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It embraced her tenderly and took away her pain. Before I tell you about her end, let me tell you about her amazing life.
She was my big sister's cat. They lived together with Lisa's then-boyfriend and quite happily. Melma was a new kitten, cute as a friggin' button, soft as a rabbit, with a tiny meow and a lot of love to give. She was a total princess, treated to the very best by her Mummy-Human, Lisa. Soon, Lisa broke up with that boyfriend and they both moved back home. I remember how adorable Melma was, and I wanted to hug her SO MUCH. I was a loud, silly kid. I chased her under the dresser in the hallway and she hid under there, eyes huge in fear of me. Things did not start well for me and Melma. I was loud and annoying and hugged her too much. Melma was used to far finer treatment.
Soon, living with such a loud family and with so many humans around, she chilled out and became the loving cat we knew so well. But she very nearly lost her life at that young age.
We live on a busy road that runs alongside a showground here in Perth. It was showtime and cars were everywhere. While she was out the front getting pats from pedestrians passing by (a favourite pasttime for her), she strayed onto the road. She was rolled over by a car.
Her entire back end was rolled over. She ran down the side of the house and hid under Dad's tool bench. We took her out and rushed her to the vets. We thought she'd have to be put down, we agonised and cried over her. We thought that would be the end. But it wasn't.
Mum, Dad and Lisa got the money together and paid thousands of dollars for Melma to have surgery. She'd broken her hip, you see. So they mended her broken hip, and she was confined to my big sister's room down the back (it was a granny flat) and fed lots of calcium powder and nutritious food. It took a while, but she was back on her feet again. She had wonky back legs since then, pigeon toes. She had the cutest little walk from that.
Melma was quite the madam. She liked the very best sleeping spots. She liked plenty of attention and she liked doughnuts. Oh, how she would tackle us kids for a bit of doughnut when my Mum bought them for us as a treat. If people were outside, or socialising anywhere, she would be there in a flash, ready to hang out and recieve whatever affection might be going.
She was also an incredibly empathetic and loving cat. She was there for me every time I was upset and cried on the back step of the house. I would sit there and cry and before I know it, there would be a soft nudging. She would be there, and she would narrow her eyes at you in that way... "Are you okay?" She was so empathetic that when she was near the end, she got worried about me when I cried, even though SHE was the one that was dying. She could sense my mood and she cared about me, even in her half-gone state. She loved humans that much.
I would cry about so many things as I grew up. People teasing me at school. Boys breaking my heart. Classes being difficult. Friends being problematic. Star Trek TNG ending. My Grandmother dying. And as an adult... when I realised I was bisexual. When I had panic attacks. When I was depressed. When I felt like I was nothing in the world and nobody cared. In all those times and more, she was there. Nudge, gentle look of regard. "Are you okay? I'm here."
It wasn't all roses for Melma. In 2001, we noticed that she was developing sores on her nose and ears. It worried me, and I took her to the vet. It was most likely cancer, so she had to have her nose and ears cut off. It was a tough adjustment to make. We argued about it in the family and I didn't want to let Melma down. I fought for her.
I went online and told people that I wanted to raise 600 US/1200AU (at the time that was the exchange rate) to save Melma. I was going to draw artwork in exchange, draw my way to the right amount of money to save Melma. I was looking down the barrel of a lot of hard work.
Then, out of the blue, a mysterious benefactor said she would send me a check. Well, not quite so mysterious, I lost the envelope with her name. I wish I could thank her properly. I wish she could know what a blessing it was, how much it meant to this family. We owe her a huge debt of gratitude. She was a true generous spirit, sending the entire amount needed to help Melma.
After the surgery, Melma took on the appearance of a Skeletor Panda Bear of Doom. I called her Panda a lot. She didn't even realise she looked different. She was out the front as always during show-time, looking for affection from passers-by.
She owned the look so hard that one time, I was holding her as I waited at the vet for an appointment some years back. A very rich lady in fine clothes stops, looks at Melma, smiles and says, "Oh, how pretty! What kind of breed is she?"
I laughed and informed her she was a regular ol' moggie with cancer surgery scars. See, Melma was hardcore glam.
As Melma grew older her personality developed and flowered. In her later years she got very eccentric, and quite crafty. We wouldn't leave her in at night because she didn't like either litter trays, or there wasn't a litter tray before the cats were indoor cats. Still, countless times, she'd find her way in anyway. Even weeks before the end, she would run up those steps and steal in like a thief in the night. She was weeks before the end, and she trotted like a pony. She had a knack for picking strange spots. Pot plants. Behind electrical appliances. On very high surfaces. Where you least expected her.
I've never known a cat so full of love, nor quite so eager to give it. I've never known a cat that meant so much to so many different people. She was many things to me. She was a baby, a sister, a best friend, a mother, an auntie, a grandmother, all rolled into one.
She purred when she ate and she loved the sunshine so much. She would sleep in it for hours. There were clouds in the sky when she left us.
She wasn't alone. We sat with her in the sun, my sister Helen, my brother Scotty, my Mum and I. We came to the decision that we had to help her leave us.
Helen, Scotty and I took her in. We spoke to the vet. I said goodby to Melma, cradling her face and saying to her (regardless that she's deaf), "Goodbye Melma baby. I love you, I'll always love you. I'll miss you. Oh, I'll miss you. Goodbye, honey. You can go now, baby. You can go now."
The vet prepared her, and Helen and Scotty held her as the needle went in. She didn't struggle, she didn't gasp. She went quietly. Helen said she could feel relief from the cat as she went.
Her funeral was one of great humour, great dignity and great love. Dad built her a coffin, which I promptly decorated with flowers and Melma's name in pretty lettering. I painted on an ankh for her. We wrapped her tenderly in a towel after saying our last goodbyes, Helen had brushed her a bit. We put her favourite things in the coffin with her; a doughnut, a party blower that she would bat around in her more playful days, flowers, some catnip. I took off her collar. "You're a free cat, now. You don't need to be tied to us any longer." I'll keep the collar. It is a very pretty collar.
Melma was born in 1990. She lived roughly 20 years, cheating death many times. She fought to live, loved to live. She loved her people, and we loved her. When we put her in the ground, we played sweet music. We cried. We said our own eulogies and we laughed about the good memories we had of her. We covered the coffin in beauganvilia flowers and then buried her in the ground, out in the sunshine that she loved so much.
I felt a release as we finished the ceremony. I angst and I mourn, but deep down I know we did the right thing. Deep down, I can't help but feel that Melma thanks me. Like there's some voice in the ether, whispering soothingly. "I'm okay, Nancy. I really am. It's a wonderful place. Thank you for all you've done. I'll wait for you. Until then."
Perhaps it's wishful thinking? Who knows.
My sister Lisa, Melma's original caretaker, couldn't be here for the funeral. She agonised at home, sad and worried about Melma and her end. She knelt down to open a cupboard, and felt the nudge of a cat at her side. She thought her cat Kato had come up to her for attention. She turned her head - there was nobody there. Nobody there, but a sudden feeling of peace, and the sense of a goodbye.
Melma loved her people. She even traversed the Perth metro area to say goodbye to Mum.
God speed, Melma. God bless. Thank you for twenty wonderful years. Thank you for bringing life and love into our lives. Thank you for never giving up on us. I know you wanted to stay with us longer. I think you can still be with us, and we'll be keeping an ear and an eye out for you. But somehow, I think you'll be busy becoming one with the Ineffable once more. That's much more important, and one day, you know I'll join you, sister-heart. You watched me grow up. I hope I became a human that you loved.
Sorry about scaring you the first day you came here. I was just so excited, you see. You were ever so cute. And we both know how it turned out in the end.
( Melma trivia... )
She was my big sister's cat. They lived together with Lisa's then-boyfriend and quite happily. Melma was a new kitten, cute as a friggin' button, soft as a rabbit, with a tiny meow and a lot of love to give. She was a total princess, treated to the very best by her Mummy-Human, Lisa. Soon, Lisa broke up with that boyfriend and they both moved back home. I remember how adorable Melma was, and I wanted to hug her SO MUCH. I was a loud, silly kid. I chased her under the dresser in the hallway and she hid under there, eyes huge in fear of me. Things did not start well for me and Melma. I was loud and annoying and hugged her too much. Melma was used to far finer treatment.
Soon, living with such a loud family and with so many humans around, she chilled out and became the loving cat we knew so well. But she very nearly lost her life at that young age.
We live on a busy road that runs alongside a showground here in Perth. It was showtime and cars were everywhere. While she was out the front getting pats from pedestrians passing by (a favourite pasttime for her), she strayed onto the road. She was rolled over by a car.
Her entire back end was rolled over. She ran down the side of the house and hid under Dad's tool bench. We took her out and rushed her to the vets. We thought she'd have to be put down, we agonised and cried over her. We thought that would be the end. But it wasn't.
Mum, Dad and Lisa got the money together and paid thousands of dollars for Melma to have surgery. She'd broken her hip, you see. So they mended her broken hip, and she was confined to my big sister's room down the back (it was a granny flat) and fed lots of calcium powder and nutritious food. It took a while, but she was back on her feet again. She had wonky back legs since then, pigeon toes. She had the cutest little walk from that.
Melma was quite the madam. She liked the very best sleeping spots. She liked plenty of attention and she liked doughnuts. Oh, how she would tackle us kids for a bit of doughnut when my Mum bought them for us as a treat. If people were outside, or socialising anywhere, she would be there in a flash, ready to hang out and recieve whatever affection might be going.
She was also an incredibly empathetic and loving cat. She was there for me every time I was upset and cried on the back step of the house. I would sit there and cry and before I know it, there would be a soft nudging. She would be there, and she would narrow her eyes at you in that way... "Are you okay?" She was so empathetic that when she was near the end, she got worried about me when I cried, even though SHE was the one that was dying. She could sense my mood and she cared about me, even in her half-gone state. She loved humans that much.
I would cry about so many things as I grew up. People teasing me at school. Boys breaking my heart. Classes being difficult. Friends being problematic. Star Trek TNG ending. My Grandmother dying. And as an adult... when I realised I was bisexual. When I had panic attacks. When I was depressed. When I felt like I was nothing in the world and nobody cared. In all those times and more, she was there. Nudge, gentle look of regard. "Are you okay? I'm here."
It wasn't all roses for Melma. In 2001, we noticed that she was developing sores on her nose and ears. It worried me, and I took her to the vet. It was most likely cancer, so she had to have her nose and ears cut off. It was a tough adjustment to make. We argued about it in the family and I didn't want to let Melma down. I fought for her.
I went online and told people that I wanted to raise 600 US/1200AU (at the time that was the exchange rate) to save Melma. I was going to draw artwork in exchange, draw my way to the right amount of money to save Melma. I was looking down the barrel of a lot of hard work.
Then, out of the blue, a mysterious benefactor said she would send me a check. Well, not quite so mysterious, I lost the envelope with her name. I wish I could thank her properly. I wish she could know what a blessing it was, how much it meant to this family. We owe her a huge debt of gratitude. She was a true generous spirit, sending the entire amount needed to help Melma.
After the surgery, Melma took on the appearance of a Skeletor Panda Bear of Doom. I called her Panda a lot. She didn't even realise she looked different. She was out the front as always during show-time, looking for affection from passers-by.
She owned the look so hard that one time, I was holding her as I waited at the vet for an appointment some years back. A very rich lady in fine clothes stops, looks at Melma, smiles and says, "Oh, how pretty! What kind of breed is she?"
I laughed and informed her she was a regular ol' moggie with cancer surgery scars. See, Melma was hardcore glam.
As Melma grew older her personality developed and flowered. In her later years she got very eccentric, and quite crafty. We wouldn't leave her in at night because she didn't like either litter trays, or there wasn't a litter tray before the cats were indoor cats. Still, countless times, she'd find her way in anyway. Even weeks before the end, she would run up those steps and steal in like a thief in the night. She was weeks before the end, and she trotted like a pony. She had a knack for picking strange spots. Pot plants. Behind electrical appliances. On very high surfaces. Where you least expected her.
I've never known a cat so full of love, nor quite so eager to give it. I've never known a cat that meant so much to so many different people. She was many things to me. She was a baby, a sister, a best friend, a mother, an auntie, a grandmother, all rolled into one.
She purred when she ate and she loved the sunshine so much. She would sleep in it for hours. There were clouds in the sky when she left us.
She wasn't alone. We sat with her in the sun, my sister Helen, my brother Scotty, my Mum and I. We came to the decision that we had to help her leave us.
Helen, Scotty and I took her in. We spoke to the vet. I said goodby to Melma, cradling her face and saying to her (regardless that she's deaf), "Goodbye Melma baby. I love you, I'll always love you. I'll miss you. Oh, I'll miss you. Goodbye, honey. You can go now, baby. You can go now."
The vet prepared her, and Helen and Scotty held her as the needle went in. She didn't struggle, she didn't gasp. She went quietly. Helen said she could feel relief from the cat as she went.
Her funeral was one of great humour, great dignity and great love. Dad built her a coffin, which I promptly decorated with flowers and Melma's name in pretty lettering. I painted on an ankh for her. We wrapped her tenderly in a towel after saying our last goodbyes, Helen had brushed her a bit. We put her favourite things in the coffin with her; a doughnut, a party blower that she would bat around in her more playful days, flowers, some catnip. I took off her collar. "You're a free cat, now. You don't need to be tied to us any longer." I'll keep the collar. It is a very pretty collar.
Melma was born in 1990. She lived roughly 20 years, cheating death many times. She fought to live, loved to live. She loved her people, and we loved her. When we put her in the ground, we played sweet music. We cried. We said our own eulogies and we laughed about the good memories we had of her. We covered the coffin in beauganvilia flowers and then buried her in the ground, out in the sunshine that she loved so much.
I felt a release as we finished the ceremony. I angst and I mourn, but deep down I know we did the right thing. Deep down, I can't help but feel that Melma thanks me. Like there's some voice in the ether, whispering soothingly. "I'm okay, Nancy. I really am. It's a wonderful place. Thank you for all you've done. I'll wait for you. Until then."
Perhaps it's wishful thinking? Who knows.
My sister Lisa, Melma's original caretaker, couldn't be here for the funeral. She agonised at home, sad and worried about Melma and her end. She knelt down to open a cupboard, and felt the nudge of a cat at her side. She thought her cat Kato had come up to her for attention. She turned her head - there was nobody there. Nobody there, but a sudden feeling of peace, and the sense of a goodbye.
Melma loved her people. She even traversed the Perth metro area to say goodbye to Mum.
God speed, Melma. God bless. Thank you for twenty wonderful years. Thank you for bringing life and love into our lives. Thank you for never giving up on us. I know you wanted to stay with us longer. I think you can still be with us, and we'll be keeping an ear and an eye out for you. But somehow, I think you'll be busy becoming one with the Ineffable once more. That's much more important, and one day, you know I'll join you, sister-heart. You watched me grow up. I hope I became a human that you loved.
Sorry about scaring you the first day you came here. I was just so excited, you see. You were ever so cute. And we both know how it turned out in the end.
( Melma trivia... )
