Monthly Archives: December 2014

Macska – 1998-2014, Matt’s tribute

IM000071.JPG“Three…two…one! Launch da kitty!” A grey ball of fluff was gently tossed a couple of feet down the hallway. When it landed on the floor, it ran down the hall into our living room, except when the rare whim veered him into the dining room instead. If you did not promptly leave the end of the hall, he would come trotting back down the hall to be launched again.

This is my deepest early memory of our first kitty, Macska. He arrived in our home and hearts in early September of 1998, and he recently had to be put to sleep on Saturday, November 1st, after 16 years of charming us utterly. What a wonderful cat.

Meredith and I were married in August of 1998, and we knew we wanted a couple of cats to make our home complete. Meredith was sure she could not handle the stress of picking out just one cat from the local non-kill shelter, so she sent her pre-marriage roommate with me to pick out two cats (one each). As Laura and I entered the Treehouse cat shelter, a woman was returning a three or four-month-old kitten because she was allergic. The kitten was a jaw-droppingly adorable grey long-haired kitten, and Laura gave him a long look.

We went around the shelter, and I fell in love with another kitty who came into our lives in October of that year, Bocca. Laura, after seeing all the kitties available for adoption, went back to get the long-haired grey kitten. When the woman had brought the kitten back in, she apologized to the receptionist; she was told not to worry – the kitten would not stay at Treehouse for long. I think it was about 20 minutes that he was there.

IMG_2627We took Macska home in a cardboard carrier and let him out once we were in our apartment in Chicago. He calmly wandered around and checked everything out. Meredith was smitten. Macska never did have a shy bone in his body.

I’m still not sure how the launch-da-kitty game got started. I suspect Macska was blocking the door one day and I gently tossed him aside and he took off running. He loved it, and so did we.
Everything that cat did was cute, and if any cat has ever understood the concept of “work it, baby!” it was Macska. He would flop in the middle of the floor, roll over on his back to expose his fuzzy tummy, tuck his paws up, tilt his head at an angle, and if he REALLY wanted to wow you he would let out a tiny mew. We called him our show cat, and for at least ten years he was. He loved people and wanted to be in someone’s lap if one was around. Whose lap changed from year to year – sometimes he favored me, especially when I was lying down on the couch, and sometimes he favored Meredith. Meredith was his clear favorite for the last several years of his life – she could not be on the couch without Macska being in her lap.

Some random memories about Macska:

IMG_3903He loved to lick metal and plastic. Odd, but true. We would sometimes be awakened by the sound of a cat licking the tub faucet. I think he liked the way it felt on his tongue.
He loved bread, and was known to tear into bread bags to get at it, so we could never leave it out. In much the same way, he loved cheese.

When he was a young cat, he liked to play tug-of-war with him on one end of a cat toy and me or Meredith on the other. We just called it “tug!”

When he was still a kitten, he somehow got up on to the top of Meredith’s bureau, then on to her dollhouse, where he curled up and went to sleep on the porch of the house.
For years later in his life, he like to be in Meredith’s lap when she was reading her Bible. We called him our “spiritual kitty.”

Early in his life, Macska was known to climb up in our artificial Christmas tree, bend a few branches to make a nest, and fall asleep in the tree.

Macska may or may not have been related to my sister-in-law’s cat, Earl. Earl looked almost the same as Macska, was about the same age, and was a found stray from the north side of Chicago.
After sixteen years, I still cannot reliably spell Macska (which is Hungarian for “cat”).

IM000242.JPGMacska was a very special kitty to us, and we are much sadder for his being gone. While our other kitties are all friendly and like to be near us, none of them is the consistent lap cat that Macska was, so we are reminded of his absence quite often. He was a dear kitty, and an amazing one, and I am deeply grateful we were able to enjoy his company for so long. Rest in peace, my dear kitty.

Macska – 1998 – 2014, Meredith’s tribute

IM000065.JPGThe Second-Choice Cat

– Memories of Macska –

(aka Poofling, Snug, Snag, Snug-o-let, Such Motchk, Frumple-baby, Snuggle-puddin’)

“This cat was my second choice,” explained my friend Laura as Matt set down the box containing our apartment’s newest resident. Laura had graciously volunteered to be my proxy at the animal shelter, since I was afraid that, surrounded by cute, beseeching felines, I’d feel obliged to adopt them all. Laura’s first choice had been an affectionate white female named Praline – but Praline had already been spoken for, and remained at the shelter only because she had a broken leg that hadn’t quite healed.

In lieu of Praline, Laura had selected a fluffy gray six-month-old kitten we named Macska (pronounced “Motch-ka”), the Hungarian word for “cat.” The name had been picked before its recipient; though after a year of teaching English at a school in Transylvania, I could still hardly form a complete sentence in Hungarian, I knew assorted vocabulary words, including those for a number of animals, and I thought “Macska” would be a good name for a cat, particularly a somewhat exotic-looking one.

At first, all I could see of Macska’s looks was a pinkish-gray nose with light beige fur on either side of it, as he sniffed the unfamiliar smells in our apartment. As soon as the box was opened, he hopped out, showing no fear – just plenty of curiosity about his new environment. I was smitten by the charms of this inquisitive little beast.

IM000079.JPGGranted, we may have been biased in claiming that Macska was World’s Cutest Cat, but besides having a striking appearance, he knew how to work it. Think Puss in Boots, from Shrek. He would lie on the floor, fluffy belly begging to be petted, and roll slowly onto his side, and then look up as if to see what effect his antics were having on his audience. At a science museum in San Francisco, we saw an exhibit on cuteness; it mentioned, among other factors, that people typically find creatures with unusually large, round eyes to be cuter than their more normal-eyed counterparts. Our perception of Macska’s cuteness now had some scientific data to back it up.

It was a multisensory cuteness, as well. Despite the fact that I’ve never actually felt the fur of an angora rabbit, I always said Macska’s long gray fur was “angora-soft,” because its extraordinary texture seemed to merit a distinctive modifier.   In addition to the tactile pleasure of stroking this angora-soft fur, petting Macska, even just once or twice, almost always activated a surprisingly loud purr, peaceful and soothing in its rhythmic rumble.

Most of Macska’s other habits were adorable as well. When we lived in Chicago, the door of our apartment opened into a long hallway that led to the living room. Sometimes, we’d be about to leave, and Macska would be curled up against the door, which led to a game we called “launch-the-kitty”: one of us would pick him up around the middle and swing him forward and backward while counting to three. On three, we’d release him, and he’d sprint down the hall and into the living room. He loved this game so much that if we didn’t get out the door efficiently, he’d sprint right back and block our egress in hopes that we’d launch him again. He was also a fan of tug-o’-war. We had a simple cat toy that was merely a long, colorful piece of fabric attached to a plastic stick. I think the intent was for owners to wave it around while cats would chase the end of the fabric … but Macska preferred to bite the end of the fabric and not let go, regardless of our gentle efforts to pull it away from him. Giving up on getting him to relinquish the fabric at our urging, we’d cry, “Tug!” and praise him for doing it so effectively.

IM000097.JPGMacska was as cute asleep as he was awake, especially when he’d cover his eyes with his paw. We called him the “meld-a-beast” for his seeming ability to become one with any comforter or rug or pillow on which he slept. Sometimes, he sought more offbeat naptime accommodations. On our dresser, we used to have a dollhouse, and when Macska wasn’t yet fully grown, the dollhouse’s second-story terrace, above its conservatory, proved a perfect place for a catnap. And of course, Macska loved the holidays, because it meant he could climb into our artificial Christmas tree and curl up around the trunk. Telltale tufts of gray fur in the flattened-down branches first clued us in, but occasionally, we’d find Macska himself blinking sleepily at us, apparently content in the knowledge that he was our favorite ornament.

Macska’s most enduringly endearing habit, however, was his penchant for lap-snuggling. We used to call him the Lap Slut, because he’d spend a bit of time with one of us, and then switch to the other, and then back again. More flatteringly, we also called him the Kitty Ambassador, because he wasn’t afraid of strangers, and would gladly snuggle in their laps too, if allowed, at times helping “dog people” to understand a bit better what made “cat people” tick. In recent years, Macska became the Spiritual Kitty, because of the regularity with which he’d join me in the morning as I sat on the couch reading my Bible or writing in my prayer journal.

Not all of Macska’s habits were cute. Some were just odd – like his licking fetish. He’d go through occasional stages during which he’d lick various surfaces, from the metal tub faucet to the plastic laundry baskets. For a while, he even liked to lick the wall at the head of our bed, though his doing so would get him shut out of the room. And then, more annoying than odd, was the way he sometimes chose to get our attention: by batting at our hands (on the couch) or heads (in bed), and, if this didn’t get the desired result (having someone pet him), he’d keep batting, but with his claws out.

The worst habits, though, were the ones Macska may not have been able to help. When he was only a few years old, he had some urinary problems. The good news was that they mostly went away when we gave him a special, vet-prescribed cat food. The bad news was that it’s pricey stuff, and we ended up feeding it to all our subsequently acquired cats too, rather than go through the constant hassle of trying to make sure they all got enough to eat without letting Macska eat the normal food or letting the others eat the special food.

IM000802.JPGSoon after we got the urinary problems under control, Macska began having intestinal problems as well. So we kept an eye on him, and if he started getting blocked up, we’d take him to the vet for an enema. This wasn’t fun for any of us, but seemed to be working … until the enemas were being needed more and more frequently, and we weren’t sure how often we could put him through this and still feel he had a decent quality of life. But then, at the vet’s suggestion, we tried giving him small, daily doses of a laxative powder available at the grocery store, sprinkling it in his moist food so he’d eat it. We’re pretty certain this prolonged his life by two or three years.

In fact, about three years ago, when those car-window stick-figure families started getting particularly popular, we thought it would be amusing to get one for ourselves, consisting of Matthew, me, and our (at the time) five cats. Not too long after that, we took in Cat Number Six – and yet we didn’t order a sixth cat sticker, because Macska’s health seemed precarious enough that we worried, on some level, that as soon as we got the sixth sticker, Macska would die.

Yet he hung on, and between the special food and the miracle laxative powder, Macska was in some ways healthier than he’d been as a middle-aged cat. Nonetheless, we couldn’t deny that he was getting older. Though he still seemed to have a decent appetite, he became progressively scrawnier, and while I continued to pet him along the sides, and to scritch his head and belly, I stopped petting his back, because it was too disturbing to feel his spine. “You’re just skin and bones!” we’d say, and then add, “Skin and bones – and fur and purr – and love.”

In the past couple years, Macska wasn’t grooming himself so well, either, and his long fur developed frequent lumps that needed to be cut or shaved. And his movements seemed stiff. He struggled a bit when jumping up to the couch or bed; and when jumping down, his back legs wouldn’t land quite right. We thought it was just arthritis.

IMG_0715We continued to think this until, about three weeks ago, Matthew saw Macska’s back half just buckle underneath him and fall over as he was trying to walk. Frightened, Matthew wondered if this was the end, but since Macska started moving more normally before long, we continued to tell ourselves it was probably just arthritis.

Problems returned, however, about a week later. Matthew took Macska to the vet and found that he had both a tumor and a heart problem, and to treat the former would mean exacerbating the latter. He also had a urinary tract infection, so the vet gave us some medication for that, and we hoped we could at least clear that up and make Macska more comfortable during his remaining months, or weeks.

But as it turned out, we didn’t have weeks. We didn’t even have one week. Over the next couple days, Macska stopped eating, and appeared to be moving less and less. We’d come home from work and find him in the exact same spot on the couch, with no evidence that he’d been elsewhere. We’d pick him up and set him in front of his food and water bowls. He’d drink some water, but would ignore the food. We’d then set him in the litter box, and nothing would happen, other than his attempting to leave it. So we’d put him back on the couch, where he’d change his position with evident difficulty.

By Friday night, we were talking about the possibility of having Macska euthanized, but despite his obvious illness, the decision itself was not so obvious to us. He was still drinking; wasn’t that a good sign? And he could still move, albeit not easily. And above all, he was still purring, still making that sweet sound suggesting contentment, tranquility, and love. His eyes, though – it was getting harder to look at his eyes. They’d become somehow smaller, yet the pupils appeared to have grown, so no longer were they round, alert, and greenish-gold; they were triangular, and black, and looking at them made something in my chest constrict.

IMG_1675So after Matthew went to bed on Friday, I stayed up for another half hour, gently stroking Macska’s head and sides, and weeping softly as I murmured repeatedly what a good kitty he was.

The next morning, Matthew called the vet’s office to make the appointment, his voice choking on the words. Come at 11:45, they told us. Three more hours. Three more hours to wait … but also three more hours to spend with Macska. We watched a movie, and Matthew put Macska in my lap. Partway through, we paused for a bathroom break, after which I insisted that Matthew should get a chance to hold him too. Macska acquiesced for a while, but though he’d seemed to like us both pretty equally for most of his life, there was no denying that, in recent years, he’d become a Mama’s kitty. After a short time on Matthew’s lap, this cat who had barely moved for several days struggled to his feet and lurched in my direction. Humbled by this show of devotion that seemed so undeserved on my part, I reached out to hold him for one final hour.

At the vet’s, a man sitting next to us said, “That’s a handsome cat.” At that point, it was hardly the truth, but it was kindly meant, and perhaps the man could still glimpse traces of how cute Macska had been in his prime. When I see strangers on the brink of tears, my own instinct is to keep my distance, but this man was unafraid to enter into our pain, and though I don’t remember exactly what he said, his quiet, sympathetic conversation provided welcome comfort.

And then we were called to go into the room. This was the first time we’d ever had a cat put to sleep, and I was startled by how quickly it happened. Sixteen years of “Tug!” and “Launch!” and laps and love, sixteen years of sharing our home and our hearts with this small, affectionate creature, and his life was snuffed out in about a minute, if that.

DSC01165So now, for the first time in over two years, the sticker count on my car window is right. Five cats. The sticker count is right, but the atmosphere feels wrong. My lap is lonely in Macska’s absence. Sitting on the couch without a furry gray cat to anchor me, I sense, even subconsciously, both physically and emotionally, that something – someone – is missing.

I’ve wondered sometimes about that white cat, Praline, Laura’s first-choice cat at the shelter. Was she as sweet as she seemed? Did she bring her owner much joy? Likely she did, and I’d be glad of that. But for myself, I’m grateful that she’d already been claimed. Laura’s second-choice kitty turned out to be the perfect choice for us.

Pumpkins! 2014

Meredith and I have one holiday tradition that we have done for our entire marriage (and even before that for a few years) – we have carved pumpkins. The 2014 entries are:

Meredith – a tribute to her father:

 

Matt – drawing inspiration from the cover of The Great Gatsby:

Backblog – Maine (June and July)

The blog got ignored with the funeral over the summer, helping Carlene with her things, and with the start of the school year. Here is a series of entries to help me catch up.

Dale was buried in a graveyard in Rockland, Maine. So, Meredith and I got to spend about a week in coastal Maine, with a one-day trip to see my family in Livermore Falls. Some quick highlights:

 

Dale’s Eulogy by Bob Ingram

031Here is the last of the three eulogies given at Dale’s funeral. This one was given by his last boss, the headmaster of Geneva School in Florida, Bob Ingram.

 

Dale King made me a better man.

At St. Paul’s, I was Dale’s pastor, and he was a trusted elder who served and loved his fellow congregants well. His ministry was the care of souls; he delighted in rapt attention to the preached Word; he had a love of liturgy for its spiritual language; and he had the humility to sit under the teaching of men his junior.

Those of his own age and era found the cadence of his speaking, the rhythm of his words, and the poetics of his vocabulary to be friendly reminders of times past. Those younger than Dale found him admirable and came to understand what is meant by the phrase “requiem for a lost piety.” They knew his love of Jesus differed from theirs—it was richly deeper, more intimate, and that they were the poorer for their lack of reverence and devotional prayer.

As an elder at St. Paul’s Dale was wise, faithful, optimistic, a man of good cheer, theological astuteness, and never at a loss for many “not so whispered” quips during our deliberations. One left session meetings, as with any discussion with him, realizing he was a treasure trove of spiritual insight distilled in the literature of Christian authors of the English speaking world.

As an erstwhile poet who maintained he wrote “but doggerel on his best days,” I encouraged him to write hymns and spiritual lyrics for use in the church and The Geneva School. 18 years later, and as recently as Sunday in church, we continue to render praise in the words he penned. Current and future generations will frame their understanding of the Christian faith through his eyes, his metaphors, and his rhyme.

032Dale was “old school,” which suited us all just fine. Being a Christian classical school we resonated with each other; our hearts beat in synch and especially for the humanities. Dale loved to teach and his students, being enamored of him and revering him so, loved to learn. Teaching did not tire him—if anything it energized him to fulfill his calling with all diligence. He had a warm affection for his students, and they knew that when he interrupted himself, raised his eyebrows, raised a pointed finger, that he was now going “off topic.” A foray into his own foibles, Irish poetry, George Herbert or Shakespeare would amaze them regarding his fertility of mind and imagination and wit, all given over to the pursuit of biblical faith.

His presence on our faculty legitimated all other faculty members. He gentled all of our conditions by his demeanor and cultivated aesthetic: Now, admittedly, he did not do this through his playfully irreverent quips—

“I’m here to fetch my woman.”

“Hey Bossman”

“This has been a grand gig to teach at Geneva”

Nor by his worn, stretched T-shirts, always untucked, and sagging shorts and sandals.

But his aesthetic contribution was in the beauty of a life well lived; in the fidelity of his love for Carlene and his unselfish devotion to her; his life flourished with fruit from his love of the arts, opera, literature, the theater, music, George Herbert, Bach cantatas, and the beauty of language that extolled a beautiful Savior.

065He was a man of letters whose every correspondence I have kept on file, for each is worthy of a second reading. I was always astounded and humbled that he considered me his theological and grammar editor of all of his circular letters at Christmas, Easter, and celebrative occasions. He even sought my counsel on some rhyming schemes for a love poem he wrote for Carlene. In reflection I believe he did it not for any MODEST assistance rendered, but as a “nuanced nudge” that maybe I should endear myself to my wife even as he did to Carlene.

Dale King made me a better man, pastor, and Headmaster.

Mary commented that the years in Orlando may have been some of their happiest. Should that be the case, please know that Dale and Carlene were well loved, and always had ample affection for both St. Paul’s and Geneva.

Allow me to read to you a prayer I penned for both Dale and Carlene that was offered on their behalf the last Sunday they worshipped at St. Paul’s prior to moving back to Ohio:

O God, the sovereign disposer of the course of our lives, we pray to you this day with thankful hearts for the years that you lent the Kings to us. They have gentled all of our conditions; they have inspired us through literature with their wit, wisdom, and eloquence, the effect of which has enriched our souls. Do not permit us to squander the investment they have made in each of us; instead, O God, enlarge their legacy as the years pass by. You have seen fit to grant them over 100 years of teaching together, and they have delighted in fulfilling their calling with dignity and grace. Theirs has been a ministry to the Kingdom through the church and schools; may they who have worn a servant’s livery now receive from the kind ministrations of others.

IMG_0234Give them we ask, health and vigor and length of days—the enjoyment of life with their family in Ohio. May this next time of life be a comforting one in their Pilgrim’s Progress. By your good pleasure may they continue to grow in grace as they grow in age; use this as a sanctifying grace to the advantage of all who know and love them.

And O Father, given our low cultural estate, we would be remiss if we did not thank you for the fidelity of their marriage vows, the constancy of their love, and their mutual dependence upon one another. Preserve their sweet affection for each other in the years ahead. Continue, O God, your generous grace to them.

Through Christ our Lord, Amen.

And because it is so fitting for George Herbert to continue his poetic voice even in death, to death, this poem is offered in honor of Dale.

Death by George Herbert

Death, thou wast once an uncouth hideous thing,

Nothing but bones,

The sad effect of sadder groans:

They mouth was open, but thou couldst not sing.

For we considered thee as at some six

Or ten years hence,

After the loss of life and sense,

Flesh being turned to dust, and bones to sticks.

We looked on this side of thee, shooting short;

Where we did find

The shells of fledge souls left behind,

Dry dust, which sheds no tears, but may extort.

But since our Savior’s death did put some blood

Into they face,

Thou art grown fair and full of grace,

Much in request, much sought for as a good.

For we do now behold thee gay and glad,

As at Doomsday;

When souls shall wear their new array,

And all thy bones with beauty shall be clad.

Therefore we can go die as sleep, and trust

Half that we have

Unto an honest faithful grave;

Making our pillows either down, or dust.