In July of 2008, I was living in a slum apartment in Cambridge, MA. My then-boyfriend and I went to the MSPCA in Jamaica Plain and met a ~1-year-old cat named Bu-bu. I knew he was his because he was alone in a cage, and when I asked to hold him, he purred and licked my chin. We adopted him and renamed him Murray. Our life together was not glamorous. Murray was energetic (and, if I'm honest, a holy terror), biting our feet through the blankets and chomping our toes with his needly kitten teeth. But he was sweet when he had to be, and I learned to love him and his shenanigans. The apartment had a spider infestation, but we (luckily?) got booted by the landlord when he was sued over the house and lost it.
Our next apartment was in East Boston. It was not an ideal place to live; the man upstairs was violent and apparently also sold drugs (given the graffiti on our front door, which was meant for them). But it was in this apartment where Murray, then 2 years old, saw me taking a bath for the first time. It was summer, and we had no air conditioning, so I was soaking in cold water. Murray put his front paws on the tub's edge to sniff me, thought about it for a moment, and then used his foot to slap me right in the face. No claws, I wasn't hurt, but that story still makes me laugh all these years later.
Shortly after, I broke up with my then-boyfriend, and Murray and I moved out. In 2009, I graduated from grad school and spent a summer singing and working in Maine, and Murray lived briefly with my sister Kelly in Michigan. Apparently, he got to a state of some tolerance, but he never really ingrained himself with Kelly and her cats. Lucky for me, that meant Murray would come home to me in New England.
We lived in Brookline, where my roommate didn't want a cat, so Murray only had to stay in my bedroom. We moved into a basement apartment in Allston, where all the floors were cement, and there were regular sounds of clanging because we were next to HVAC stuff. We moved to a fancy apartment in Cambridge with air conditioning and a kind roommate, but things were hard because I didn't know what to make of my life. Murray slept on every piece of furniture in the living room.
Murray and I moved to a studio apartment in Allston next. I quit my job serving at a restaurant/brewery and joined a tech company. Murray was alone all day. He loved to wake me up in the middle of the night. I never cleaned up after him quickly enough, but I bought him toys and gave him kisses. I met Isaac and hoped that Murray and Isaac would get along. Luckily, they did! Sometimes I wonder if Murray liked Isaac more (I do know he liked how much warmer Isaac is than me).
The three of us moved to Medford. Isaac and I got married, and at our wedding, we had framed pictures of Murray on every table at the reception. They were all taken by guests (that's okay, I'm glad people liked them!).
Covid hit the world. I was suddenly home all day, every day. The three of us moved to Lowell into an apartment in an old mill building. It was noisy, and Murray and I were both anxious about the world, about social issues, about everything. But we snuggled, we played, and having him kept me mostly sane.
In 2021, the three of us moved to New Hampshire. Murray thrived in this apartment. He would lay in the sun, he would watch the birds. He ran this house, and we knew it. He would boss us around and yell at us if we were up past bedtime. If anyone got a deli bag of salami from the fridge, Murray would come into the kitchen and scream at you because he wanted some. He loved this place, and we loved seeing him happy here.
But in 2022, Murray started having some problems. He would get sick, and we would wonder if he had IBS or cancer. It would hit every few months, and we started taking our blankets and building nests throughout the house in quiet areas so that he could sleep there if he wasn't feeling well. We bought sensitive digestive food. We tried taking him to the vet (he was NOT a fan of this). We stopped giving him any food but one specific brand. We could manage it. But he was slowing down. He stopped playing with his toys. But he would snuggle me in the mornings and sleep on my desk while I worked. He was there when we celebrated my beating cancer; he was there when we celebrated my 40th birthday. Things were good; they made sense.
Then, right around Christmas 2023, Murray started to get worse. He was sick more often. He slept more. He wasn't grooming correctly. We drove him to Michigan with us because I was too afraid to leave him at home. At one point, it seemed like he was starting to improve. One night, he woke me in the dead of night, and I heard him purring. Like old times! This must have been good news! We kept cleaning up his messes, feeding him special food, and providing soft places to sleep. We could manage it!
But he started to get wobbly. Then, late one night, Isaac woke to Murray thrashing around. Suddenly, Murray couldn't walk anymore. He stopped eating.
Finally, on January 16, 2024, Murray left this world. He was wrapped in a blanket, and I held him and rocked him like a baby. After the vet gave him the first shot, Murray turned to me and meowed inquisitively. I can't think about this meow because I want to believe he was saying, "Is it time? Already?" But instead, I'm afraid he was asking what was going on. I only hope he wasn't scared.
We petted his soft ears, and we kissed his soft orange head. He is gone now, and our house and my heart feel unbearably empty.
Murray was my cat for 15 years, and although losing him breaks my heart, I wouldn't have traded a moment. The love of this bossy and very particular orange cat changed me, and we will never forget him.
ᛖᛁᛖᛋ ᛒᚱᛁᚷᚻᛏ,
ᚳᛚᚪᚹᛋ ᛋᚻᚪᚱᛈ,
ᛏᚪᛁᛚ ᚻᛖᛚᛞ ᚻᛁᚷᚻ.
ᚷᚩ ᚳᛖᛖᚾᛚᛁ ᛁᚾᛏᚩ ᚦᛖ ᛘᛁᛋᛏ, ᚩᛚᛞ ᚹᚪᚱᚱᛡᚱ.
ᚠᚪᛚᚻᚪᛚᛚᚪ ᚹᚪᛁᛏᛋ ᚠᚩᚱ ᛁᚩᚢ.
Eyes bright,
claws sharp,
tail held high.
Go keenly into the mist, old warrior.
Valhalla waits for you.
