Dogs of the North The Pack Melanchthon

In Memoriam

I can still see the look on my veterinarian's face when he coaxed me into the "cat wing" of the animal hospital to see a litter of week old kittens. I knew by the gleam in his eye that he wouldn't rest until I agreed to take one of them home the minute he or she was old enough.

Like so many rescues, Melanchthon and his litter mates had a sad story. They were found boarded up in a vacant building when their family moved away. It seems that after mama cat had her kittens, she was packed up with the rest of the "belongings" and her unwanted babies were left to starve inside the house. Fortunately, a contractor who was doing some work for the new owners stopped by and found the kittens. He took them off to my vet, who fed and cared for them until they were old enough to eat solid food.

Seven weeks later, a small, ginger tabby boy with white feet and chest rode home in the pocket of my old green barn coat. I named him after Phillip Melanchthon, Martin Luther's friend and colleague. Melanchthon the theologian bore the unfortunate nickname of "The Pussyfooter" as he tended to excel at the tact Luther often failed to employ when dealing with his adversaries. Fittingly, the feline Melanchthon was from the start a diplomat. Whenever a new animal came into the house, or a rescued cat or dog passed through on their way to a new home, it was Melanchthon who was the first to make friends and coax the newcomer into feeling at home. While the other cats where hissing and spitting, he would lie quietly outside the door and the next thing I knew, he and the strange animal were friends.

As a kitten, Melanchthon was incredibly inventive. The parsonage in Philadelphia had a long staircase, and he loved to hop on top and walk across the railing. One day as he started down the banister he slipped and slid most of the way to the bottom. I came running, certain that he had hurt himself, only to see him jump up, shake himself off, and run up the steps to do it again. Like an ornery little kid, he would slide down the banister over and over again.

It seemed like he was always getting himself into trouble. He'd try to climb up the screen door and get caught. He'd put his paw under the microwave and get a claw hooked on a Phillips head screw. He'd crawl into an open dresser drawer, slither behind it into the drawer beneath and sleep there until I'd closed the drawer on top, locking him in. Each misadventure would end with this particular meow he had. He wouldn't sound scared or upset. It was more like a chagrinned version of, "I did it again, mom. Would you mind bailing me out?"

Melanchthon loved to travel. He was the last of my cats who Archie had taught to ride in a car. If I was driving to visit my folks in Ohio, he'd curl up in the passenger seat next to me (before the age of air bags) and ride quite happily along. Even when we made the long two day move from Minneapolis to Ottawa, and the other cats were moderately or seriously stressed, Melanchthon thought it was a lark. I always think of him as sitting on the bed in the back of our borrowed RV singing a feline version of Willie Nelson's "On the Road Again."

Melanchthon loved dogs. As a kitten, he would jump on top of malamute Luke's back and ride him through the house! As an adult cat, he took on the responsibility of grooming his dogs. He would hop up on a table so he could reach Adam or Kate's face, wrap one front paw over their shoulder, and commence cleaning their face or ears or muzzle. With Daisy he could sit on the floor beside her, as he was taller than she is! The dogs tolerated this, and even seemed to like it. Melanchthon was a particularly good friend of Adam, and from the time he was a little puppy, would groom him by plucking out his undercoat and throwing it around the room. Adam loved for Melanchthon to groom him, and would often tap him with his paw to get him to do it. When Melanchthon was old and feeble these last few years, Adrian and I were so impressed by how gently Adam would reach out his paw and stroke Melanchthon, barely touching his fur, to get him to groom him.

Two years ago this past May we came home to find that Melanchthon had suffered a stroke. Our wonderful veterinarian met us at her office that evening and began treating him right away. He came home four days later and had to be confined to a single room with a very low bed in it. I had little hope that he would recover enough to lead a normal life, but he did. One day he started banging on the door to his room demanding to be let out. I followed him about for several days until it was clear he had figured out how to handle his impairment and get up and down the steps without hurting himself. Getting in and out of windows and other high places was a bit of a challenge, so I put boxes and tables and other make-shift stepping stones where he could use them. As he declined with arthritis, the effects of the stroke, and a series of other health issues, I prepared over and again to lose him. I did everything I could do to keep him alive and without pain or discomfort. He was such a good boy through it all. Three times I was sure the time was at hand, and twice I made appointments to put him to sleep, only to have him rally and prove me wrong. He was a fighter. And he loved his life and his home and his animal friends and his people too much to leave us I guess.

This week it was all too clear that he was no longer enjoying the simple things he loved so much. He couldn't get comfortable, even on my lap and he was restless and unhappy. So this morning I did what I believe was the most loving thing I could do for him, and let him go. Our vet gave him a sedative so that he could meet the end with as little stress as possible. He curled up in my lap with his head on my wrist, wrapped his front paws around my hand, purred, and kneaded the air above my fingers with happiness while I stroked him, thanked him for our sixteen years together, and told him goodbye.

In the empty hole where his life has been, there is comfort in the thought of him grooming Kira's face in the company of Luke and Archie and Paddy and Mordecai and Luther and all our friends who have gone before. And I think that my mom must be keeping very busy spoiling all these guys rotten in the kingdom of heaven.

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