I know that cats aren’t for everyone. I’ve got no problem with that. But if you’re in my life for any stretch of time, you’re going to encounter Muffy.
Muffy is my 17-year-old feline friend. He’s not a she, despite his feminine name. Hey, I was a kid; it was the ’80s. I’d heard stories of “Muffy, Biff, ALTA League, and add-a-beads,” and figured I’d better fit in. Who knew?
Muffy’s pretty much deaf now. He howls like a starving infant for a few hours every night. His once-outdoor-hunter-mentality has given way to a passive, sleeping-23-hours-a-day purring furball one. But I love him just the same.
He’s been there for me when boyfriends and girlfriends have bailed on me. He’s let me cry into his fur. He survived an earthquake with me. He loved me when I felt unlovable. Muffy has moved across the country and back with me, seen me through career changes, and still falls asleep curled up next to me every night. His love for me is unconditional, as is mine for him.
So, you’re in my life? Muffy is now in yours. Yes, I know he’s old. Yes, his breath is awful. Yes, the litterbox smell is hard to cover up. And, yes, I will feed him scraps from my plate and hold him when he wants to be held.
You’d think a partner would see my loyalty as endearing, knowing that my compassion and love is as generously doled out to him. That isn’t always the case. Muffy has been seen as a nuisance, a pest, a buzzkill, an interference in a grown-up relationship.
Take a closer look: I care for my pet as his teeth rot, his hearing goes, and his senility creeps in. If you’re smart, you’ll realize that this unconditional compassion is something you will need someday.