The 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.

Granted, 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.

Macska 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.

Soon 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.

We 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.

So 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.

So 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.

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:

August

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:

Here 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.

Dale 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.

He 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.

Give 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.

I did miss posting this by one day, as our anniversary was yesterday, but I am very blessed to be married to my best friend. I really can’t imagine my life without Meredith in it (or, if I can, I imagine a very lonely life). I love you, Meredith! Here is to 61 more years.

Dale King studied the scriptures every morning of his life since his college days. He also loved reading the seventeenth-century English Puritans. A favorite, Richard Baxter said about death:

“If a man that is desperately sick today, did believe he should arise sound the next morning; or a man today in desperate poverty, had he assurance that he should tomorrow arise a prince: would they be afraid to go to bed?”

He loved reading Spurgeon, the magnificent Victorian pastor, who admonished:

“Never fear dying, beloved. Dying is the last, but the least, matter that a Christian has to be anxious about. Fear living… that is a hard battle to fight, a stern discipline to endure, a rough voyage to undergo.”

“A good character is the best tombstone. Those who loved you and helped you will be remembered when forget-me-nots have withered. Carve your name on hearts, not on marble.”

He loved the seventeenth- century British poets. His favorite, George Herbert, said:

“Only a sweet and virtuous soul,/ Like seasoned timber never gives./ But though the whole world turn to coal,/Then chiefly lives.”

John Donne, another seventeenth-century poet thundered:

“Death be not proud, though some have called thee/ Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so…./ Death shall be no more ; death, thou shalt die.”

So. Why all the quotations? My heart is so broken that I cannot do this. Words….Words….Words!So inappropriate a medium for measuring immeasurable grief and loss. Forgive me. I must borrow language. I must borrow from the Apostle John who, under the inspiration of the Spirit of God, resorted to outrageous understatement in rehearsing the untimely loss of a beloved and respected colleague:

“There was a man sent from God whose name was John [the Baptist]. He was not that light, but was sent to bear witness of that light.”

In my life, and in the life of thousands of other students spanning the globe for over six decades: “There was a man sent from God whose name was Dale….” He, too, in the sovereignty of God, from before the foundations of the world, was sent to bear witness of Christ, the Light.

One of the best days of my life was an early fall morning in 1975 when I sheepishly stepped into Dale King’s Victorian literature class. A man with sparkling, dancing eyes; a robust beard; a winsome smile; a zest for life and literature. And—for the first time in my life—I thought I must have encountered a saint with the gift of glossolalia! He spoke in another tongue—the tongue of angels?— and with the voice of God. I was at the burning bush: I spent my first hour as a liberal arts undergraduate desperately trying to write in a notebook—phonetically—each polysyllabic nugget that dropped from his lips.

He kept me after-class that day. I was terrified that he was going to tell me that liberal arts education was reserved for scholars, not back-woods, ignorant hicks such as I. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and thanked me—with grace, charm, and elàn—for transferring to Malone from a nondescript, non-accredited Bible institute, and for picking up on the biblical allusions from his selection of Victorian essays for that first day. While wooing me in that sonorous Dale-King tone, he tipped too far in his chair, fell backward into a deft backward roll that any accomplished gymnast would have had to respect, picked himself up, returned to his chair, and, all the while, kept right on talking—didn’t miss a beat.

I fell in love. Hopelessly. Irrevocably. Soul-mates. Forever. My years at Malone, both as a student and, later, as a professor, were rich times, indeed: a few moments to rub shoulders with remarkable mentors in the Kingdom of Christ: Bob and Zovinar Lair, Burley Smith, John Bricker, Coach Bob Starcher, Carlene King.  Never, however, had I met another man like Dale.

The poet, J. Frederick Nims, in “Love Poem” attempts to capture the essence of such a beloved one. Nims admits that his wife is “his clumsiest dear,” one who is “a wrench in clocks and the solar system;” that is to say, she is someone who is clearly not a candidate to host a home-repair show.

Neither was Dale. He was not the one to set the timing on your carburetor or to trim back the giant oak tree towering over your house.  In the words of Nims, he had “no cunning” in fix-it situations, EXCEPT:

“Except all ill-at-ease figiting people.

The refugee uncertain at the door,/You make at home.

Deftly you steady the [broken, the reeling] on his undulant floor….

….Only/with words and people and love you move at ease

In traffic of wit expertly Maneuver/and keep us/all devotion at your knees….”

When I met Dale, I was hopeless. Raised in the shadows of the soot- belching smokestacks of Plant two of the Firestone factory in Akron, imagination was the only resource I had. It was the only escape one had from a world that seemed to have little opportunity, when all one ever saw was what was outside the front door. By high-school graduation, hope had been beaten out of me. I was broke, and I was broken. Ill-at-ease. Suicidal. God used Dale and Carlene to save my life, and to give me one. Dale tried his best to teach me literature but—far more than that—he gave me hope. (The apostle Paul insists in the conclusion of his letter to the Romans that we are saved by hope.) In the wonderful film Saving Mr. Banks, Walt Disney echoes the primacy of hope in a remonstrance to Pamela Travers, the author of Mary Poppins:

“That’s what we story-tellers do. We restore order with imagination. We instill hope again, and again, and again.”

What Dale did for me is redolent of a scene in Wendell Berry’s magnificent tale “Nearly to Fair,” in his book That Distant Land. In this story, a kind, gentle man comes across a small boy who has just been verbally abused (a staple in this child’s life) and left sobbing and cowering on the sidewalk. Dale, like the man in the story, looked at me in all my cowering, shivering, craven fear—looked into my bankrupt heart and announced to the whole world: “If you don’t mind, I’m going to borrow this boy for a while.” He picked me up, nestled me into his capacious heart—and he loved me.

More than my teacher, more than my dear friend, more than my most-loved colleague – he was my dad. To Dale, and the love of Christ that emanated from him, I owe everything. I would not have survived without him. Scores of his students surely must echo that same sentiment.

His crowning achievement, however, is that of winning the heart of his dear wife Carlene: She was my best teacher. Smartest person I know. The very definition of savoir-faire. An avatar of grace and charm.Her extension of friendship and love, one of the best things that ever happened to my wife.The final arbiter in all matters sartorial or gustatorial. I am ashamed in expressing my grief in front of her; I am faced with my selfishness. Forgive me, Carlene. Your grief must seem inconsolable.

Yet a little while, Carlene, and all of us who have tasted of the grace of Christ will re-unite with Dale in a place unencumbered by time or grief or doctor appointments, or medication. And Dale will have the Jordan Pond bars. And the party will begin.