Marni Girl

1994 to July 24, 2009

When Marni (formerly Mitzi) lost her life-long caregiver at age 89, she, too, had reached the golden age of 14. But, with only one "mommie" her entire life, the change threw her into turmoil, and, after coming to Maine Coon Adoptions, she couldn't adjust to a new life with many other kitties in the kennel, and was in a state of extreme stress hoping to find a new home. Elaine knew I had a quiet, ample space to foster, and Marni (named "Mardi" by this time), came to Homestead Valley in May 2008 with a psychic healing and a request to us to be called "Marni." So it would be.

I found her a comfy place for her fuzzy bed in the office bathroom on a ledge looking out a window onto our community garden, just beginning to sprout, and welcomed her to life in a community center business office. She had the run of the office, and had promised in her reading that if allowed to go into the garden, wouldn't go far. She loved the garden as it grew and grew, would often sit by me as I weeded and watered, and she kept her promise.

Marni was a foster kitty, and I showed her to the many who came by the office as a kitty looking for a home, but the months went by and summer came and, without finding a new "forever home," she and I bonded. I was her caretaker, to be sure, but something very special happened between us. Even if others were in the office, she would give me almost all of her attention. If I were upstairs in the community center, she would curl up on my desk chair and wait, and my colleague David would tell me that, at the first sound of MY feet on the stairs (she KNEW the sound of my steps as opposed to others), she would leap to life and voice, over and over, her familiar "hello" meow until I walked through the door.

It was a bit hard getting work done, because, although most of the time she would lie on her sheepskin pad on the desk return at my left elbow, she would often get up and insist on plopping on my desk right in front of me, blocking the computer monitor. I couldn't resist allowing her to do so, and I will NEVER forget the hundreds of times I wrapped both arms around her and lay my head on her body as she purred and purred. It was hard, every night, turning out the lights and saying goodnight while she spent the night alone, but she seemed to understand, and would be waiting patiently in my chair or at the door when I arrived in the morning.

Winter turned to spring with no one showing any real interest in Marni, and the new garden began to grow again. Marni, now 15, was doing fine, between her trips from the office to visit the peppers, beans, and the tall corn, lying in the shade, and batting at the occasional cabbage butterfly. Then, in mid-July, things began to change. She would spend a lot more time in her fuzzy bed looking out the window at the tomatoes and the corn, now as high as an elephant's eye. Then, she stopped eating, and after that, she stopped drinking.

Three or four days elapsed, and I couldn't get her interested in food. I knew a vet visit was coming, but I had my own medical issues. Diagnosed with treatable cancer, I was to go into the hospital myself for a few days for chemotherapy. It was if Marni was telling me that week, "I don't want my health issues to be in the way of your treatment, so let's get me to the doc." On Sunday, July 19, Sue and I were working in my small garden when we noticed Marni had joined us, sitting under my large catnip plant. I had left the gate between the yards open, which Marni had noticed from her bed in the downstairs office. As sick as she was, she had made her way through one garden, a yard, and another garden to be with us. Sue had trimmed the catnip bush and put the trimmings in a large paper bag. Marni found the bag, and crawled in head first. When we finished in the garden, we couldn't find her until we saw her tail sticking out of the bag of catnip. A few minutes of catnip "huffing" gave her a nice, blessed thirst, and she walked over to the dish we had put on the front step, and took the longest drink, which must have been painful to swallow, that I've ever seen. I grabbed Sue's camera and snapped a shot, and that's the picture you can see here. That was the last "normal" Marni behavior we saw. Marni and I both went into the hospital two days later.

Sue was my link from the hospital to Marni's progress, and her diagnosis wasn't easy. Elaine was out of the country, and we knew we would want to restore her to health if possible, but not waste MCA's limited resources if she wasn't treatable. X-rays only produced a chest full of fluid, which was drained, but, the next day, an ultrasound reveal a pancreatic tumor that had spread to her chest and throat.

As I left the hospital on Thursday, I knew Marni wouldn't be so fortunate. On Friday, after talking to Dr. Wehren, Sue and I went together to the clinic, and the staff showed us to her cage. We brought her to an exam room, and, well, she had spirit, but looked a wreck. We knew what the decision must be, so, after a little bit of cuddle time and some tearful goodbyes, Sue and I held Marni as Dr. Wehren put her to sleep.

I am not the same person, having known Marni for just over a year, and I think of her every day. So much here at Homestead reminds me of her. Her "outside" water dish still sits in the garden. I never realized I could love an animal, that wasn't even officially "mine," so much.

It's late August now and the corn is ready to pick, the tomatoes are turning red, and the day campers are helping us pick and eat the beans. But, things will never be quite the same at the Homestead Valley Community Garden. We miss the fuzzy gray and white kitty nestling in the nasturtiums. From now on, it will be officially known as "Marni's Garden."

Show the love you feel for your kitties, because that's exactly how they feel about you.