Saturday, September 01, 2012

Who was Morris Davidson?

Max, apparently.

I was putting together the paperwork for an insurance claim for Max's treatment and cremation last night, and I found myself wandering through the paperwork they gave me when I got him in October, 2002. I suppose I glanced at it back then; not really much since. As with Twinkle when she died and I wandered through the notes and remarks about her life before me, I found myself wondering about Max's.

His vet was in Thornhill, a little north of here, which would explain why he was at the PetSmart in Markham when I got him. It records his birth as being in November, 1999, not some time in 2000 as I'd imagined. His first visit to the vet was Nov. 17th. He was neutered right around his first birthday (happy birthday, kid); the paperwork records Nov. 17 again, this time in 2000.

All of this stuff gives his name as "Morris". It's crossed out and replaced with "Max" once we get to records put together by the adoption agency. So he was actually just shy of three years old when I got him, and would have been 13 in a few more months.

But that means he was "someone else" for nearly three years. What was his life like? Why in the world did anyone give him up? With Twinkle, it was less of a mystery. She was feisty and more than any other cat I had, peed and crapped on anything and everything. But Max was never anything but a good ol' guy; hardly a lick of trouble out of him in ten years. Clearly, he wasn't given up because of any behavioural problem. I wonder if perhaps his owner—whoever loved him as "Morris"—passed away and orphaned him. I really wish I knew. Living alone as I do, that worry haunts me too, I figure there'll come a time in my life when I just stop adopting cats for fear of what will happen to them when they survive me.

Well, whoever he may once have been in the springtime of his life, he lived and died as Max to me... and to himself, since he almost unfailingly came when I called his name. And now he's home again, for good, though not in the way I would have wished a few weeks ago.


jim said...

My dog Gracie was a stray, fully grown when we got her. That makes her at least 15, but I have no idea how old she actually is. I don't know what her life before was like, except that she showed signs of abuse.

But she's been a good companion over the years. I suppose that's all that really matters.

Bridgewater said...

Whatever his life experience before he became Max, at least he was put up for adoption--not put out on a city street like my cat. But I can imagine several possible reasons why this happened: for one, she was about six months old when discarded--somebody knew that spaying isn't free--and for another, I'll bet she was crapping messily outside the box. Spaying was item 2 on the to-do list--all shots and a checkup were first, with Vet 1 thinking he felt a spay-scar on her belly--but within days of her adoption and after a few good meals, she was caterwauling and greeting gentlemen callers through the screen door. Took longer to figure out what was going on with the crapping, but Vet 2 suspected an immune or allergic reaction, gave her a shot of cortisone to reduce inflammation, and put her on a single-food diet with a protein to which she had never been exposed--ostrich--and voila, no more "accidents." Sweet, healthy, and playful at 8 1/2 years. But yeah, the time will come. Previous cat was 15. Nonetheless, what they bring to our lives is well worth the price.