Remembering Ms. Stumpy

I've never been much of a cat person. I always liked them well enough, but generally I gravitated more to dogs. I was insecure enough that I cherished canine codependency. Cats, on the other hand, were aloof. Like a compulsively unattainable woman, they looked pretty, self-indulgently preened, and would only permit your company into their sphere at their whim -- a whim that didn't manifest itself often. No, I was a dog kind of guy, and to this day miss my old border-collie cross, Murphy, even though he has been gone for 18 years.
Cats, however, are low-maintenance so, when I was walking woundedly after a split from my second wife I got myself a cat. Griffin (he's still around) was an adult cat of good behavior and he and I shared digs for well over a year before I met the woman whom I ultimately married in nuptials number three. Griffin, at the time of my acquisition, was ideal in temperament, and symbolically, as a castrated male, he seemed to match my carnal interests at a time when I was thinking of swearing off sweaty encounters entirely -- they hurt too much.
Time passed, as it always does, and then we happened upon a feline that completely changed my view of what a cat could be. We found her at an SPCA display in the mall. You know, the abandoned animal things where they cajole the public to take on the bad habits of an 'unadoptable' pussycat. My wife found Stumpy. She was a morose looking thing of orange, white and black. The SPCA lady, with "please-please-please" in her eyes was telling my wife that the cat was a quiet and lonely creature of probably age 13, and she would be no fuss or muss and she desperately needs a home, etc. etc. On whim we responded positively to her entreaties. As we packed her into a carrier, I noticed one more thing about her. She had no tail! She was a Manx; a full Manx, not even sporting a vestigial tail. For some perverse reason, I liked that about her. I like something different. In a similar display, I once toyed with the idea of getting a three-legged cat they were trying to flog. I refrained.
Anyway, we took the Manx home, and within a day she turned the place into her own. Quiet and retiring indeed. But, Griffin seemed pleased with the company and we, lacking in nomenclature imagination, I guess, went to the obvious in terms of name -- within a week, due to her lack in the tail department, had named her 'Stumpy'. It stuck. It worked. Somewhat balloon-like in shape, with the jackrabbit hind legs of a Manx, she strode her new world with complete dominance of the scene.
It took me very little time to realize that this was a cat of powerful personality. She asserted her presence, and she had control of the household. When I went outdoors, she followed me around. When I looked down at her, she would meow back at me. I found that highly amusing. I would laugh in spite of myself. She was, in fact, very like a dog in behavior. She was also brave and tough, and immensely territorial. God help any neighborhood cat who might wander into Stumpy's domain. She knew no fear. She was only afraid of one thing: the crumpling of plastic grocery bags. To crumple would send her scampering out of the room in terror. We never knew why.
We looked up Manxes on the Internet, and found that she was typical in behavior and that Manxes were, yes, very doglike.
Shortly after we acquired Ms. Stumpy (I added the 'Ms' part later, just on whim) we found from our vet that there was no way she was nearing feline dotage. She was six, maybe seven tops. That was great, I thought. Even though my wife and I like to travel whenever we can, we have a reliable cat-sitter, so it's never bothersome leaving them. So, if Stumpy was to be around for many years, I was actually delighted. She brought something to my life I haven't yet fully understood.
Unfortunately, that many years was not to be. About three weeks ago, my wife went out of town to take a course of study. I would be at home with the cats. Not bothersome. I've batched enough in my adult life, that I'm actually quite good at it. Stumpy, however, was not seeming to be good at it. She seemed morose. She showed no appetite for food, or for fun. Regarding the food part, she has an appetite like a room full of truck loggers, so that was odd behavior. I assumed she was pining for Wendy, so I didn't obsess about it -- for a while.
But, after a few days, she still showed no interest in eating, or in much of anything else. I bought some special treats for her, in hopes that maybe higher-priced grub would entice her. It didn't. She took to vacating the house when I arose, and would spend her day lying under a shrub in the back garden. I'd look in on her. She'd purr when I stroked her, and she would meow at me. Later, the 'meows' assumed a sort of plaintive tone. When it reached the point when she would show no interest in coming indoors, even as darkness fell -- leaving me to carry her -- I realized something serious was afoot.
I took her to the vet. The vet ran tests. The vet returned to the antechamber wherein I was waiting. She had a slightly crestfallen look on her face. I knew what she was going to say, and that was exactly what she did say. It was endgame. Ms. Stumpy had a "huge mass" on her intestine. The chances of it not being malignant were a mere one in ten, and the exploratory biopsies would cost more than I could ever justify paying, as much as my wife and I loved the animal. I had to make one of the nastier decisions one has to make in life. The vet's recounting of the physical pain the cat was in, made my decision easier, though no more savory. And I made it. And I miss her.
She was only with us for 2 1/2 years, and I never thought I'd find myself writing about a damn cat, but sometimes we just don't know 'everything' that makes us work in this life, so I won't question it. I'll just be grateful for the 2 1/2 years. They taught me something about myself, though I'm not yet certain what that something looks like.