The Mugsie/Feisty Duo Doubled My Pleasure and Fun

Before I got married, my cat, Mugsie, shared my apartment. After I brought him home from an animal shelter, he decided that I was his private property. When he saw me going through the rituals of preparing to go out for the evening, Mugsie communicated his displeasure. He’d lodge himself under my dressing table and stretch his paw in between the gaps in the curtain tacked around the edge of the table. Then he’d swipe at my hand while I tried to apply my makeup. If that didn’t distract me enough, Mugsie would leap to the light switch and flip it off.

After I became familiar with his routine, I learned to continue while Mugsie launched the next phase of attack. He’d plop his rear end on the top button of the radio to turn it on and push the knob, making it play louder. All of these shenanigans usually didn’t stop me, so he’d start nibbling on the plants.

That worked.

I’d chase him out of the room, much to his obvious delight.

Mugsie was an angel animal who found ways to make sure I got his messages. Once I unwrapped a birthday present on my coffee table, but the shiny pink bow had fallen to the floor. The next day when I arrived home from work, Mugsie had carefully placed the bow on top of his leavings in the kitty litter box.

A present?

I wondered if he could have deliberately placed this bow in such a strategic position. I picked up the bow and put it back on the floor by the coffee table. The next evening, I returned from work to find the present on top of Mugsie’s leavings again.

Were these the remains of the day?

Mugsie was communicating with me in his own inimitable fashion to let me know his opinion about being left home alone for too long. He thought it was a “poop-y” thing to do?

Once I sat in a chair, wondering what Mugsie did to earn his keep. I thought about how I fed him, emptied his kitty litter, and took care of all his needs. What did he do for me? At this moment, as I questioned the balance between us, Mugsie high-stepped into the room. He walked over to the corner and wiped a cobweb off the wall. Then he turned and gave me a look that let me know I should never question his value again.

I didn’t.

Mugsie lived to be twenty-one years old, seeing me through a divorce, a new marriage, to Allen, and a move to the cold land of Minnesota. Finally, it was time for his rascally old body to give out. And the cat who loved only me left this earth while I held him in my arms and cried. But before Mugsie left, he’d started living with our newest addition to the angel animal family, Prana, our gentle golden retriever. Prana tried everything to get Mugsie to accept her love. But the old critter consistently spurned the dog’s affection.

Mugsie died never knowing how much more love he could have had.

The night before Mugsie left us, I promised him that if he ever wanted to return, I’d love to have him live with me again. I told him that he’d have to let me know he was back and how to find him. For I believe that cats have at least nine lives.

One afternoon, three years after Mugsie’s passing, I took a nap and woke up with the sure knowledge that Mugsie had returned. I hurried to tell Allen. I said that I couldn’t explain it, but I just knew we had to get to the humane society immediately, because Mugsie would be there. Allen has all the qualities on my husband wish list. One thing I especially appreciate about him is that when I tell him something as crazy as this, he doesn’t argue with me about it. I guess he’s learned better over the years. So he drove me to the animal shelter and we started the frantic search for Mugsie, with the added anxiety that the building would be closing in thirty minutes.

Continued on page 2: 'Prana began raising Feisty to be a dog...' »