Misty was the Start of it All
I had the most wonderful rescue cat for years and years. Her name was Misty. I picked her because she had my personality. I played with several different kittens on the counter at Bedford Animal Rescue, and none of them struck me until Misty. When I placed her on the counter, she immediately ran to the edge and fell off. I knew she was the one.
I had chosen a kitten at a time when I would be home for an entire week, but after several days I had to return to work. I always packed my briefcase on the dining table just before I left. After 2 days of being alone all day, Misty had had enough. The 3rd morning she positioned herself in the open briefcase, waited until she knew I was watching, and deposited her remarks on top of my datebook.
She was ever curious and always around me. When I took a shower, she would jump from the vanity to the slippery narrow shower curtain rod and balance there until I was finished.
Vets and cat lovers were always asking whether she was a Maine Coon, and I had never heard of the breed. But she had all of the characteristics: lynx types on her ears, rugged body, long shaggy fur, fur on the bottoms of her paws. And the personality of a dog — easy-going, friendly, and social. She loved to play in water. She loved to play fetch — throw an item and she’d chase and catch it and then return to drop it at my feet. Turns out this is not atypical for Maine Coons. And there is at least some Maine Coon in most outdoor cats in New England.
When she was younger I lived in a subdivision. Misty roamed the neighborhood. She was wonderful with children, and all the kids loved her. She would tolerate a 4 year old picking her up by a hind leg, but she expected more of a 10 year old. My neighbors across the street, Gerry and Donnie Paquette, owned a beagle who was often outside on a long lead in the shade. Misty loved to roll over and play just barely outside his reach — she knew it drove him crazy.
When I had to travel, I would carry Misty’s water and food dishes across the street to the Paquette’s house, and Misty would follow me over. As long as I was gone, she hung around their yard and assumed all the rights of “home.” When possible, she would sneak into the garage, and then into the house — something she never did when I was in town.
When I later moved, Misty had the run of my 12 acre property. There were a few large dogs in the neighborhood, and if one came on the property, she would chase him to the property line and then prance back to the deck, mission accomplished.
Doors confused her — she never seemed to know which side of the door would open, the hinge side or the handle side. Seemed strange to me that she couldn’t remember, but if you think about it, the front door that opened on the right from the inside did open on the left when you were outside. When it snowed, she would run from door to door hoping to find a door that still had grass outside.
Misty never had a litter box indoors. I let her out when she asked, and she was always nearby and came in when called. (Except for the time she was locked in a neighbor’s shed for a week … She lost some weight, but probably dined on fresh mouse every night.) On the 10-hour drive to my parents in western New York State, she slept in the back of the car, sans litter box. As soon as we arrived, she’d jump out and do her business, and then call my parents’ place home until we left. One time I was detained unexpectedly (no, not jail, I was helping out a friend) and she was inside my house for 36 hours. With no kitty litter available, she chose to use the bathtub, right next to the drain. Easiest cat ever.
She was generous too, often greeting me in the morning with a half-eaten mouse or chipmunk or snake next to my pillow. Breakfast in bed!
Misty gave me many years of comfort and joy, but the end finally came. She made it clear when it was time, so we went to the vet. My vet carefully wiped her fur with alcohol (to prevent an infection???) before the final injection. December 10 was a very sad day.
But it was not to be the end of the story. I could not stand the empty house. Within a few days, I was researching the Maine Coon breed, and the story continued on a snowy New Year’s Day at Advent HIll Cattery in Mont Vernon, New Hampshire.
© M. Robin Warren 2020
