something — anything— that could be done, but it was as though he’d aged all 15 years in the course of a day or two. The tests showed that his kidneys had failed, terribly, to the point that the machine couldn’t even give a proper value. The vet explained that this happens in elderly cats, that it isn’t something we could have caused or realistically prevented, beyond what we were already doing with his diet. I felt reassured that I hadn’t somehow worsened things by having to delay getting to the vet by a day, but it was very little comfort. At this, we knew what had to be done, and though we had tried to prepare for it mentally leading up to this appointment, it was still one of the worst things I’ve had to do. We spent a lot of time with him, talking about our favorite stories of things he’d done, petting him, and feeling his purr all the while. Despite it all, I think he was trying to convey that he was ready. And as quickly as he’d come into our lives, he was gone. He was the Fluff Prince, Lord Wigglebottom Himself, Hunter of Mice and Chippies, The Sweet Bean, The Wiggler, The Sweet Boy, The Sunbeam Boy, The Rare North American Long-Tailed Bobcat and also sometimes a Leopard Baby. And he will always be all of those things.
Life in these past two weeks has been an exercise in adaptation. Drawing is hard without him around. I miss him when I’m at rest after a rough pain day. Both of us keep checking all his napping spots out of habit, before realizing he won’t be there. It will be a while before it becomes normal, but for now it’s at least becoming familiar. Maybe it’ll never be normal. How do you get over losing a part of what’s been your everyday life for more than fifteen years? Certainly not in just two weeks. I had a dream a few nights ago, near waking, that he was sleeping comfortably on my chest. My eyes kept opening and closing in the early morning light, and he’d appear and disappear in front of me, and I can’t help but wonder if he isn’t still around in some way. He was too much a part of our lives to simply vanish.
Anyway, I just wanted to share some bits of his life and our life together, because he was an incredibly special cat and I’m not sure how or if I’ll ever get over knowing him, but I do know that it was a privilege the entire time.
Thank you so much for reading.