Changes - Murphy: Roger Vaughan

Murphy

by Roger Vaughan

It was rare for Murphy to be in the cat carrier. In the three years he’s been with us he’s been to the vet for checkups a couple times. Otherwise, he is a healthy boy who leads an active outdoor life and takes good care of himself. How he manages to keep his long-haired coat so immaculate never ceases to amaze me. I could count on one hand the times I’ve had to clip a hair mat off him. But now here he

was in the carrier on the front seat of the car, traveling. He was his usual composed self, not saying much. Cool as ever. Where we going, he wondered early in the trip. What’s all this? Then he clammed up and enjoyed the ride. Sixty miles an hour! Nice.

Wanda, our other cat, is the talker. She’s never at a loss for something to say. She talks all the time about everything. Usually it's critical, but often she's just taking note of what is happening, or what could be happening. Hello. Hello again. Dinnertime? No? Well, when, then? It’s not six o’clock? It must be. Did your watch stop? Come on,

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let’s have dinner anyway. Where you going? Can I come?

Wanda was, in fact, coming with us. We were moving, and we figured she’d adapt well to our new digs where there would be four other cats. She might not like it as well as her current open-door life.

She’d have to become an indoor cat. Both Wanda and Murphy were used to heading out after breakfast, off to check out anything that moved, from blowing leaves to moles, voles, small snakes, baby rabbits, cicadas and, yes, birds on occasion. Wanda spent more time in the house. During the day, she’d 158

often come in for a nap. Not Murphy, unless it was bad weather. Then we’d find him stretched out on the sofa, his front end pointed one way, his back end the other, dead to the world. I’ve never seen a cat that slept so soundly. Sometimes Murphy wouldn’t even respond to my whistle indicating it was lunchtime. He is always busy and can be obsessively engaged in stalking something.

Wanda wasn’t the only one who would have some adapting to do. Change of any sort requires effort and willingness. We were downsizing, heading for suburbia. We thought Wanda could manage, but Murphy would never make it in suburbia. We dutifully lured him

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in most nights, figuring he would be no match for a fox. But several times he pulled all-nighters outside.

He and Wanda had a tenuous relationship. Splitting them up would not be at all cruel. Wanda is smart as a whip, the valedictorian of her class. Murphy ranks in the middle somewhere, one of those quiet, poker-faced guys you don’t mess with. And he’s polydactyl, with thumbs on his front feet. Two extra claws. Polydactyl cats were sought after on the old sailing ships because they were thought to be better at catching rodents.

Murphy and Wanda would often

“play,” but it was evident the word had a different meaning for each of them. Wanda is aloof and could do without play. She’s a bit of a snob, relating more to people than other animals ~ an only cat waiting to happen. The two of them would never be seen cuddling together on a cold winter’s night, but they got along. They respected each other’s space and never ate each other’s food ~ unless the other one wasn’t around. But for Murphy, Wanda 162

is also a live animal, meaning she is fair game. Despite the fact that Wanda outweighs Murphy by several pounds, he would frequently engage her. It was more than play, and it never failed to make her furious. She always responded by lying on her back, screaming like a Samurai as she tried to fend off that extra claw coming at her. I’m convinced Murphy wasn’t trying to hurt her. If he had been, he would have. He was just doing what he was good at, what he enjoyed doing. Wanda would often catch animals and bring them in slightly wounded. Murphy would finish them off.

His instinct to kill aside, Murphy has been a joy to have around. He’s gorgeous, first of all, an orange/blonde color with a rack of very long whiskers and a long, full tail. And those fabulous big front feet. He feels wonderful. He likes most people, enjoys attention and has the appealing habit of reaching up to bump his cheek against my closed fist. When he would spot me across the lawn, he would come toward me at a fast walk, flipping his tail up in greeting when he was about eight feet away.

He doesn’t mind being picked up, he even purrs, but his tolerance for being held is around 20 seconds on a good day. I’m not sure why, but I think he’s concerned he will miss something if he’s not on the ground ready to respond to the endless stimuli offered by his animated world. Being held even for

20 seconds conflicts with the freedom he needs. That really defines the joy he contributed as a member of our household. He provided such a wonderful example of a complete feline being, tending to his business with dedication, being himself with no apologies, savoring the long days of stalking and chasing, taking the time to recline like a lion on the front steps, or hang out with us, and falling into comatose sleep in extraordinary positions.

The puzzle was what to do with Murphy. Thinking about being without him was very difficult. It was even more difficult trying to find the right situation for him ~ a place where his new people would appreciate this extraordinary fel-

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low, a place where the world would be a fascination. A couple people were interested, but they declined after thinking it through. Then the farm came up, a hundred or so acres with chickens and dogs and another cat ~ and horses ~ run by friends who love and understand animals. The farm passed a condition I had secretly established in my mind: if I wouldn’t live there, I wouldn’t send Murphy. And it was nearby, meaning visits would be easy.

On the appointed day, there we were, doing 60 on the highway, with Murphy taking it as it came.

Two large dogs came out to greet us as we pulled up to the farm-

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house. One raised his head and gave a lazy howl as a welcome. I opened the car door. Both dogs stuck their heads in at once for hugs. Friendly, calm old boys. Murphy hardly reacted.

The friends appeared, and I took the carrier into the house, set it down and opened it. In just a few seconds, Murphy calmly walked out, briefly regarded his new humans and began slowly walking around, checking things out. He had arrived. No sad goodbyes necessary.

Ten days later I went to visit Murphy. It was hot, in the 90s. I parked in front of the house and got out. Murphy was nowhere in sight. I whistled, called his name, and pretty soon he came out from under a bush where he had been napping. He took a few steps, then stretched, reaching out to pull at the grass with those magnificent, big front feet. He flipped his tail up, walked over and bumped his cheek against my fist. I patted him. He fist-bumped a few more times, then walked over to a bowl of water and had a drink. “How you doin’,” I asked him. He looked back at me. Horses. They got horses. Then he walked back under the bush to resume his nap.

Roger Vaughan recently moved to Easton after living 41 years in Oxford.

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